Celistine walked straight ahead, her gaze steady as she passed clusters of nobles, many of whom were visibly shocked by the sudden appearance of the Empress. She mused that perhaps some of the nobles were not fully aware of her arrival, which explained why those she encountered hurriedly offered their greetings, while others were so taken aback that they could scarcely speak, caught in the aura of the Empress. Celistine wore a simple black travel gown, practical for walking yet carrying an elegance that spoke of her authority and refinement.
She entered the main celebration hall, her eyes immediately finding the announcer of the ball. The moment he saw her, his composure faltered, and he swallowed hard. Then, gathering what courage he could, he proclaimed:
"THE EMPRESS OF THE WESTERN EMPIRE HAS RETURNED!"
At the mention of "Empress," the hall fell silent. All the visitors exchanged uneasy glances as Celistine fixed a cold, unwavering stare on two figures in front of her. It was Medeya and Harold, who were supposed to be dancing on the floor, but now their movements were interrupted by the Empress's sudden appearance. Both wore matching white dresses, giving them the impression of a wedding waltz rather than a birthday celebration. To the casual eye, it almost seemed as though Harold and Medeya were wed.
At the edge of the hall, Maxon, who had been lingering near a table, stood watching the scene unfold between the Empress, the Emperor, and his desperate sister, Medeya. Yet his attention was focused on only one person: the woman with black hair, fair skin, and piercing green eyes standing beside the Empress—Grace. A wicked smile curved Maxon's lips.
Harold had not expected his wife, the Empress, to appear at Medeya's birthday celebration. Medeya, meanwhile, was quietly satisfied; her plan had worked once again, drawing Harold's attention entirely to her. Celistine, however, did not take the bait. She walked slowly, with modest poise, yet the tension in each step of the Empress's approach was palpable to everyone present.
"Greetings to the Great Emperor of the Four Kingdoms," Celistine said, her voice clear and commanding. "I am Celistine Wezelia Norenian Wendelia, Empress of the Empire, returned safe, victorious, yet my duties remain unfulfilled."
She bowed with graceful femininity, radiating dignity and composure. Harold, stunned, had expected her to arrive later, yet his anticipation had been proven wrong. Quickly, he restored his composure, attempting to appear as though he had foreseen her arrival.
"I see. Congratulations," Harold said coldly, his gaze urging her to leave. Celistine, however, merely offered a small, knowing smirk and continued speaking.
"I had expected to be greeted by the Emperor upon my arrival," she said boldly, scanning the gathering of nobles, "yet seeing this assembly, I grew curious—what occasion has the Emperor chosen to celebrate? Would you care to enlighten me, Your Grace?"
Harold's expression darkened, but he remained silent.
"It is my birthday, Your Majesty. The Emperor held this only for me, am I right, dear?" Medeya said, her tone dripping with mock sweetness as she subtly tugged Harold closer. Celistine noted the gesture in her mind, but she remained calm, having never expected the Emperor to host a victory celebration in her honor. She merely smiled faintly, continuing her poised address.
"Oh? I noticed earlier that you were dancing together with the Emperor, until my sudden appearance interrupted your revelry. My apologies, Lady Medeya, and Your Majesty, the Emperor," Celistine said.
She stepped forward, her apology measured and perfectly polite, though she had no intention of truly apologising. Her actions were not aimed at attacking the Emperor or his mistress directly, but rather to expose the absurdity of the scene: her husband celebrating another woman's birthday while her knights had risked everything to protect her and Renia.
"If you have finished your so-called apologies, I suppose you must be weary from your travels. Leave now; I would not have my beloved wife collapse from exhaustion," Harold said coldly, wishing to avoid any further tension between Celistine and Medeya.
Celistine's motives were not rooted in jealousy, but in the frustration that her knights had sacrificed themselves for Renia and for her safety, while the Emperor celebrated his mistress's birthday without acknowledging their efforts.
"Yes, the Emperor is correct," Medeya said mockingly, her tone sarcastic and sharp. "Indeed, how discourteous it is, Your Majesty, to interrupt my special day. It is quite unlike you." Celistine smirked at this, raising her hands to her head as though dizzy from travel. Suddenly, she leaned against Harold's chest, startling everyone, including the Emperor. Her every gesture seemed designed to command attention.
"Oh my! You are correct, Your Majesty. I am truly exhausted from what happened in Renia," Celistine murmured, gently stepping away from Harold's chest. Harold's brows furrowed slightly, wary of what might come next. Celistine dabbed at her fake tears, while Medeya grew increasingly flustered, unsure how to respond.
"Forgive me, Lady Medeya, if I have been rude, though I did not know it was your birthday," Celistine said softly, voice trembling, "yet I was longing for the presence of my husband…" She burst into tears, convincingly portraying both vulnerability and subtle reproach. Barron, ever watchful, remained unconvinced by the drama but did not intervene; he was too tired from their long journey. Grace stepped closer, ready to support the Empress.
"I was so traumatised when the thieves ambushed us in Renia's main mansion, while Barron—brave and steadfast—foiled their designs. The night sky was filled with stars and smoke, flames and cries of the innocent mingling with bloodshed…" Celistine's hands trembled slightly as she recounted the scene, captivating the room. The nobles whispered amongst themselves, their sympathy clearly siding with the Empress. Rumours began to spread, twisting the narrative to paint Medeya as inconsiderate, while Harold remained the only one fooled by Celistine's performance.
"My goodness! What the Empress endured…"
"How pure and noble she remains, even in Renia…"
"And the Emperor's mistress, celebrating her own birthday instead? How selfish…"
Hearing these murmurs, Celistine pressed on with her display of grief and composure.
"But, thanks to the Emperor's most trusted aide, who rushed to save me, my life was spared. I am grateful," Celistine added, glancing at Barron.
Barron froze, a hand flying to his forehead. Why am I even part of her drama? I just wanted a nap after all that travel, he thought, wishing the floor would swallow him. The nobles stared, wide-eyed and whispering, amazed at his unexpected spotlight. For once, Barron looked thoroughly human—awkward, embarrassed, and completely unprepared.
Medeya's eyes narrowed, her lips pressed tight. I wish you had died in Renia! she thought bitterly, as her plan fell apart before her eyes.
Harold stepped closer, concern in his voice: "Are you alright?"
"I am well, Your Majesty," Celistine replied softly, a faint, victorious glint in her eyes. "Exhaustion indeed calls for my leave. I shall take my leave now."
She departed with Grace, her smile one of quiet triumph, leaving Medeya's expression frozen in defeat, her plan utterly foiled.
--
It had been two days since Celistine departed from Renia, and the city, as though exhaling after long torment, began to breathe in peace once more. The borders bristled with steel, heavy guards standing vigilant beneath banners that stirred faintly in the wind. Patrols threaded through the streets like tireless sentinels, while by night the knights themselves kept watch, their torches burning as though stars had descended to guard the earth.
Lord Herbet, steadfast in his loyalty to Celistine's wisdom, had embraced every counsel she had offered. New measures now governed Renia's safety, devised to ensure no thief nor shadow might ever dare creep back across its walls. Thus was Renia steadied, its people lulled into a fragile, precious calm.
Yet for Carlo, peace was not so easily won.
He sat upon the stone steps by the training grounds, his frame bowed slightly as though wearied by unseen weight. A bucket brimmed with water stood before him, ripples trembling at each movement of his hand as he wiped the blood from his blade. The steel glimmered faintly beneath the waning light, each crimson stain whispering of lives ended at his hand. He did not flinch; yet there was a shadow in his gaze, a heaviness in the slow, deliberate care with which he tended the sword.
These were no ordinary foes he slew. They were the shadows Barron had sown throughout Renia, spies cloaked as ordinary men, silent witnesses to every gesture of its lord. Each life Carlo cut down was a deception severed, a thread in Barron's web undone. And yet—every death weighed. For though Carlo bore the name of executioner, he knew too well that these men had not chosen freely their path.
Still, necessity gave no quarter. To conceal the truth from Barron, they sent false letters, crafted as though penned by the very spies themselves, so that Renia's walls might appear unchanged, its secrets seemingly still within Barron's grasp. Thus the masquerade endured.
At length, Carlo finished. He reached absently for the cloth that should have lain in his pocket, but his fingers touched only emptiness. With a faint sigh, he searched at his side, supposing it had fallen unnoticed. His eyes lowered, his hand brushed the stones—
—and when he lifted his head, he stilled.
Lady Rehena stood before him. The light fell softly upon her, catching the curve of her smile as she extended the missing kerchief. Her presence seemed to steal the stillness of the evening and reshape it into something tender.
"Were you searching for this?" she asked, her voice gentle, carrying the cadence of quiet laughter.
For the first time that day, colour rose upon Carlo's cheeks. He accepted the cloth from her hand, their fingers grazing for the briefest instant. The heat of the touch startled him, and though he quickly withdrew, his heart beat uncomfortably loud in his chest. Wordless, he pressed the cloth to his face, wiping away the streaks of blood that had dried along his jaw and cheek. The gesture, small and ordinary, carried with it an intimacy he had not expected; for as he cleansed himself beneath her gaze, he felt oddly vulnerable, as though she alone could see beyond the warrior's armour.
"How did you come by it?" he asked at last, his voice subdued, coloured with embarrassment.
Rehena chuckled lightly, her eyes warm. "I had meant to call upon you in your chamber,"
Rehena continued . "My father wished to invite you for an early breakfast tomorrow. As I approached, I noticed your kerchief lying just outside your door. I thought to return it myself, yet it seems you had already gone to your duties, my lord."
Her voice softened then, for as her gaze traced him—his roughened hands, the blood he wiped from his weary face—sorrow touched her heart.
She pitied him. She pitied the man who bore the burden of violence not out of desire, but out of necessity. To her, every cut he struck was a cruelty of the world, a harsh demand of fate. Carlo was forced to play executioner to men who were themselves pawns. It seemed to Rehena that the world allowed no justice, that harmony was but a fragile dream—easily broken, rarely mended.
Carlo, perceiving the shadow in her eyes, set aside the bucket, it's water stained deep red. Rising to his feet, he straightened himself, and with grave solemnity bowed low before her.
"My lady, forgive me that you should see me in such a state. I know the thoughts that weigh upon you. Believe me, my sister does not desire this either. Yet I vow to you, soon all shall be right. That I promise."
When he lifted his head, a smile—rare and unguarded—lit his face. It was not the grim smile of a soldier, nor the hollow mask of duty, but a glimmer of the boy he might once have been, untouched by war.
Rehena's breath caught. She had not expected such light to exist within him. Her heart gave a startled skip, betraying her, and she found herself gazing too long, drawn toward that smile as though it could banish the blood upon his hands. Though he stood clad in violence, she glimpsed in him a gentleness, a warmth, and it stirred within her something both sweet and perilous.
She returned his smile with quiet grace, though her voice trembled faintly as she spoke.
"Think nothing of it. I know it is love for your sister that compels you. That is why you bear this burden, though it breaks you."
Her words lingered between them, delicate as threads of silk.
Together, they turned toward the mansion's hall. Their steps fell side by side, the silence between them weighted not with discomfort, but with a strange, unspoken bond—something fragile, yet alive, trembling on the edge of confession. And when they reached the threshold, Carlo excused himself with respectful bow, retreating to his chamber to wash away the remnants of blood.
Yet Rehena lingered in the corridor, her hand pressed faintly to her breast. Her heart was unsettled, as though it had discovered something it could neither deny nor name.