After the drama caused by Celistine during Medeya's birthday celebration, Emperor Harold wasted no time in summoning Barron for a private audience.
Though Barron longed to rest after the grueling journey from Renia, duty could not be cast aside. An obligation was an obligation, and before his weary body could surrender to sleep, he found himself summoned to the Emperor's study, his report demanded.
"So then, Barron—tell me, what transpired?"
Harold's voice carried the weight of command, steady yet laced with impatience, as he sat upon his carved oaken chair behind the grand desk. The flicker of the candelabras threw tall shadows across the chamber walls, illuminating the sharp lines of his countenance.
Barron, broad-shouldered and solemn, stood before him with the posture of a soldier accustomed to long marches and heavier burdens. His dark silver eyes met the Emperor's, and in his deep, steady voice he replied,
"What the Empress has spoken is true, Your Majesty. Much has befallen Renia in your absence."
Harold inclined his head slightly, signalling him to continue. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest, betraying his curiosity and unease.
"It is true I was lured into the enemy's snare during Renia's war," Barron went on, his tone grave. "They sought to draw me away, and in that absence they laid their ambush—an attack aimed at Renia's main estate. By fortune's mercy, the Empress was spared, as was Lord Herbet. Yet, I believe, Sire, the true intent of these thieves was none other than Her Majesty's very head. Once she was slain, they planned to seize Renia for themselves."
As Barron spoke, his gaze lingered on the Emperor's eyes, searching—seeking some hidden truth. In his heart, suspicion whispered that perhaps Harold himself had orchestrated such a plot. Yet what he saw in those imperial eyes was not cunning but genuine astonishment. The flicker of confusion and sudden sharpness in Harold's expression revealed that this was no scheme of his own making.
"What?" Harold demanded, his brows furrowing. "How can you say such a thing?"
Barron exhaled heavily, his shoulders rising and falling as though the words themselves were a burden.
"Through my investigation, Your Majesty, we managed to seize one of the enemy's men alive. He confessed beneath questioning. A man—one called Clark—paid them a vast sum of moonshards, in exchange for the Empress's head. He promised them Renia itself once the deed was done. So long as they struck Her Majesty down, their dominion over the land would be assured."
At this, Harold leaned back against his chair, his hand pressing against his temple as though the weight of the matter pressed too heavily upon his thoughts. He looked troubled, lost amidst a tide of confusion. Barron had long assumed that the Emperor had acted of his own will, allowing matters in Renia to unfold without his direct hand. Yet to his astonishment, Harold's reaction was one of ignorance, not guilt. The truth struck Barron like a blade of cold iron—his suspicions were wrong.
There was only one name that lingered in his mind. Medeya. The Emperor's most beloved mistress.
Should he voice such a thought? To accuse her was to risk punishment, perhaps even his life. He swallowed hard, forcing the thought back into silence.
"Who else could it be?" Harold pressed, narrowing his eyes. "Barron—are you certain this was not of your own doing, while I was absent?"
Barron stiffened, his jaw tightening as he bowed his head. "Never, Your Majesty. I would not dare act without your leave. Forgive me—I confess, I believed for a time that it was you who had contrived this plot. But my suspicion was unfounded. I see now that I was wrong."
Harold's gaze grew harder. "And the leader of these villains? Did you question him yourself?"
"Alas, no, Sire," Barron admitted, his tone edged with frustration. "When I arrived, the leader lay dead—struck down by one of Lord Herbet's knights. The mysterious man who gave the payment has since vanished. His trail has grown cold, Your Majesty. I cannot trace him further."
A heavy silence lingered between them, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire.
"And tell me," Harold said at last, his tone low, "Celistine has no enemy beyond ourselves, does she not?"
The words burned in Barron's chest. Your mistress, Sire, he thought bitterly, though he bit his tongue to keep from speaking. Instead, he straightened his back and inclined his head.
"None that I know of, Your Majesty. Many perils have risen in Renia, but I shall keep vigilant. Rest assured, I will keep watch over them."
Harold gave a faint wave of his hand, dismissing him. He knew well that Barron had come straight from a long journey, and that the birthday spectacle earlier had drained what little strength remained.
Barron bowed low, then turned on his heel, his heavy boots echoing against the marble floor as he walked down the vast hallway towards his chamber. The weight of travel clung to his limbs like chains, and at last, upon reaching his quarters, he allowed himself to collapse upon the bed.
With a groan he buried his face into the pillow. "I am so very tired," he muttered to himself, his voice thick with exhaustion. His eyes fluttered shut, and at last, he surrendered to sleep.
It was late in the afternoon within the Western Empire when Grace busied herself with her daily toil. She had been hanging the long linens and swaddling cloths used by the Empress and Emperor. The golden light of the setting sun slanted through the courtyard, casting her shadow long upon the cobbles. Sweat traced her temples, dampening the stray wisps of hair that clung stubbornly to her cheeks.
When the final cloth had been secured upon the line, Grace bent once more to lift the heavy wooden pail, filled to the brim with damp garments. Its weight bit into her palms, yet she bore it with practised endurance, carrying it towards the wash area where the other maids laboured with basins and stones. The scent of lye and wet linen clung thickly to the air.
After leaving the pail, she began her slow walk along the mansion's hallway. The corridor stretched wide and silent, the polished marble beneath her bare feet cool against the heat of her skin. She was weary, her body still aching from travel, yet she had taken little rest before returning to her duties. Her gaze remained fixed upon the ground, lost in thought, until she collided with someone in her path.
"Oh—pardon me, sir," Grace gasped, bowing quickly, her voice breathless. She lifted her eyes—and stopped short.
Before her stood a man she had never once seen in the mansion, yet his presence struck her as though she should have known him all along. His hair, pale as snow, fell loosely about his shoulders; his eyes shone an unsettling shade of blue, cold yet gleaming as if catching some hidden light. His skin was pale and smooth, and his smile, faintly curved, held a confidence that unsettled her.
It was Maxon.
"Ahaha… no apology is needed," Maxon said, his voice deep, smooth as velvet. "The fault was mine."
Grace stared, caught off guard by the gentleness of his tone, so at odds with the strange intensity of his gaze. For a moment, she forgot herself, simply caught in the spell of that faint smile. Her heart gave a strange little stir she could not explain.
"Oh! Forgive me again, sir—truly, I am so very sorry," she stammered, bowing once more. She felt heat rise to her cheeks, flustered not only by her clumsiness but by the man's unrelenting eyes. Distracted as she had been with her worries over the Empress's schemes, she had walked blindly into him without notice.
"It is truly no trouble," Maxon replied, lifting one hand to rub the back of his neck with a smile that was both modest and knowing. "I am new to these halls and not yet familiar with the mansion. I ought to have been more careful myself."
There was an unsettling weight in his gaze, lingering too long, as though searching for something she did not know she carried. His smile softened the sharpness, masking whatever intent lay beneath. And still, despite the unease twisting in her chest, Grace felt a quiet pull, an inexplicable urge to remain when she knew she should pass him by.
"Oh? So you are newly come? And what has brought you here, my lord?" Grace asked, her curiosity slipping past her usual reserve.
Maxon's smile deepened, and he leaned forward ever so slightly, as though speaking a confidence only she might hear. "Merely to visit one of my kin—that is all. My name is Maxon. And yours, my lady?"
Her lips parted in surprise. Lady? No one had ever spoken the word to her before. She looked away, suddenly conscious of her own plain dress and work-worn hands. "I am Grace. It is an honour to meet you, my lord," she replied softly, her voice tinged with an unfamiliar warmth.
For the briefest moment, their gazes held—hers uncertain, his unwavering. A silence lingered there, charged with something unspoken, until Grace quickly bowed once more and excused herself, remembering her unfinished duties with Celistine.
As she walked away, Maxon's eyes followed her, his expression unchanging, his smile faint but curling at the edges. There was admiration in it, yes, but beneath the surface lurked something sharper, something dangerous.
"Ahaha… she can be charming, even sweet at times," he murmured to himself once she was out of earshot, his voice carrying a low amusement. Then, turning back into the shadows of the hall, he let his thoughts weave around her, already plotting the snares that might one day draw Grace into his designs.
In the quiet of the Empress's chamber, long before the first light of dawn could touch the castle towers, Celistine moved with purpose, her hands gathering all the precious necklaces, rings, and silken garments she no longer wished to wear. Each piece sparkled like a fragment of the sun, gifts from nobles whose admiration was given freely, yet for her, they were no longer treasures to hoard—they were tools, instruments of a greater design. She carefully handed Grace a medium-sized jewelry box brimming with these items, instructing her to deliver it to Gilbert so it might be sold to merchants beyond the borders.
Grace hesitated for a moment, eyes wide as she gazed upon the glittering wealth. "Your Majesty… what are we to do with all of this?" she asked, confusion and concern mingling in her voice.
Celistine's gaze, steady yet laced with unspoken resolve, met hers. "We must sell this, Grace… and send the money to the North."
Grace blinked, the weight of her mistress's words sinking in. "But… how? You know, Your Majesty, that if this is traced, the Emperor himself will see through it."
Celistine nodded, a flicker of sadness in her eyes. "Yes… I know. That is why we must send a letter to Lady Rehena first, with precise instructions. Only then can we secure the funds we need to support the Northern Kingdom."
Grace's mind raced as she finally understood. The plan was audacious: every jewel Celistine had gathered would be sent with Gilbert to Renia. There, Lady Rehena would purchase eight thousand sacks of wheat, along with meat, milk, and other provisions, all in exchange for the jewelry. Celistine had also made meticulous plans. When Lady Rehena sells the jewelry to the merchants, Lady Rehena's real name, as the seller of the jewelry, must never be used. Each piece must bear a different, carefully crafted false name, so that no transaction can be traced back to her. Ideally, every jewel is sold to a separate merchant, each believing they deal with a distinct noble. In this way, even the sharpest eyes—Barron's included—cannot follow the trail, and Celistine's plan remains hidden in shadows, untouchable and secret.
----
Hours later, as the clock of the western towers struck midnight, the third border of the Western Empire lay draped in shadow. The commoners' cottages were silent, the air thick with frost and the distant murmur of the sleeping town. Gilbert, strong-shouldered and steady, readied his wooden cart, loading the heavy box of jewelry with care. Each movement was deliberate, careful, as if the weight he bore was more than gold and gems—it was the hope of an entire kingdom.
"Be safe, my darling," Ana whispered, her hands brushing the reins of the horses, her eyes shimmering with fear and love. The cart stood ready in front of their modest home, its wheels groaning softly in the stillness.
"I will," Gilbert said, trying to mask the tension coiling in his chest. "The Empress will not let me come to harm… and neither should you or our daughter." His words were steady, but his heart thrummed with worry he could not fully hide.
Ana pressed closer, wrapping her arms around him in a final embrace. "I will see you soon, my love. Please… return to us safe."
Their lips met in a kiss, long and desperate, a quiet farewell that carried a thousand unspoken words: fear, love, hope, and the burden of what must be done. Gilbert lingered, taking a final, steadying breath, before stepping back and climbing into the cart. The horses stirred, eager to move, and the wooden wheels creaked as he guided them onto the frost-bitten path, leaving behind the warmth of hearth and home.
With the box of jewels secured, Gilbert's heart beat not only with fear but with the knowledge that the Northern Kingdom depended on him. Every mile carried him farther from safety, yet closer to the hope of salvation.
And in the silence of the night, beneath the watching stars and the slumbering empire, the game had already begun.