When Carlo dispatched a letter to his father, King Henry of the North, the instructions from Celistine were deceptively simple. She had asked Carlo to send a secret missive to their father, so that the King might ready the Northern Knights to confront the Western Guards, who numbered merely five hundred men. Upon receiving the letter, King Henry entrusted the command to his most trusted knight, the Captain of the Northern Knights, Sir Johanes—the father of Grace. With solemn determination, Sir Johanes mustered the remaining eight hundred Northern Knights, preparing them to march toward the Northern Gate, where the heavily armed Western guards stood vigilant.
The first step of their rebellion was subtle yet ruthless: to eliminate every shadow, every whisper that might alert the Western Empire of their plans. And so, under the cloak of darkness, they struck swiftly and silently. Once the shadows had been dispatched, the Northern Knights advanced upon the Western guards with unrelenting ferocity.
"ATTACK! LEAVE NO MAN BEHIND, FOR THE HONOUR OF THE NORTHERN KINGDOM!" Sir Johanes roared, his voice echoing across the ranks of his knights. Hope and fervor glimmered in his eyes as chaos erupted around them. The Northern Kingdom's strategy unfolded with meticulous precision, and soon the battle swayed decisively in their favour. Victory, it seemed, was theirs.
Meanwhile, the North had successfully seized the Western guards' position along the northern border. In the city of Renia, Lord Herbert had already prepared eight thousand sacks of wheat, along with supplies of meat, ships, and all other necessities requested by Celistine. Payment for the jewels sent to the Empress, which they intended to sell through Lord Herbert, amounted to one hundred and fifty thousand moonshards. Carlo, for his part, was preoccupied with readying his horse for the arduous journey north, accompanied by the remaining knights of Renia, including Gilbert.
"All ready?" Carlo inquired, his gaze sweeping over the knights who had prepared themselves with practiced precision. Mounting his horse once more, he noticed Lady Rehena standing at his side, her expression betraying the unease she felt for the journey ahead and the uncertainty of their mission's success.
"My lord, be cautious," Lady Rehena urged, her voice laced with worry, one delicate hand pressed against her chest. Carlo offered her a reassuring smile and spoke, his tone gentle yet firm.
"Fear not for us, my lady. Your men shall return safe and unharmed. Until we meet again, and know this—the Northern Kingdom will never forget your kindness."
With a final glance toward her, Carlo spurred his horse onward, the knights following in solemn procession, as the march toward the Northern Kingdom commenced once more, the weight of their mission pressing upon them, yet hope burning brightly in their hearts.
Several days had passed when Celistine finally received the letter of victory, sent by her father, King Henry. Tears brimmed in her eyes, spilling over as if the heavens themselves had granted their favour. She sank into her chair in her office, clutching the letter delivered by Gilbert, hands trembling, chest heaving with a mix of relief and triumph.
"Grace… the plan succeeded," Celistine whispered, voice quivering, lips pressed tightly together to restrain her joy. Grace's lips curved into a triumphant smile, eyes sparkling with the shared victory. For a fleeting moment, the room was alight with hope, laughter stifled behind clenched teeth—until a sharp, insistent knock shattered their calm.
Startled, Celistine's heart leapt. Instinctively, she thrust the letter into the flames, watching the precious parchment curl and vanish, the acrid smoke curling around her face. She straightened her skirts, smoothed her hair, and drew herself up, signalling Grace to open the door.
Both women froze at the figure standing there: Emperor Harold, as cold and unyielding as ever. Grace bowed faintly, but Harold's piercing gaze never left Celistine, ignoring her entirely.
"Greetings, Emperor of the Western Empire. What brings you to my office?" Celistine asked, her voice steady but her pulse quickening. His unannounced presence unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
"Come with me," Harold said, tone clipped, eyes locked on hers as he seated himself upon the green coach before her. Celistine stiffened, uneasy at the implication in his stare.
"Where, Your Majesty? I see no errand that requires my presence," she replied, seating herself opposite him, hands clasped tightly, posture rigid. Harold said nothing, merely observing, a predator's patience in his cold, silent gaze.
"I wish to visit the Western Harbour. Will you accompany me?" he asked, voice cold, precise, but laced with expectation.
"No," Celistine said immediately, sharp and unyielding, meeting his eyes with unflinching defiance.
"Ha? You refuse? You will not come with me, your wife?" Harold's tone tightened, pride and irritation mingling. He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, jaw taut, as though her refusal struck a personal blow.
"You have Lady Medeya. Why not invite her instead, since you are such a devoted couple?" Celistine countered, lips pursed, a spark of sarcasm hidden in her calm tone. Her eyes glinted with quiet defiance, daring him to challenge her.
"Ha! Are you… jealous?" Harold snapped, incredulity breaking through his usual frost.
"And why would I be jealous, Your Majesty?" Celistine's back straightened, chin lifted, gaze sharp. "You are quick to assume."
"You speak of Medeya incessantly… and yet, you are my wife!" Harold's voice rose, muscles in his jaw and arms taut. His fingers curled slightly, fists threatening, as tension coiled between them like a drawn bowstring.
"Thank you for considering me your wife," Celistine said, deliberately measured, "and thank you also for prioritising Lady Medeya's birthday favour over my return from Renia's campaign." Her words were like arrows, precise and pointed. She studied him closely: the tightening of his brow, the crossing of his arms, the flare of his nostrils. Every micro-expression a mark of his growing irritation.
"Still bitter, are you? From the start, I had no intention to aid Renia—you insisted. It was never my duty to attend the opening celebration on your behalf," Harold shot back, his voice laced with wounded pride, frustration barely contained.
"Thank you, Your Majesty, for valuing Lady Medeya's favour above the safety of every city. May the blessings of the Western Empire be upon you. I shall retire to my chambers," Celistine said, rising sharply. Her skirts swirled around her legs, boots clicking like a drumbeat of defiance. She fixed him with a cool, unwavering stare, each step deliberate, leaving Harold standing there, frozen, dumbfounded, unsure how to respond to the sharp, cutting defiance she had displayed.
Even in silence, the air between them thrummed with tension, a quiet war of wills, each heartbeat echoing their unspoken conflict.
After their heated argument, Celistine had little choice but to follow Harold. She sat stiffly in the carriage, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the window. Her thoughts simmered with irritation; the memory of their quarrel made her jaw tighten.
"Come now, do not sulk," Harold said softly, his voice calm yet teasing. Celistine ignored him, her silence deliberate. Hours passed in tense quiet before they arrived at the Western Harbour.
Stepping onto the docks, the sheer scale of the Western ships struck her. Towering, formidable, designed for war—each vessel dwarfed any she had seen before. Harold moved among them confidently, inspecting each one, his eyes sharp and calculating. Celistine followed, arms crossed, observing him carefully. The confidence in his movements was undeniable, yet she sensed a subtle flaw, a trace of arrogance that might one day betray him.
"See that, Empress? These are my great ships. No one dares oppose me," Harold said proudly, raising his head slightly. Celistine raised an eyebrow, expression cool, silent. After completing their inspection, Harold led her to a luxurious restaurant facing the harbour. They ate quietly; Celistine had little to say, and Harold seemed content to let her remain silent.
"Not enjoying yourself? You've been quiet all this while," Harold said, taking a bite of his beef steak, his eyes briefly meeting hers.
"Nothing, Your Grace. I feel tired," Celistine replied, her voice cold, clipped.
"Being with me tires you?" Harold asked directly. Celistine's brow furrowed. Yes, she thought, I wish to go home. But she resisted argument; she would not make a scene.
"It is not so," she said, softening her tone. She knew there was much to attend to—letters, plans, and her return north.
After their meal, Harold suggested a walk. He seemed unwilling to return to the mansion just yet, though he did not fully understand why. Perhaps he wanted a moment with her, fleeting though it might be. Thoughts tumbled in his mind: was it Renia's campaign, or the fear that she might one day slip from his grasp? Perhaps he feared the tables turning, and losing control.
As they walked, Harold's eyes caught a jewellery shop. He entered without hesitation; Celistine followed silently.
"Welcome, Your Majesty, the Emperor and the Empress. What brings you here?" the shopkeeper greeted politely. Celistine's gaze flicked to Harold; she guessed his intention immediately—another gift for Lady Medeya, perhaps.
Yet Harold's eyes were fixed on a delicate violet jade pendant. Its hue mirrored the eyes of the Empress herself.
"Turn around," Harold commanded. Celistine froze for a heartbeat, then slowly obeyed, facing the large mirror. Her reflection stared back, hair loosely tied, soft curls brushing her neck, the dishevelment lending her a striking, almost ethereal quality.
Harold moved deliberately, ceremoniously, and fastened the pendant around her neck. Celistine froze completely. Shock coursed through her; she had not anticipated this. Her eyes widened as the pendant's deep violet hue perfectly matched the Empress's eyes. Her hands rose instinctively, brushing stray strands of hair aside, but she did not step back. Her heart raced; this was no mere gift.
"Magnificent, Your Grace! It's really suited the eyes of the Empress," the shopkeeper said, admiration clear in his tone.
"Indeed. My wife is beautiful," Harold replied, smiling at the seller. Celistine stared into the mirror, the pendant gleaming against her neck. Her pulse skipped; she did not know whether to trust the strange fluttering in her chest. She admitted a faint stirring of feeling for Harold, but his deeds in the North remained unforgivable.
Then Harold's hands rested on her shoulders. His voice was low, cold, intimate.
"You are mine. Don't you even dare think of defying me," he whispered, his breath brushing the back of her neck. Celistine froze, every nerve on fire, her skin prickling as though the words had left a physical mark. Her heart hammered, throat tight, and a shiver ran down her spine. The pendant pressed cold against her collarbone, and suddenly its beauty twisted into something menacing—a symbol of possession, of control. She realised, with dawning horror, that it was not merely a gift: it was a warning. Perhaps Harold already knew everything—the missing shadows in Renia, secrets whispered by Barron—and this necklace marked her as bound, her freedom subtly stripped away in that single, suffocating gesture.
Celistine forced a calm smile. She removed the necklace and handed it back.
"Thank you for the offer, Your Majesty, but this necklace is way too heavy for me," she said boldly, locking eyes with Harold. Her gaze declared clearly that she could not be swayed by men. Harold blinked, surprised by her composure.
Before he could respond, the door burst open. A familiar figure entered, her face sharp with irritation.
"Your Majesty! How dare you leave me behind at the mansion, only to appear here at the jewellery shop with the Empress?" Medeya exclaimed, her face twisted in irritation and faux indignation. She had followed Harold to the Western Harbour when she learned he had left without informing her, and her anger intensified upon seeing Celistine by his side. Medeya felt a pang of threatened pride, fearing that Celistine might somehow charm Harold away and take her place as his most favoured companion. She adopted a pretence of crying, letting her voice tremble slightly to draw Harold's attention.
Harold's brow furrowed in mild surprise at her sudden appearance.
"I'm sorry, Medeya, I thought you were busy, so I did not wish to disturb you," he said, his tone carefully measured, seeking to calm her without yielding to her theatrics.
"But when it comes to you, my love, I am never busy," Medeya said, her eyes glittering as she leaned slightly forward, a hint of mock vulnerability in her posture. Celistine maintained a perfect poker face, quietly rolling her eyes at the melodrama playing out before her.
"You even dare to buy the Empress a necklace without me? Hmph!" Medeya continued, pouting childishly and stamping one foot lightly as if she were a petulant child.
With nothing left for her to do, Celistine turned and quietly exited the jewellery shop, leaving the two to their antics. Harold opened his mouth, perhaps to stop her, but Medeya planted herself firmly in his path, blocking him completely. This gave Celistine the opportunity she needed to slip away successfully.
Once outside, Celistine paused, her gaze drawn to the wide, open expanse of the harbour. The sunlight glinted on the waves, and she longed to step closer to the water, to breathe and collect her thoughts. But a figure passing directly in front of her caught her attention. Clad in a brown cloak, he moved with quiet, purposeful steps. Recognition hit her like a jolt—he was the same man from the celebration, the one who had addressed her as "The Empress." Curiosity ignited, and Celistine, careful and deliberate, began to follow him, eager to discover what knowledge he might hold and why he was here.