Celestine pressed her steps lightly upon the cobbled stones, her gaze fixed upon the man draped in a dark cloak — the very same she had first encountered amidst the revelry of the imperial banquet. He seemed but a shadow among the throng, his movements deliberate, yet the moment he sensed her presence at his back, his pace quickened. His cloak swayed with the haste of his stride, and in the growing bustle of the street, he slipped with ease between groups of townsfolk as though the crowd were his ally.
Celestine, however, remained undeterred. She pressed onward, her silken skirts brushing against strangers as she forced her way through, caring little for the startled looks of merchants or the cries of children darting about their mothers' wares. The smell of roasted chestnuts and lamp oil clung to the evening air, yet she noticed none of it; her mind was consumed only by the man before her.
Her breath, however, betrayed her. The chase lengthened, and her lungs burned with effort. At last, she faltered, pausing beneath the eaves of a stone shop, one gloved hand pressed against her chest. She lowered her eyes to the ground, strands of hair falling loose from their pins as she struggled to steady her breathing. The faint rise of her shoulders betrayed her exhaustion, and when she finally lifted her gaze once more — the cloaked man had vanished.
A sting of disappointment pricked her heart. Her lips parted with a frustrated sigh, and she brushed her gown into order, willing her posture back into dignity. Still, her eyes scanned the crowd, restless and searching. She longed to know who he was — why he had spoken to her as though he knew her, as though secrets lay hidden within his careless words at the banquet.
Her feet carried her aimlessly, yet her gaze remained sharp, darting here and there, until at last she came upon a narrow alleyway. It was dark and half-deserted, the stones slick with damp, a place where shadows held dominion. She had barely passed its mouth when —
A hand seized her wrist.
She gasped, but before sound could escape her lips, another hand clamped firmly over her mouth, stifling her cry. She was pulled back into the shadows, the world of the bustling street swallowed by silence.
Her body stiffened, her heart racing wildly against her ribs. Her eyes widened, caught between fear and fury, for she did not know who dragged her into the hidden passage. The press of a stranger's hand against her lips was both humiliating and terrifying, and though she struggled faintly, she soon froze.
Then came the whisper, low and close to her ear, carrying with it a familiar cadence.
"Why do you follow me?"
The hand fell away from her mouth, but in its place came the gleam of steel — a blade poised against the vulnerable skin of her throat. The cold kiss of the weapon drew her breath still, though her gaze turned slowly, deliberately, to the man before her.
And there he stood. The cloaked figure. The stranger from the banquet.
Her lips trembled before sound emerged. "I… I only wished to ask why you know me," she stammered, her voice uneven, caught between fear and determination.
For a heartbeat, his eyes held hers — golden eyes, fierce and unyielding, like those of a lion at rest yet ready to strike. His skin was bronzed, a shade uncommon amongst the men of her Empire, speaking of distant lands where the sun burned hotter than in the Western Kingdom.
Then, suddenly, laughter broke from his lips. He lowered the blade, shaking his head. "Ha! I thought myself pursued by some dangerous spy, only to find it was you."
Celestine arched one delicate brow, her face sharpening with irritation despite the racing of her heart. "Truly? You pressed steel to my throat, and now you jest?"
He laughed more freely this time, his voice rich with amusement. Pressing his hand to his forehead as though mocking his own rashness, he said, "Forgive me, forgive me."
Her lips thinned, though some part of her found the apology strange — no man of her court, not even Emperor Harold himself, would stoop to utter such words so readily.
The stranger's grin lingered. "But why follow me, hm? Are you my shadow? My stalker?" His tone was light, teasing, though his eyes glimmered with hidden curiosity.
Celestine's patience frayed. "Answer me properly," she snapped, her voice low and sharp as tempered steel.
He held up his hands in mock surrender, bowing his head just slightly. "Very well, my lady. As you command." His voice was laced with humour, but his eyes never left hers. Then he leaned close, tilting his head towards her, beckoning her to listen. Against her better judgement, she did — her curiosity outweighing her anger.
His breath ghosted her ear. "A secret," he whispered, before breaking into laughter once more.
Her anger flared at once. With a forceful shove she pushed him back, her cheeks flushed hot, her eyes blazing. "Hopeless!" she muttered furiously, turning upon her heel to leave.
Yet his footsteps followed, light and unhurried, the sound of his amusement lingering like a song she could not silence.
"Will you cease trailing me?" she demanded, whirling upon him.
"Are you angry?" he asked with false innocence, his grin never fading.
"You dare ask such a thing? After tormenting me so?" Her voice rose, sharp and cutting, her eyes like storm-tossed seas.
"Peace, peace!" he laughed. "I am sorry."
The word halted her, if only for a heartbeat. "Sorry…" The sound of it unsettled her more than his blade had. Even Harold, Emperor of the Western Realm, would never humble himself so easily. And yet here stood this stranger, reckless and foreign, and his apology came as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Against her will, she felt a strange lightness stir within her chest, as though her spirit were less burdened in his presence.
They walked on together without speaking, their steps leading them away from the crowd. Soon they found themselves at the harbour's edge. There the vast waters stretched endlessly, bathed in hues of crimson and gold as the sun dipped low. The salt wind brushed her face, carrying with it the scent of far-off lands.
"So, tell me," Celestine said at last, her voice soft, though her eyes sought his with quiet determination.
He turned to her then, and in the dying light his lion's eyes gleamed. "You are the Empress," he said, his voice low, almost solemn. "It is only natural that I should know of you."
Her breath caught. His words were true enough — she was known across every corner of the Western Empire — and yet… there was something in him that spoke of elsewhere, of lands beyond her knowledge. The hue of his skin, the cadence of his speech — they marked him as no child of her realm.
"From where do you hail?" she asked quietly, suspicion lacing her words.
He smiled, careless as ever, his gaze fixed upon the horizon. "From here, of course, Empress."
Her eyes narrowed. "Your name?"
Instead of answering, he turned to her with playful defiance. "Why so curious? Are you truly my shadow, my stalker?"
Her jaw tightened, her voice cold. "Do I look like a stalker to you?" She turned her face to the sea, refusing him the satisfaction of her gaze.
But he stepped closer — far too close. Her breath caught in her throat as his face neared hers, his golden eyes locking upon hers with such intensity that she felt her very soul quake. Her heart thundered, her body stiffened, and for a moment, she could not move.
Then, with a mischievous grin, he flicked his finger against her forehead.
"Ouch!" she exclaimed, rubbing the spot with indignation as he turned away.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty," he called lightly over his shoulder. "But I must go." He winked, his tone boyishly mocking.
Her hand half-raised to seize his arm, to demand his name — but at that very instant, a voice rang clear and commanding.
"Celestine!"
She turned sharply. It was Harold, Emperor of the Western Realm, striding towards her with two knights at his side.
She spun back, but the cloaked man was gone. Vanished. As though the sea wind itself had swallowed him whole.
A weight of disappointment pressed against her heart, yet she masked it with the cold serenity of her features. Harold's expression was grave; it was clear he had been searching for her.
With no word of protest, Celestine turned and allowed him to guide her back. Together they returned to the carriage where Medeya awaited, seated beside Harold. Celestine settled opposite them, her face calm as marble, yet within her breast the storm of unanswered questions raged on, restless and unyielding.
"How are you, Your Majesty, the Empress?" Medeya asked, her voice honeyed, as she leaned lightly against Celistine, deliberately letting Celistine see the intimacy—her arm draped casually over Harold's shoulder. Harold, in turn, offered Celistine a display of his own, taking Medeya's hand and holding it in a tender, possessive grip, as though to announce to Celistine that they were a devoted couple. Yet Celistine felt nothing but a rising wave of disgust.
"I am perfectly well. And you?" Celistine replied, her lips curved in a polite smile, yet her tone carried the careful restraint of someone ready to parry any subtle barb Medeya might launch.
"I am perfectly well too, are we not, my love?" Medeya cooed, batting her eyes at Harold, as she leaned forward to brush her cheek against his. Harold responded with a gentle press of his lips to her cheek, his gaze soft and adoring, filled with the kind of affection that made onlookers melt. Celistine, however, rolled her eyes, fixing her stare on the carriage window as if she could disappear into the landscape outside.
"It seems the Empress is in a sour mood today. What has displeased you, my love? Has some quarrel arisen between you and your wife?" Medeya asked, her tone dripping with faux concern. Celistine could feel the irritation prickling beneath her skin. She met Medeya's gaze, only to be met with that familiar, infuriating expression: mockery. Meanwhile, Harold gently took Medeya's hand, guiding it with a careful, deliberate touch until her fingers rested lightly against his chest. The movement was intimate yet controlled, a quiet display of closeness and trust between them. Medeya responded with ease, leaning slightly into him, her expression soft and affectionate. Celistine, watching from the carriage, felt a surge of disgust and irritation, every tender gesture between Harold and Medeya amplifying the tension and her growing resentment.
"Being with her is dull… I regret choosing her over you, my love," Harold said, his voice deliberately laced with mockery. It was unmistakable, and Celistine could feel the blood rise to her face, her anger simmering dangerously. How dare he blame her for the outing—when it was he who had invited her to the Western Harbour? Celistine's eyes narrowed, her glare sharp enough to cut, and Harold only raised a single brow in response, a silent challenge.
"What? Feel insulted?" Harold asked, his tone teasing, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
"I feel pity, Your Majesty," Celistine replied, forcing a smile that was more steel than warmth. "That you would choose to entertain your dull wife rather than your truly lovable mistress."
"What? Did you just call me Empress?" Medeya snapped, her cheeks flushing with indignation.
"Oh? Are you offended by my words?" Celistine replied smoothly, her gaze sharp and teasing, letting Medeya's flustered expression reveal itself. Medeya immediately adopted the pose of a wounded bird, feigning tears, as if Celistine had struck her.
"Will you cease this!" Harold's voice thundered, a mix of exasperation and barely restrained anger "Do not fling your rage at Medeya, Celistine. You are so immature… merely jealous!"
Celistine felt his anger ripple, noticing the rising panic in Medeya as tears threatened, yet she remained impervious, unmoved by their collusion. Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk, the kind that hinted at thoughts carefully hidden behind a mask of calm. The carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestones as it drew closer to the grand main mansion, the late afternoon sun casting long, amber shadows across the estate, bathing the façades of stone and timber in a warm, golden glow. She paid no attention to the whispered exchange of glances between Harold and Medeya, as if their presence had already faded into irrelevance. Every step she took as she descended from the carriage was measured, deliberate, her posture rigidly regal, the slight lift of her chin signalling authority that needed no acknowledgement.
Grace appeared at her side with quiet efficiency, her hands steady as she assisted Celistine from the carriage. The younger woman's presence was a balm to Celistine's taut nerves; there was a softness in Grace's movements, a careful attentiveness that contrasted sharply with the tension left behind by Harold and Medeya. A subtle shiver of relief passed through Celistine, almost imperceptible, as Grace leaned close to whisper urgently, "Your Grace, the letter." The tone of her voice carried both excitement and unease, and for a brief moment, the heavy weight of the afternoon's encounters seemed to lift, replaced by the anticipation that pulsed in the air between them.
Upon hearing this, Celistine's heart quickened. They hurried to her private chamber, Grace carrying the precious missive, delivered by Gilbert. Once inside, Celistine wasted no time, tearing open the letter with trembling anticipation.
Dear Celistine, my daughter,
The wheat has successfully arrived, and thanks to you, all the people of the North rejoice at the supplies. We have succeeded in defending the northern border against the Western guard. I hope you will return home soon, my daughter. Send me your next plan for what we should do.
With love, King Henry.
Celistine's heart swelled with joy. A triumphant smile spread across her face as the satisfaction of seeing her plans gradually unfold filled her with warmth. Grace, too, could not help but weep softly at the news, the beauty of the North's recovery touching her heart. They had laboured so long in secrecy, sending wheat through Renia to the North, and now everything had gone according to plan.
"So, what is the next plan?" Grace asked, breaking the moment of shared joy, her voice trembling slightly with both excitement and curiosity.
"The backup plan," Celistine said, her tone suddenly serious, the weight of responsibility settling over her like a mantle.
"What, Your Majesty?" Grace asked, confusion clouding her brow; she had not been privy to the details of Celistine's grand strategy.
Celistine smiled, a small, confident curve of her lips, and her eyes glimmered with resolve.
"We need the late Emperor."