When Barron set out to confront Grace about what had gone wrong, his boots echoed softly against the cobbled streets. He caught sight of her walking briskly toward the Greenery Shop, her posture tense, shoulders stiff. As he took a step forward, a sudden crunch beneath his heel made him pause. Looking down, he saw a scrap of paper. Frowning, he bent to pick it up, only to stumble slightly as a small figure darted past him. Startled, he steadied himself and realised he had collided with the young girl who had been accompanying Grace.
Barron's sharp eyes scanned the letter. The words seemed to sear themselves onto his mind: "I am willing to help you anytime, my daughter, for the sake of the North." His jaw clenched, veins throbbing in his temples. A cold, bitter rage settled in his chest, tightening his fists. Without hesitation, he vaulted onto his horse, the leather creaking under his weight. His instincts, honed through years of service, had long warned him that the Empress might be plotting against Emperor Harold, and now the truth lay in his hands like a dagger. The fate of the western guards he had sent to the Northern Kingdom was immediately clear—they had been betrayed.
Dismounting with precise, fluid motions, Barron strode into the Emperor's office. The weight of urgency pressed against his shoulders.
"Your Grace, urgent news," he said, bowing slightly, yet the intensity in his eyes made Harold sit up straighter.
"What is it, Barron?" Harold asked, confusion creasing his brow.
"The Empress has betrayed you," Barron said, his voice low, measured, but every syllable dripping with ice. "The maid, who has been playing the part of a courtesan, is in truth the Empress's shadow."
Harold's eyes widened, shock rooting him to the chair, while Barron's own anger radiated outward like a dark cloud, as though the room itself had dimmed in response. His fingers flexed around the hilt of his sword, the leather of his gloves creaking. Without a moment's delay, he summoned the Brause family, owners of the Greenery Shop, to answer for what had transpired.
As Barron prepared his guards to seize Gilbert, Grace moved with tense, careful steps. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she instructed Gilbert not to flee. There was no proof tying him to the Empress's letters, but every instinct screamed danger. Gilbert worked silently, gathering and destroying every trace of evidence with meticulous precision, wiping away any sign that might betray them.
Grace hurried to the main mansion, her breath shallow, muscles taut with apprehension. She dodged the patrols of Barron's men, who had yet to act on the intelligence. Each step echoed in her mind as the weight of responsibility pressed down on her.
Inside the Empress's office, Grace froze. Celistine stood there, tall and resolute, while Sir Robert, Lord Herbert's trusted knight from Renia, watched her with wary eyes. Confusion and panic surged through Grace—why was Robert here, in the Empress's chambers?
"Grace, what is wrong?" Celistine asked, her eyes wide with concern, brows knitted tightly. She stepped closer, her hands gently resting on Grace's trembling shoulders, grounding her.
"Your Grace! We've been exposed! The letter… it's already in Barron's hands!" Grace's voice cracked, raw with frustration and fear. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and her hands shook as if her very strength was slipping away. She felt the weight of failure pressing down, the sting of having failed her duty as protector of the Empress.
"What? And Renia… your Empress?" Robert's voice rang out, sharp with alarm, his eyes wide as he tried to take in the chaos unfolding before him. His hand hovered near his sword, not in threat but instinct, as if bracing against the impossible turn of events. He had come with a clear purpose: to deliver the promised wheat to Renia, a gesture meant to secure the well-being of its people should the Empress choose to aid them. Now, standing in the tense, shadowed office, he felt that carefully laid plan teetering on the edge of collapse. The world he had counted on to remain orderly seemed to ripple with uncertainty, threatening to undo everything he had worked for.
Celistine, however, remained eerily composed, though her mind raced with urgency. She moved to the small writing desk in the corner of the dimly lit office, her fingers trembling slightly as she retrieved parchment and quill. Her hand moved swiftly yet deliberately, the nib scratching urgently across the page as she penned the letter, each word weighed with care and purpose. Her eyes darted toward Robert every few moments, gauging his patience and resolve, silently urging him to understand the gravity of the situation even before the ink dried.
Once the letter was complete, she rolled it carefully and sealed it with wax, pressing her signet firmly into the molten seal. She straightened, her posture regaining its taut elegance, and stepped toward Robert to give the letter.
"I do not know how we were discovered," Celistine said, voice steady but edged with tension. Her hands, though composed, betrayed a slight tremor as she gripped Robert's arm firmly. "Robert, you must leave immediately. We cannot risk you being stranded in the Western Empire. Tell Lord Herbert that the plan has been compromised. But do not worry—the people of Renia will remain safe. I promise. Deliver this message to Lady Rehena, and ride swiftly."
Robert did not hesitate. He gathered his knights, urgency dictating every movement, and spurred their horses toward the Western border. Barron, preoccupied with Gilbert, did not notice their departure.
Celistine turned to Grace, gripping her icy hands in her own, the contact grounding her. Grace's tears fell freely now, streaking her cheeks as she trembled, a mixture of fear and determination in her gaze.
"Grace, listen to me carefully," Celistine commanded, her tone firm yet tinged with desperate hope.
"You must act decisively. Admit that the letter came from us—but never reveal that Gilbert is our spy. Protect him, no matter what."
Grace swallowed hard, her chest heaving, and nodded, determination hardening her features.
"Here, Grace," Celistine said, passing her a heavy bag of gold coins. "Bring this to Ana. Tell her that once Gilbert is safe, they must leave the Western Empire for good. This will be enough for their new beginning."
Celistine's eyes held a flicker of hope, a silent prayer that her plan would hold. Grace moved quickly, the weight of the bag anchoring her to the task. Her senses were heightened, every shadow a possible threat, every rustle a warning. She made her way to Gilbert's home, careful to remain unseen by Barron's spies. Her steps were deliberate, her body tense but resolute. The gold burned in her hands, yet the responsibility she carried—protecting Gilbert, safeguarding their mission—was heavier still.
*****
Grace, having at last fulfilled the errand entrusted to her by Celistine, passed through the grand entrance of the imperial mansion. The echo of her footsteps had scarcely faded before she found herself surrounded by the Emperor's knights, their steel-shod boots ringing ominously against the marble floor. Without ceremony, they seized her arms and escorted her to the private chamber where Emperor Harold awaited.
Within the chamber stood Gilbert, his knees weak, his body trembling like that of an innocent man cruelly accused. His wide eyes and quivering lips played the part well, but Grace, who knew him better, was not deceived. She recognised the pretence in his display, a pitiful performance meant to lure the Emperor's pity and trust.
Grace could not help but let a bitter laugh slip from her lips as she beheld the sight: Gilbert feigning helplessness before Harold, who sat enthroned in rigid authority. To the side stood Barron, silent and stern, his dark gaze fixed upon her with quiet hostility. The spy's cold eyes pierced her with malice, yet Grace, unwilling to yield, composed herself with great care. She straightened her posture, smoothed the trembling from her hands, and lifted her chin with the dignity of one who refused to bow.
"So, tell me, Grace," Harold's voice cut the air, low and icy, his words edged with wrath. He held up the letter as though it were a blade. "This letter—was it meant for the Empress?"
The force of his tone chilled Grace to the marrow. She felt in his voice the promise of death, the ever-looming danger that he might order her execution without a moment's hesitation.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied without falter.
Her swift, unwavering confession startled Harold. He had not expected such readiness, and in that moment he felt the need to guard himself. Surely, he thought, Celistine was weaving another of her snares—why else would Grace confess so readily?
"And this man," Harold continued, his finger pointing sharply at Gilbert, "is he your messenger to the North?"
Grace's lips curved in disdain. "Your Majesty… how could we entrust such duties to this frail creature? This man—who knows only how to bake sweetmeats and biscuits—he could not so much as parry the stroke of a child's blade." Her voice rang with firm conviction.
"Liar!" Harold roared, his fury crashing like thunder through the chamber. Both Grace and Gilbert felt their very souls freeze; the Emperor's anger was not a thing to be endured lightly.
Harold turned his eyes upon Gilbert, narrowing them to slits. He drew a breath deep into his chest before speaking again. "Gilbert," he said slowly, with the measured gravity of a hunter tightening his snare, "if you answer me honestly, I shall grant you any wish. Tell me—are you the Empress's spy?" His eyes flamed with suspicion, the dark fire of his wrath burning hotter with each word.
Gilbert swallowed hard, his Adam's apple jerking like a man about to choke. His knees quivered, yet he forced himself to speak. "Your Grace," he stammered, his voice weak, "I have told you before—I am but a humble baker. I bake what the Empress orders, nothing more. I have no part in the wicked accusations laid against me." His words faltered with terror, but still he clung to the warning Grace had given him: if the Emperor makes you an offer, beware—there will be no reward in truth, only death disguised in promises. And Gilbert knew well that no treasure nor title could ever equal the life of his child. The Empress had saved Melody, Gilbert's daughter.
From the Emperor's side, Barron's cold mask wavered for but a heartbeat. He was, perhaps, a shade convinced by Gilbert's trembling words, for in all his quiet investigations he had found no trace of treachery within the man's humble dwelling. Why indeed, he wondered, would the Empress recruit such a pitiful creature? Yet Harold, fierce and unrelenting, refused to heed such doubts.
"You and Lord Herbet from Renia's city have conspired with the Empress, have you not?" Harold asked, his tone as cutting as frost. His words struck like a hidden dart, meant to shock Gilbert and Grace into betraying themselves. But they gave no sign of fear. They knew Harold's methods too well; Celistine had long warned that the Emperor was prone to striking at shadows without proof, and more than once she had been left to mend the wreckage born of his suspicions
"I believe Your Majesty has a point," Barron interjected, stroking his chin as though weighing a scholar's argument. "This man is known to purchase wheat from Renia. It is cheap there, and within reach of the common folk. The route North is simple enough to travel."
His words added fuel to the Emperor's fire, though Grace remained unflinching. She stood silent, her face composed, while Gilbert continued his feigned trembling.
"Your Majesty," Gilbert pleaded, forcing a tremor of sincerity into his voice, "how could I disobey you? I am but a mere commoner. My loyalty lies wholly with you, my Emperor."
Harold's patience snapped. He rose swiftly from his seat, his cloak sweeping about him like a storm. With deliberate slowness, he reached for Barron's sword, which hung at his side in its holster. Barron's brows knit together, uncertain what madness Harold intended. Then, in one swift motion, the Emperor strode to Gilbert and levelled the blade against his throat.
The hall fell silent, every breath suspended.
"Even if I commanded you to slay Grace before me?" Harold's voice was like the toll of a funeral bell, deep and merciless. His eyes, black with fury, gleamed with a peril that made even seasoned knights avert their gaze.
Gilbert's face drained of colour. Fear clutched his heart, for he had not expected such ruthlessness from Harold, yet he dared not stumble in his words. His lips parted. 'Your Grace, I cannot—''
The sentence broke in a cry as Harold pressed the blade deeper against his skin. A thin line of blood welled upon Gilbert's throat. Grace's heart clenched; she made to step forward, desperate to shield him from the Emperor's cruelty. But Barron moved swiftly, his arm outstretched like a barrier of iron. His cold eyes locked with hers, filled with scorn. Grace returned his gaze with fierce defiance, her frustration burning in her chest as she struggled against the restraint.
"You cannot?" Harold's voice dripped venom, the promise of execution in each syllable. "Then you choose death." He raised the sword high, prepared to strike.
But in that very moment, the doors of the chamber burst open.
"Greetings, Your Majesty."
The voice was cool, sharp as steel wrapped in velvet. "Is this truly how the Emperor of the realm receives his guests—threatening one who holds no power against him?"
Celistine stepped forward, her presence vast and commanding. Though her words were calm, her courage filled the chamber like a tide, and all who stood there felt the weight of her authority press upon their souls.