Upon entering the Emperor's chamber, Celistine beheld a sight that wrenched her composure. Emperor Harold, her husband, stood with his sword raised high, its steel catching the torchlight as he prepared to strike down Gilbert—her most trusted companion. Fury flared within her breast, for never had she imagined Harold would dare commit such cruelty under his own roof.
"What are you doing here? Did I not forbid you to intrude?" Harold's voice rang sharp with anger, his brows furrowing as his hand tightened upon the hilt. The sudden intrusion of the Empress had pierced through his authority, and he did not welcome it.
Celistine did not answer. Instead, she strode forward with defiance in every step. With a swift, almost disdainful motion of her hand, she knocked aside Harold's descending blade before it could fall upon Gilbert. The man was trembling upon the floor, his body seized by fear, and Celistine bent to help him rise, steadying him with a protective arm.
"I am here," she declared, her voice trembling not with fear but with fury, "to bring forth the truth before you all. But tell me first, Harold— is this the manner in which you conduct an interrogation? Striking without evidence, condemning without proof? Or is it that you intend your loyal servant Barron to cleanse the stain of your folly?" Her eyes burned as she shielded Gilbert behind her.
"Mind your place, woman," Harold snarled. "Barron, remove her at once. I have not yet finished with these two."
Barron's cold, unreadable eyes flicked towards his Emperor, then towards the Empress. He stepped forward, his gloved hand half-extended, prepared to seize Celistine. Yet before he could, two of the Empress's sworn knights swept into the chamber, steel drawn, placing themselves between Barron and their mistress. The clash of loyalty reverberated through the air like an unspoken thunder. Harold's jaw tightened, and his fury deepened.
"So this is your latest little game, Celistine?" Harold's eyes blazed with suspicion. "Do you mean to rouse rebellion against your own husband?" His voice dripped venom, but Celistine did not falter. Her chin lifted, her gaze unwavering before the storm of his threats.
"Yes," she answered coldly, "and you had best prepare yourself for my final strike. Release Grace and that poor wretch at once, so that we may speak plainly."
Though rage clouded his features, Harold could not deny her. With a bitter motion of his hand, he commanded that Gilbert and Grace be freed. At once, Grace hurried to Gilbert's side, supporting his feeble form as she led him toward the doors. Before they left, Celistine cast Grace a meaningful glance—a silent order. Grace understood at once: Gilbert must be spirited away, beyond Harold's reach, lest his family remain ensnared within the Empire's grasp.
Now, within the chamber, only three remained: Harold, Barron, and Celistine. Harold's eyes bore into his wife with the ferocity of a predator denied its kill. His glare was so heavy, Celistine might almost have believed he meant to devour her whole. She could feel his rage rolling off him in waves.
"You think you can conceal the truth from me, do you?" Harold's voice thundered, low and menacing.
"And you think I do not know what you have wrought in the North?" Celistine's retort was as swift and sharp as a blade.
"Damnation!" Harold roared, slamming both palms upon the oaken table so hard that the chamber shook. The sound echoed like a drumbeat of war.
"Sending food to your damned homeland—do you believe that makes you a heroine?" he spat, advancing upon her with the fury of a tempest. "No matter what you do, the North has fallen. They have naught but this Empire left to cling to."
"Because you cast them into despair!" Celistine's voice broke free, fierce and trembling with anguish. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes burning like stormfire. "Our fathers swore a pact, Harold! They bound us in marriage as the price of that vow, to preserve peace and dignity between North and South. And you—you have trampled it beneath your heel!"
Harold's face twisted with disdain. He stepped closer until his breath was hot against her cheek. "That marriage? Curse it!" he spat, his hand shooting out to seize her wrist in a cruel grip. "Do you think my father's promises still hold sway? He has no power!" His voice cracked like a whip, echoing in the chamber. With sudden fury, he shoved her back against the carved table, goblets clattering to the floor.
"I am Emperor now!" Harold thundered, his eyes wild with rage. "I can discard you whenever I please—this very day if I choose. Do not forget it!"
But Celistine did not cower. Even as pain shot through her arm from his grip, she lifted her chin with proud defiance. Then, with a sharp movement, she wrenched free and struck him hard across the face, the sound of her palm ringing through the chamber like a blade's strike.
"Is that truly how you see yourself?" she asked softly, her tone laced with scorn.
"Yes!" Harold's chest heaved with rage. "I am the one who commands! I hold the power!"
But Celistine did not shrink. Straightening her frame, she placed her right hand upon her breast with regal grace, her eyes unyielding.
"I, Celistine Wezelia Norenian Wendelia, Empress of the Four Kingdoms, hereby declare the summoning of an Imperial Council against Emperor Harold," she proclaimed. Her words struck the chamber like a lightning bolt, and for the first time, Harold's eyes widened in shock. Even Barron, ever unreadable, allowed a fleeting flicker of surprise to cross his face.
The Imperial Council— the one body that even an Emperor could not fully command. A tribunal where judgment was delivered by the realm's most venerable voices, kin of the late Emperor, men and women who feared no crown when it came to justice. If Harold were found guilty before them, his throne—nay, his very name—would hang by a thread.
"What?" Harold barked, stunned.
"Yes," Celistine replied, her voice as steady as stone. "I will invoke Imperial Law against you. Be prepared." With that, she turned from them, her silken gown whispering across the floor as she strode for the door.
"You think you can triumph over me? You fool!" Harold's furious roar chased her down the corridor, yet Celistine did not look back. Her face betrayed no tremor, no fear. In five days' time, the Council would convene—and there, her plan would unfold in full.
Turmoil had begun to stir within the Emperor's chambers. Harold sat slumped at his desk, one hand pressed hard against his brow, his knuckles white as if to crush the pounding ache within his skull. His brows knitted deep, his jaw clenched. He could scarcely believe the words his wife, the Empress, had dared hurl at him. His thoughts were like storm waves, colliding without direction. Across from him, Barron stood stiff and silent, arms clasped behind his back, his cold gaze never leaving the Emperor. The chamber seemed suffocated by silence—until the doors burst open.
It was Medeya who had already caught wind of the storm that had shaken the palace. Whispers of the Empress defying Harold had flown swift through corridors and reached her ears long before she dared intrude. With every step toward the Emperor's chamber, her heart raced—not with fear, but with anticipation.
She swept inside at last, her silken gown trailing like spilled wine across the stone floor. Her eyes fell at once upon Harold, hunched over his desk, his hand gripping his brow in torment.
"My love, what has happened?" she gasped, though she already knew well enough. Her voice carried the softness of concern, yet behind it lay the sly awareness of one who had listened to more than she should. She hurried to his side and bent over him, cupping his face with both hands, her touch tender yet insistent, her fingers pressing as if to claim him.
Harold did not answer with words. Instead, with a sudden motion, he seized her waist, dragging her against him. His head pressed hard against her stomach as if he sought to bury his fury in her embrace.
"That cursed woman makes my head a hell," Harold growled, his voice muffled, his grip upon her desperate.
Medeya's eyes narrowed as she listened to his broken recounting of the quarrel. Yet while Harold spoke with rage, her mind spun with opportunity. If Celistine had truly summoned the Imperial Council, then the Empress had tarnished her dignity. And in that disgrace, Medeya saw her chance.
"So," she whispered, her lips curling into a smile as her hands stroked Harold's hair, "if the Empress dares summon the Council, then surely the path opens for me. Is this not my moment to become your Empress?"
Harold stiffened, lifting his head sharply to glare at her. He slammed his fist upon the desk so hard the goblets toppled, wine spilling across the parchments. "My reign trembles, and you speak of crowns?" His eyes were ablaze, yet Medea only leaned closer, refusing to shrink.
Barron finally stepped forward, the movement sharp, his boots striking the stone. "Your Grace," he said evenly, though his voice carried iron, "if you divorce the Empress now, it may blind us to her next move. You know her well—she bends but does not break. She may yet rise, wielding her influence in ways we cannot foresee." His hand twitched once at his sword hilt before stilling, a sign of his unease.
Harold turned on him with a bitter snarl. "Really, Barron? After her betrayal, still you defend her?" His words dripped venom.
"You are right, my love," Medeya broke in quickly, placing herself between Harold and Barron. She pressed her palms to Harold's chest, her eyes wide with pleading. "This is your chance, Your Majesty. Cast her aside. That woman no longer holds the authority to disobey you. Divorce her—end her." Her fingers curled into his tunic as though she would not release him until he yielded.
Harold's gaze flickered, torn. Barron's words were measured truth, but Medeya's passion clung to him like fire.
"If you do not divorce her," Medeya pressed on, her voice rising with desperation, "she will pour every coin of her station into the North. She will arm them, feed them, clothe them. You said it yourself—Celestine can overturn the world. Then strike first! Strip her of her crown, and she shall be powerless. Once cast aside, the North will wither and choke. They will never rise again." Her nails dug faintly into his chest as she spoke, her whole frame trembling with fervour.
Harold looked at her, his features hard as stone. He knew her desire for the throne was boundless, her obsession so strong it bled through every word.
"But—" Barron began, his tone urgent.
"Enough!" Harold roared, his voice shaking the chamber. In one swift motion, he hurled the goblet nearest him against the wall, where it shattered into pieces, wine streaking the stone like blood. Both Medea and Barron flinched at the violence, though Medea clutched Harold's arm tighter, while Barron's hand shifted once more to his sword, his eyes narrowing.
"My decision," Harold growled, his breath heaving, "shall not be made tonight. All will be revealed when the Imperial Council convenes. Until then, we must ensure that no noble, no voice, no man or woman sides with Celistine. If they do—then it is over."
His words fell like a death knell in the chamber, heavy and final. Medeya's smile trembled, but her hands still clung to him. Barron remained silent, though his gaze told more than words: the Emperor's lover was drunk on greed, blind to peril, while the Empire itself teetered on the edge of ruin.