A week's span had passed in preparation, and at last the Imperial Council was summoned to convene the trial of Empress Celestine against her husband, Harold, sovereign of the Western Empire. Nobles from every corner of the realm poured into the grand hall, eager to witness with their own eyes the great confrontation between consort and emperor.
The air was thick with expectation. The first to arrive were the councillors — the Imperial Council in full, led by Chief Judge and Head Councillor Philimar Rodero Wendelia, younger brother of the late emperor and uncle to Harold. With him came four senior judges, grave in years, and four younger advisers, all clad in robes of black and gold. Yet whispers rippled through the benches: most, save for Philimar, had already sworn themselves to Harold's side, lured by promises of rich reward. Harold, wary of his uncle's stern gaze, had secured what loyalty he could — and Celestine knew that only her own wit and courage could tip the balance in her favour.
When all were settled and the nobles had taken their seats, Celestine felt a pang of dread pierce her breast. Her father, who should have arrived long before, was nowhere to be seen. With one hand pressed against her heart, she wrestled with fear, but forced herself to stand tall. She drew a slow breath, shook her head slightly to clear her mind, and straightened her shoulders. At her side stood Harold, his gaze fixed upon her with unblinking scrutiny; behind her, loyal Medeya fanned her brow with a fan of ivory, her eyes sharp with secret amusement.
Then the herald's voice rang out:
"Grand Head of Council, Philimar Rodero Wendelia, enters! All rise!"
At once the chamber rose to their feet in reverence. Philimar, stern and imposing, crossed the hall and took his throne at the high bench. Only when he was seated did the rest sink back to their chairs, though Celestine and Harold remained standing, their duel poised to begin.
A senior judge by the name of Jorge cleared his throat and addressed the assembly.
"On this day we are gathered to hear the case between the Empress and the Emperor, concerning the treaty unfulfilled. Empress Celestine Wezelia Norenian, what grievance brings you before us? Speak plainly, that we may hear why you charge His Majesty with corruption and neglect of the Northern realm."
Celestine's chest rose and fell as she steadied herself. Her lips trembled, yet her eyes blazed with courage.
"Yes, Your Honour. I confess, for long I believed the Emperor had indeed sent provisions to the Northern Kingdom, that our allies there might thrive. But I was deceived. No aid was given; my people have been left to starve."
Before the murmurs could swell, Harold stepped forward, his voice sharp with authority.
"Your Honours! I have monitored every correspondence sent by the Empress to her father in the North. Here—" he motioned for a servant, who bore a bundle of sealed letters, "—are the replies, each one affirming that the North is in good health."
The judges passed the parchments hand to hand, their brows softening, their nods betraying approval. Celestine's heart tightened, yet she had foreseen Harold's deceit.
"Indeed," Judge Jorge said with a sly smile, "this is strong evidence. Why then do you bring such accusations, Empress? Do you crave attention from your husband, the Emperor?"
Laughter and whispers broke among the nobles, their gossip pricking at Celestine like needles. Medeya smirked from the shadows, delighted at the thought of Celestine's humiliation.
Celestine clenched her fists beneath the folds of her gown. So he truly seeks to break me with forgery… she thought. She drew herself up, ignoring the whispers.
"I have proof," she declared, her voice ringing. "The Emperor forged these letters! Look closely — the hand resembles that of my father, yet it is but an imitation. Here I present the true script of King Henry of the North; compare them and you shall see the fraud!"
The council chamber stirred like a nest of bees. Doubt fell upon the nobles, their eyes darting between Harold and Celestine.
Another judge, Lord David, leaned forward gravely.
"Your Majesty, what say you to this charge? Did you forge the hand of King Henry?"
Harold gave a disdainful laugh.
"If I had truly forged his hand, would not her own council have seen it at once? These accusations are but a desperate play from a desperate woman."
But Celestine's voice cut through his mockery.
"Your Honours, the Northern Kingdom has endured famine for three years! This neglect violates the solemn pact forged by the late Emperor Philippe and my father, King Henry of the North. The North lost greatly when we joined Western arms in battle against the colonisers. The treaty decreed that in return, the Western Empire would sustain us with provisions — until such time that the North could stand on its own. Yet Harold has cast that covenant aside!"
Gasps echoed; the name of the late emperor carried weight still. Harold's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing upon her like daggers.
"How dare you accuse me, Celestine!" he spat, his voice rising with fury.
Judge Jorge interjected mockingly, "Beware, Your Majesty the Empress. Such slander, if proven false, may condemn the North as traitors. You play a dangerous game."
Yet Celestine did not falter. Her gaze did not waver from Harold.
Harold smirked then, as though assured of triumph.
"And how shall you prove the North is destitute, Celestine? You speak with passion, but passion is not evidence." He snapped his fingers, and another servant hurried forth with a bound ledger.
"I hold here the records that prove my generosity. The ledgers show all shipments sent northward. Behold!"
Celestine's eyes widened, her breath seizing in her chest as though the very air had betrayed her. A ledger? He would dare? The audacity of Harold to place such a book before the council — forged, twisted, and bound in lies — struck her like a blow to the ribs. For a heartbeat her mind spun, caught between disbelief and fury. What gall to mock both law and empire with ink-stained falsehoods! Her hands clenched upon the folds of her gown, the silken fabric crumpling beneath her fingers as she fought to master her trembling.
The ledger was carried from hand to hand, each judge bending over its pages with practiced gravity, their solemn expressions betraying little of the whispers already circling the chamber. To Celestine, the sight was agony — every page turned was another knife edge pressed closer to her throat. Did they not see the deception? Did they not sense Harold's hand behind such convenient records?
At last the book reached the dais where Chief Judge Philimar sat in austere silence. The chamber hushed. He laid his fingers upon the cover as though it were some sacred text, then opened it slowly, his gaze dark and steady. The candlelight caught upon his stern features, carving his face into harsh relief. His eyes lingered over the columns of numbers and signatures, then rose — cold, piercing — to meet Celestine's.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. The weight of that stare was unbearable, as though he searched her very soul for weakness. Rage flared within her, mingled with dread. If they believe this forgery, the North will starve. If they believe this, then truth itself is broken. She forced her shoulders back, drawing upon every thread of composure, though her heart quaked within her breast.
"Empress Celestine," Philimar said, his voice like iron, "these records weigh heavily against your claims. Unless you bring forth witnesses, your accusations remain without certainty."
His gaze, though harsh, seemed almost testing — as though he sought to measure the steel of her mind beneath the silks of her station. The weight of it pressed upon her, silent yet unrelenting, like the judgment of the dead. Celestine's pulse quickened, hammering against her ribs until it felt as though her heart might betray her with its frantic noise.
Father… where are you? The thought surged through her with desperate ache, a whisper torn from the depths of memory. If only your hand still guided mine… if only your counsel could steady me now. Her throat tightened, but she dared not let the weakness show.
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the hall's high doors, her mind grasping at hope. Did Sir Robert deliver the letter? Will he come before it is too late? The doubt gnawed at her, sharp and merciless. Every tick of silence was another strand of the noose drawing taut around her cause.
Still, she lifted her chin, forcing her breath to steady. Whatever storm raged within her breast, she must not falter before Philimar's stare, nor before the council whose ears Harold had already purchased. For if she wavered now, the North was lost.
Whispers rose once more among the nobles:
"Does the Empress merely seek attention?"
"Perhaps the Emperor has truly aided the North."
Doubt spread like smoke through the chamber.
And then — the doors burst open, the sound echoing like thunder through the hushed chamber, and every head turned as a lone figure strode within, cloaked in dark velvet and crowned with the glint of authority. For a moment time itself seemed to falter; the shuffle of robes and the murmur of voices stilled into silence. Celestine's heart leapt violently against her breast, her breath catching as though life itself had returned to her lungs. Her vision blurred with sudden tears, welling hot and unbidden, for in that instant hope, which had wavered so perilously, blazed anew before her eyes.
"I am King Henry Bogarte Norenian, Father of the North!" the man proclaimed. "I come as witness for the Empress, my daughter."
Celestine rushed to him, flinging her arms around his neck, her body shaking with relief. For three long years she had not seen him.
"Father… how are you?" she sobbed, her words broken by joy.
"My dearest child," Henry murmured, cupping her cheek with both hands, his own eyes glistening. "I have missed you sorely. But steel yourself; the battle is not yet won."
He turned, his voice shifting to one of grave command.
"I bring with me the sealed covenant of the late Emperor Philippe, wherein it was sworn that the Western Empire should sustain the North. And yet, no succour was sent. When storms ravaged our lands, the West turned its face away."
One of the judges sneered, "And how do you prove this? The ledger lies before us."
"The ledger is false!" thundered Henry.
"False?" Harold scoffed. "Then bring forth your evidence, old man."
Henry gestured, and the doors opened again. A poor family was led forward — a man, a woman, and their child, skeletal with hunger, skin drawn tight upon their bones. Gasps rang out. Even the haughtiest nobles blanched.
"Behold," said Henry. "These are my people. Would you still claim they have been fed?"
Rumours erupted across the hall. Harold's face darkened with rage. Medeya, watching intently, leaned back in her seat, her lips pursed, uncertain now of her lover's fate.
Merchants followed, stepping forth to give testimony.
"We were trapped in the North," cried one.
"Western guards forbade our departure, lest we reveal the truth! And when I bartered for passage, I was shown this emblem—" He lifted a broken badge, the black sun with golden rays upon white field: the mark of the Western guard.
"This is forgery!" Harold snapped, his voice cracking.
Celestine's voice rang sharp. "How could a common merchant come by such a sacred token, unless taken from your very guards?"
At last Harold faltered, his hands trembling upon the bench.
"Silence!" thundered Philimar, his voice reverberating through the vast chamber until the murmurs of the nobles withered into nothing. Slowly, he rose from his seat, his black and gold robes falling in solemn folds about him, and his stern gaze swept the hall.
"The truth lies plain before us. The Emperor has neglected the covenant sworn by his late father, and for this betrayal he stands guilty before this council." His words rang heavy as iron, final and inescapable. A stunned stillness gripped the assembly; even the air seemed to tighten with the weight of the judgment. Harold staggered where he stood, colour draining from his face, his proud shoulders bent beneath the crushing blow. Beside him, Celestine clasped her father's hand with trembling fingers, her eyes glistening not only with tears of relief but with the fire of long-awaited triumph.
Philimar's voice rang once more: "The Empress may now declare her will."
Celestine stepped forward, her voice steady as steel.
"I, Celestine, Empress of the Western Empire, demand divorce from Harold. I demand also that the North be granted a great sum to recover, and compensation for the dignity stolen from us. If the Emperor refuses, then the Western Empire shall cease its taxation of the North for three years, that we may rise in our own time."
Gasps broke again. Harold's face contorted with fury. Philimar nodded gravely.
"By the authority vested in me, and by the sealed covenant of the late Emperor, I grant her petition. The Empress has the right to dissolve this union."
Harold's lips twisted into a cold, defiant smile, though a faint tremor betrayed the fury simmering beneath his calm. His eyes, dark with restrained malice, swept the council as if daring them to oppose him.
"Not so swiftly," he said, his voice smooth yet edged with steel.
"I am still Emperor of this realm, and I will not be so easily condemned. Before any decree is cast, I demand an audit — a full investigation of the North. Let the truth be weighed in numbers and ink, not in sentiment."
Celestine's stomach clenched as his words echoed through the chamber. An audit. She knew well what he plotted — a convenient snare to bind the North in endless delay. Each month wasted in ledgers and false reports would mean more children starving, more villages crumbling into dust. Her hands tightened in her lap, nails pressing against her palms as she fought to keep her composure. Father, if they grant him this, the North will wither before the truth ever sees light, she thought, her heart hammering with dread.
Philimar's eyes narrowed, yet he gave the faintest nod. "The Emperor is within his right."
Harold's smirk widened. Delay meant survival.
But before triumph could settle upon his face, a familiar voice echoed from the doorway, strong and regal.
"Demand for audit, you say, Harold?"
The hall froze. All eyes turned. And there, striding forward with the weight of a storm, came the late Emperor Philippe himself.
Harold's face drained of colour. Celestine's lips curved into a knowing smile."I have won," she whispered to herself, the taste of victory sweet upon her tongue.