The late Emperor Philippe stood before the Imperial Council, frail with age, his frame thinned to shadows. Each step was slow, steadied by Devon, the loyal butler, and the firm grip of his cane. Gasps stirred the chamber—it had been long years since their sovereign last appeared.
With a single lift of his hand, Philippe commanded silence. The clamouring nobles were swiftly dismissed, their whispers dying as the heavy doors closed. Left within were Harold, Celistine, Medeya, the councillors, and the emperor himself.
His return was no idle gesture. Before Celistine's secrets were cast to the empire, she had gone to him in secret, her voice pleading, her resolve unshaken. At first, Philippe's will faltered, but her passion broke through his weariness, and at last she won him to her cause.
doubt, and at last, he pledged to stand should her cause fall beneath Harold's wrath.
"What business brings you here, Your Majesty?" Harold asked, his voice thick with disdain. Bitterness festered between father and son since the day of Harold's birth, for Philippe had ever despised the boy's mother—hungry for power, selfish to the bone—and he saw in Harold her reflection.
"I am here to set right the errors my so-called son has wrought," Philippe declared, his eyes like sharpened steel upon Harold.
Harold's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Errors? You mean sparing this empire from wasting aid upon those unworthy of it? You speak of the North, do you not?"
"You broke the vow sworn between myself and King Henry of the North," Philippe thundered. "Answer me, why?"
Harold paused, his gaze sliding towards Celistine, and a sly smirk tugged his mouth. "Because the North is not worthy of our empire's hand." His mocking words struck Celistine and King Henry like a lash, while Philippe stared, disgusted by his own blood.
"The vow is sacred, Harold. You know well the price of breaking it." Philippe turned to his brother, Philimar, head of the judges. "Explain, brother."
Philimar rose with gravity. "Should the vow be broken, the North may sever ties and claim full independence. If not, then the emperor himself must repay their sacrifice from the Great War with moonshards, or the throne is forfeit."
Harold folded his arms tightly across his chest, shoulders squared, his tone sharp with impatience. "Enough prattling," he snapped, the words striking the air like a whip.
Philimar's gaze did not waver. He stepped a pace closer, voice firm. "Have you agreed to your empress's judgment, Your Majesty?"
"No!" Harold's hand raked roughly through his hair, his irritation plain in every restless movement. His jaw tightened as he leaned forward, his glare fixed on Celistine with open contempt. "I will investigate further. Is that clear?" His voice deepened, his fury spilling over. "Especially to my useless wife."
Medeya swiftly caught Harold's arm, her touch light, almost tender, her face a portrait of devotion. Her eyes glistened with feigned worry, yet beneath the veil of gentleness lay her true intent. Every word, every gesture was for Philippe's gaze alone, for she longed to shine in his eyes, to prove herself the dutiful daughter-in-law he might one day favour.
"My lords," she said sweetly, her voice soft as silk, almost breaking into a plea, "the emperor is weary. Lady Celistine, do you not think this punishment harsh?"
Celistine's lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes rolling heavenward in silent exasperation. Her breath caught as though words burned upon her tongue, yet she forced herself into silence, every muscle rigid with restraint.
Philippe's sudden laugh shattered the tension, bitter and cracked. His frail hand rose, finger crooked, not to command but to mock. His eyes glimmered with scorn as he pointed, his laughter carrying the weight of derision through the hall.
"Harold, is this your mistress? Brainless!" His words seared Medeya, who flushed crimson, shame and fury warring in her chest. Harold, unable to endure it, struck back.
"Do not insult my true wife! That woman"—he stabbed a finger at Celistine—"is not worth her shadow beside Medeya."
"Watch your tongue, boy," Philippe growled.
Harold's eyes burned. "I will see you punished, old man. You are but the late emperor now."
Philippe's laugh, harsh and broken by coughing, echoed through the chamber. "Behold my son—the very image of arrogance!"
Then, Philippe's voice sank, rough as gravel, heavy with revelation. His thin chest rose with the strain of each word.
"Tell me, Harold… do you truly believe you are emperor? When I fell ill, your wretched mother rejoiced in the Eastern Empire and thrust you upon the throne." His lips curled, sly as a fox, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement.
"But I—" he paused, letting the silence ache in the air before the council, "—I never sealed it. I never signed the decree."
A collective gasp broke through the chamber like shattered glass. Even Celistine reeled backward, her hand flying to her lips, her eyes trembling with disbelief. Murmurs spread like wildfire among the councillors, each voice layered with fear and shock. Without the royal seal, Harold's crown was nothing but a lie—his reign an illusion.
"So…" Celistine's voice cracked, scarcely more than a whisper. Her wide eyes darted between Philippe and Harold. "Harold is not the true emperor?"
Philippe's frail body straightened, his gaze cutting sharper than any blade.
"Correct," he thundered, his voice echoing against the pillars. "Harold is no emperor—merely heir. The throne is mine still."
The words struck like thunder. Harold's face drained of colour, his proud mask shattering. He opened his mouth, but no words came—his pride crumbled beneath the weight of truth. Medeya stiffened, her hand clutching her gown, her face paling as disbelief hollowed her features.
Philimar, seated at the judges' table before Philippe, leaned forward like a vulture scenting carrion. His long fingers intertwined atop the polished wood, his calculating eyes never leaving the emperor as he purred,
"Then, my liege, you may yet appoint another bloodline—a worthier prince to rule. Perhaps my son, Duke Prisko of Estera, might—"
"Silence!" Harold roared, his voice breaking into raw fury. His chest heaved, and his fists shook at his sides. "I am the rightful heir!"
"Yes," Philippe spat back, his eyes blazing with cruel fire.
"My heir… a fool! You have shamed your blood, broken vows, mocked law. You are unfit!" His frail frame trembled with anger, yet his voice struck with iron weight.
At last, Harold fell to his knees before his father, trembling—not from reverence, but from the fury boiling in his veins. His hands clawed at the floor, nails scraping against the stone as though he could tear power back into his grasp. His chest heaved, breaths sharp and ragged, eyes burning with both desperation and rage.
His voice broke into a plea. "Please, Father—"
"There is one condition," Philippe cut him off, his tone unyielding as steel.
Harold's head snapped up, his breath ragged. "Anything," he gasped, his pride bleeding into desperation.
"I will seal your ascension," Philippe declared, each word carved with resolve. "But you must cease taxing the North, grant them gold to rise anew… and divorce Celistine this very hour."
The chamber froze in stunned silence. Even the braziers seemed to falter, their flames quivering. Celistine's breath caught, her chest tightening as though the air had betrayed her. Her mind spiraled—her world torn in an instant.
"Bring the papers," Philippe commanded. Devon moved swiftly, parchment already prepared as though the emperor had foreseen this moment.
Philippe's hand, frail and trembling, seized the quill. Yet before the ink could dry, a violent cough wracked his chest. Devon hurried forward, pressing a white towel to his master's lips. When Philippe drew it away, crimson stained the cloth, stark against the pale linen. The council stirred in unease, but the old emperor straightened, hiding the weakness with a thin, defiant smile, though his eyes betrayed the shadow of his nearing end.
Celistine saw it, dread twisting her heart. She knew with chilling certainty: when Philippe fell, Harold's vengeance would come for her. Medeya too saw the crimson stain, but unlike Celistine, her lashes lowered to veil the quiet smile curving upon her lips—a smile of triumph, thin and venomous.
Before the judges and the council, Harold and Celistine were sign their divorce. The sound of the quill scratching against parchment echoed like chains binding her soul. The seal was passed to Philimar with solemnity, and at last Philippe raised the decree with a trembling hand, though his gaze burned with undying authority.
"This seal proclaims Harold my sole heir…" his voice cracked, yet he forced strength into the words, "yet he shall not reign until my death. Until then, I remain emperor!"
The court erupted into chaos, councillors crying out in disbelief, voices clashing like steel upon steel. Harold's face burned red with rage, yet no words would come—his fury choked him silent. Celistine, pale and still, stood as though bound in invisible chains: divorced, disgraced, and shackled to a fate she could scarcely endure.
After the Imperial Council had concluded, Celistine, accompanied by her father, escorted Philippe's closest friend to his chambers. There, Philippe would take his rest, weary from the burdens of the day. He lay upon his bed, coughing harshly, his frail frame trembling with each shuddering spasm.
"Are you all right, Philippe?" King Henry inquired, his tone gentle yet laced with concern. Beside him, Devon offered a small cup of draught, guiding it to Philippe's lips with careful precision.
"I am truly sorry, Your Majesty… Father-in-law, for compelling you to witness my affairs in the court," Celistine murmured, staying close to her father's side. Philippe lifted his gaze toward her, eyes warm and penetrating, a faint smile tugging at his lips. That single expression sent a thrill through Celistine's heart, even amidst the sorrow of the room.
"Ha! You need not apologise, my daughter. This is the doing of my worthless son, Harold," Philippe replied, his voice weak yet tinged with bitter humour. He felt his strength ebbing away, aware that the time left to him was fleeting.
"Hold still, my brother!" King Henry exclaimed, seizing Philippe's hand with a grip that was steady and reassuring. Not merely as a friend, but as one who had been like a brother to Philippe for many years. Unlike Philippe's sibling, Philimar, whose only desire was the throne, Henry's loyalty was unshakable. Philippe, being the eldest son, had long borne the weight of such familial treachery.
Philippe drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
"I fear… I shall not endure much longer, Henry," he admitted, his words almost a whisper.
"What do you mean, Your Grace?" Celistine asked, a cold dread settling in her chest as sorrow coiled tightly within her.
"I have no time for explanations… but listen well. Once I am gone, and Harold ascends the throne, you must depart immediately. Perhaps even tonight, for I cannot be certain I shall live to see the morrow—" Philippe's words were cut short as a violent coughing fit wracked him. Dark flecks of blood stained his lips, and Henry and Celistine both recoiled in shock; Philippe's condition had taken a perilous turn.
"Your Majesty!" Celistine exclaimed, stepping forward instinctively, her hand reaching out to him. Philippe, with a gentle firmness, drew her hand away, avoiding any contact with his back, but held her palm in his own.
"Listen to me, Celistine! You must leave now! Before I die… it is better this way! Waste no time. As for the funds, I shall have Devon see they are delivered to you at once!" Philippe's voice was sharp with desperation, his eyes imploring her to heed his warning. He wished to protect her from Harold's cruelty, and from whatever treachery might befall Henry and the Western Empire should he be taken from them.
"My brother!" King Henry said again, holding Philippe's hand in quiet, solemn gratitude, a silent promise passing between them.
"I shall see that your rightful heir is found. I swear it," Henry murmured, and Philippe, with the faintest of smiles, reclined once more upon his bed.
King Henry then ushered Celistine, along with Joanes, from the room. The hour was drawing toward dusk, and they had much to prepare. Celistine's hands trembled slightly as she gathered her belongings, aware of the urgency in Philippe's warning. Tomorrow, he feared, might never come—and with Harold plotting against her, every moment was precious.