Night had fallen over the imperial city, the torches flickering like restless spirits against the cold stone walls. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of dust, smoke, and the faint tang of fear. Most of the court had retired, yet inside the heart of the palace, chaos churned like a storm. Harold stormed into his private chambers, his fury so intense it seemed to warp the very air around him. Barron followed silently, shoulders tense, carrying the weight of responsibility, while Medeya glided behind with a serpent's grace, her composure hiding the venom coiling inside her.
"Damn it! Barron, your men are utterly useless!" Harold's voice cracked like a whip. His eyes blazed, veins pulsing at his temples, and his fists clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white. Barron's head bowed, shame and guilt pressing down like a physical weight. He had no words; he had nothing to offer but silent submission.
"All this time… and I am not the Emperor!" Harold bellowed again, flinging himself into the chair behind his desk with such force that the wood groaned under the impact. He stared upward at the ornate ceiling, the carved visages of past rulers seeming to mock his failure. Medeya stepped closer, hands outstretched, attempting to calm the storm in his heart.
"Not now, Medeya," Harold muttered, brushing her hand away roughly. But Medeya did not relent. Her head pressed against his chest, feeling the tremor of his heartbeat, and slowly, the rhythm steadied. He found himself returning her embrace instinctively, hands winding around her waist, the tension in his shoulders easing. Her fingers traced through his hair, soft and soothing, yet there was a subtle poison in the motion only he could feel.
"Shhh… my love. The Emperor shall soon meet his end," she whispered, her words silk on the ear but daggers at the heart. Harold's gaze snapped to hers, a mixture of shock, desire, and dark anticipation flickering through his eyes.
"What?" he demanded, voice trembling with confusion and hope.
"I saw His Majesty standing earlier… he was coughing, and blood came forth with every cough," Medeya said, lips curling into a dark smile. "Soon… you shall ascend the throne. And I shall be your Empress."
A thrill of triumph surged through Harold, his eyes gleaming with greed and ambition. He could almost taste the Empire as his, the power he had craved for decades finally within reach. Slowly, he allowed calm to return, resuming the embrace of Medeya. The tension in his shoulders eased, and in that moment, he let himself believe that victory was finally tangible.
But the sharp rap at the door cut through the intimacy, pulling him back to reality.
Knock… knock…
Harold signaled Barron to open the door. As the door swung wide, Devon entered, solemn and precise. Immediately, he dropped to one knee, and Harold froze, shock mirrored only by Medeya's darkly satisfied smile. She knew, instinctively, that the moment had come.
"Behold the new Emperor of the Western Empire," Devon declared, sorrow and gravitas woven through his voice.
"The late Emperor Philippe is dead."
The words landed like hammers in the chamber. Harold and Medeya exchanged victorious glances, savoring the triumph, but Barron's expression stiffened, unease prickling through his chest. He knew—something would happen. The storm of fate was already moving, and no one yet saw it coming.
Meanwhile, Celistine's carriage rattled along the uneven road, nearing the first border gate of the Western Empire. She sat rigidly inside, gripping the edge of the seat, chest tight, every muscle coiled in tension. Grace walked alongside, boots crunching against the gravel, alert and watchful, her eyes scanning every shadow and movement. King Henry remained seated, face drawn, fingers drumming anxiously against his knees. Outside, Johanes rode at the carriage's flank, scanning the horizon, every line of his body taut with anticipation. Only ten veteran mercenary guards accompanied them—a deliberate choice by Celistine, who did not trust the Western Empire's soldiers to safeguard her.
As they neared the second border, a sudden blockade materialized across the road. Celistine stiffened, eyes narrowing. This was no accident. Harold had anticipated their flight. Her heart raced, and she leaned forward slightly, peering past the obstruction, chest tightening with dread.
"Philippe is dead," King Henry said solemnly. The words fell like stones into the night, pressing down on everyone's shoulders.
Grace's jaw tightened, her eyes hardening. She planted her boots firmly on the gravel, shoulders squared, chest rising and falling in steady breaths. Her hand hovered near the hilt of her small sword, instinctively ready. Each step toward her father was measured, her rhythm controlled despite the adrenaline hammering in her veins.
"I shall investigate," she said sharply, voice cutting through the tense air. She moved with fluid precision, boots crunching against the ground as she advanced toward her father, already speaking with the Western commander. Twenty guards now separated them from freedom, a mile of peril ahead.
"Father… what is happening?" Grace asked, voice threaded with concern, muscles coiled and ready, eyes flicking between her father and the commander.
"I know not… they claim to be preparing some obstruction, yet none was present when we entered," Johanes replied, unease etching his face. His hands gripped the reins of his horse, knuckles pale. Grace's instincts screamed—danger was imminent.
She bent slightly toward the coachman, locking eyes with him. Her voice was low but sharp: "If I shout 'run,' drive the horses forward with all your strength. Do you understand?" Her tone left no room for hesitation.
The coachman swallowed hard, nodding. Grace straightened, shoulders squared, chest rising with controlled breaths, every movement radiating determination. Celistine glanced at her, worry tightening her chest.
"Grace… what is happening?" she asked, voice trembling, hands clutching the carriage edge.
"This knight will not allow our passage," Grace murmured, voice barely audible but lethal in its precision. In one fluid motion, she drew her small sword and hurled it at the commander, the clang of metal echoing sharply.
Chaos erupted. The coachman spurred the horses, galloping forward. Grace and Johanes, side by side with their veteran mercenaries, met the ambushers head-on. Steel clashed, arrows whistled past, and shouts filled the night. Grace ducked a swinging blade, twisted, and countered with precision, each motion fluid and deadly. Johanes parried and struck, shielding both his daughter and the carriage.
"DAD! WE MUST GO! MORE ENEMIES ARE COMING!" Grace shouted, muscles coiled, heart pounding. She sprinted to the nearest horse, gripping her sword, and leapt onto the mount with fluid agility. Johanes mirrored her, swinging up onto his own horse, eyes scanning for threats.
The carriage surged forward, flanked by two veteran guards cutting down any Western soldiers attempting to block their path. Grace moved like a predator, weaving between attackers, each swing precise, clearing the way for Celistine and King Henry.
As more enemies poured from the shadows, Grace and Johanes seized their chance to mount their horses sequentially, determination burning, each movement precise, their focus singular: protect those they loved.
Suddenly, an arrow struck Johanes' shoulder as he tried to fend off a charging soldier. He cried out, losing balance, and tumbled from his horse, hitting the uneven ground hard.
Grace's heart leapt. She spurred her horse forward, hooves thundering against the dirt, and leapt with fluid grace to land beside her father. She dropped into a low stance, sword ready, one hand gripping Johanes' arm to steady him.
"Father! Are you alright?" she cried, yanking the arrow free.
"I'm fine, ahh!" he groaned, teeth clenched against the pain.
"Hurry! We have no time! Mount the horse!" Grace commanded, swinging onto the mount first, pressing low against its flanks. Johanes followed immediately, hands gripping tightly around her waist, adjusting to the sudden motion.
"Father… can you still wield your sword?" she asked, glancing back, eyes ablaze with fierce determination.
"Yes… let's go!" he replied, teeth gritted, wincing, but trusting Grace fully.
The horse surged forward, muscles straining, hooves pounding like war drums. Johanes pressed close behind her, both riding as one, weaving through chaos, every movement precise. The first border gate loomed ahead, the carriage with Celistine and King Henry just within reach. Fifty meters from freedom, the lowering gate threatened to trap them.
Then, like a shadow torn from the earth, Barron appeared, his horse galloping like a living storm. Thunder rolled beneath their hooves. Johanes tensed violently, hands gripping Grace's waist, panic flooding his chest.
Grace's eyes sharpened. In that instant, she understood—Barron's target was the carriage, not them. A low, feral grin spread across her face. Muscles coiled, hands gripping the reins tighter, eyes blazing with controlled fury.
"We can't make it! Barron is targeting the carriage!" Johanes shouted, desperation clawing through his voice.
Grace met his gaze, unwavering. "Father… if anything happens, do not stop. Keep going!" Her chest rose and fell, controlled yet fierce.
As Barron's shadow loomed, hooves thunderous, Grace's voice rang out, cutting through chaos:
"Father… I love you. Remember that!"
She thrust the reins into Johanes' hands, his eyes wide with panic. He wanted to stop her, to grab her, but it was too late. Grace leapt with deadly agility, landing squarely on Barron's back. Taken completely by surprise, he struggled, twisting and kicking, but Grace used every ounce of strength to unbalance him. With a violent heave, she forced him from his horse. They tumbled into dust and limbs, the suddenness of the attack leaving Johanes frozen.
"KEEP GOING, DAD! GOOOO!" Grace shouted, kicking Barron off her back. Tears streamed down Johanes' face as he spurred the horse onward.
The carriage carrying Celistine and King Henry surged forward, slipping past the first gate as it slammed shut behind them. Grace remained trapped in the Western Empire, chest heaving, eyes blazing with unbroken resolve.
_____
Once Celistine and the others had moved far from the Western border, Celistine ordered the carriage to stop so she could get down with her father, King Henry, to check on what had happened to their companions. Grace scanned the surroundings and saw only two men guarding them. Looking back, she noticed Johanes approaching them. Celistine immediately saw Johanes' shoulder, wounded by an arrow, and hurried to his side with Henry.
"Sir Johanes, are you alright?" Celistine asked as she helped Johanes dismount from his horse and seated him carefully. She grabbed a bandage from the carriage and began wrapping his wound. As she worked, Celistine noticed Grace was nowhere in sight.
"Where is your daughter, Johanes?" King Henry asked, confusion and concern etched across his face.
Johanes cried out, a mix of anger and despair flooding his voice at what had happened to his child.
"Grace… sacrificing herself for us!" he shouted, believing that Grace might already be dead at the hands of their enemies. Celistine froze, stunned, and suddenly sank to her knees, realizing they had no way to reach Grace—it was far too risky. Tears streamed down her face as she mourned one of her closest companions, the sister she had come to treat like family.
"They will pay for this! We will bring justice for Grace!" Celistine roared, her voice trembling with rage.