A grand assembly of the North's board members had convened within the high council chamber to deliberate upon the pressing matters currently afflicting their northern lands. Present alongside King Henry, sovereign of the North, was Celistine, already established as both Chancellor and Diplomat, her mind ever alert to the intricacies of statecraft. Also in attendance were Lady Rehena, poised and observant; Carlo, newly appointed Keeper of the Law, whose stern gaze bespoke his unyielding nature; Johanes, a seasoned commander of the North's military forces, exuding a quiet authority; and the newly inducted Mandawe Astromer Lookman, Treasurer, entrusted with the guardianship of the North's wealth. Together, they were all seated, each taking their assigned place at the imposing council table.
King Henry occupied the head of the table, his posture regal and composed. To his right sat Celistine, her hands folded neatly upon the table as her eyes scanned the room with measured calculation. Beside her, Johanes sat with an alert rigidity, the very embodiment of martial discipline. Opposite them, on the king's left, was Mandawe, his fingers drumming lightly against the polished surface, betraying a hint of apprehension. Next to Mandawe sat Carlo, upright and immovable, while Lady Rehena completed the assembly, her gaze shifting thoughtfully between each member, her presence calm yet commanding. They were poised, prepared to craft strategies with the precision of master tacticians.
"So," Carlo began, his voice even but carrying a subtle edge of concern, "how shall we forge our strategies to resolve the problems that presently beset us?"
"Indeed," Mandawe replied, his brow furrowed, a trace of unease in his voice. "It is rather like attempting to strike two birds with a single stone, yet, might we find ourselves ensnared in peril if we proceed?" His hands tightened slightly upon the table, betraying the weight of his worries for the North.
"For you, my king," Johanes asked, inclining his head respectfully, "which matter do you wish to confront first?" King Henry regarded the plans laid before him with patience, his eyes narrowing only slightly in contemplation, while Celistine sat silent, her mind working tirelessly through the labyrinth of possibilities.
"Bring A man name Hector, so that we may hear his account first," Celistine commanded with quiet authority. She signalled Carlo, who promptly rose to carry out the order, departing to fetch the man from the distant Snow Village. A tense silence fell upon the chamber as the council waited, each member immersed in their thoughts, until Carlo returned with Hector in tow.
Hector entered cautiously, his white hair glinting faintly in the chamber's candlelight, and a neatly trimmed white beard framing a face marked with fatigue and a hint of sorrow. His eyes, dark but tinged with weariness, darted respectfully around the room as he carried his hat in his hands, bowing deeply before each member, pausing longer before the king.
"Greetings, Your Majesty of the North. I am Hector leader of Snow Village," he said, his voice low and earnest, bowing once more.
"You may rise, my man," King Henry replied, his voice commanding yet tempered with courtesy.
"And what brings you here?" Hector straightened, meeting the gaze of the king and the council as he began to speak.
"I have come to seek your aid, Your Majesty," Hector said, his tone urgent, eyes flicking towards Celistine with hopeful desperation. "Word reached us that the Empress is here, and perhaps she might offer guidance. Snow Village faces a dire threat—a dragon of immense size and strength that could consume us utterly." The words left him trembling slightly, the fear of devastation evident in his posture.
"I am afraid, sir, that I am no longer an Empress," Celistine responded, her voice measured and cold, cutting through the room with a controlled finality. She sipped deliberately from her cup of tea, her gaze unwavering upon Hector. Shock flickered across his face, mingling with the worry he carried, as the weight of their predicament settled upon him. In that moment, Celistine read the subtle tremor of despair in Hector's shoulders, the faint quiver of his hands, and the furrow of his brow—and she understood that he had come seeking hope in the wrong quarter. The North, for all its might, had few resources and fewer troops to spare for distant villages.
"I am most sorry to hear this," Hector continued, bowing his head slightly, "but is there no possibility of addressing this matter with you, Your Grace? I know it burdens you, yet should we insist upon appealing to the Emperor, it will take weeks for his aid to reach us. And I fear—the dragon will strike before any help can arrive." His voice carried a tremor of pleading, and his eyes were fixed on Celistine, knowing her reputation for intelligence and foresight, placing his high hopes in her judgment.
"Rumours have reached us, even here in Snow Village, that the western powers have betrayed the North," Hector went on, his tone hardening with determination.
"Should we succeed in slaying the dragon and retrieving the treasures within its lair, the North could greatly benefit." His words drew the attention of every council member, Celistine in particular, her eyes narrowing as she realised that the tales of the Snow Dragon Cave were no mere legend—they were true.
"And how may we be assured of this?" Carlo's voice was firm, demanding clarity.
"I have a man there," Hector explained, "by the name of David. While collecting wood for the fire, he discovered a cave. Within, he found vast quantities of rare diamonds, each valued at fifty thousand Moonshards. Furthermore, he uncovered a dark gem, whose nature we cannot yet discern, Your Grace."
Hector produced a small leather pouch from his coat. Lady Rehena, curiosity piqued, instinctively extended her hand. Hector handed it to her. As Lady Rehena examined the contents, her eyes widened in astonishment, the room itself seeming to hold its breath. The others, following her gaze, felt a ripple of shock pass through them.
"It cannot be!" she exclaimed, rising slightly, her hands trembling as she held the gem.
"My King, Celistine… this is the black gem my grandmother spoke of when she was alive!" The weight of her words hung heavily in the chamber. Celistine herself felt a chill, recognising the tales of ancient legend that were now manifest before their eyes.
The Black Mana Gem, as it was known, possessed the remarkable property of enhancing the wielder's mana when embedded in weapons—swords, bows, or other instruments of war. Small black gems could provide five to six hours of sustained mana during battle, though misuse or excessive reliance could be perilous, straining the user's inherent capacity. Such a discovery represented a tremendous boon for the North's military forces, potentially turning the tide of conflict in their favour.
******
Celistine and the council had already devised a wise plan to solve the two pressing problems—the rebellion of the Duke of Boulevard and the dragon plaguing Snow Village. Days passed, and Carlo had prepared one hundred soldiers, including a physician, with Lady Rehena accompanying them. Since physicians were scarce, Celistine personally asked Rehena to join, in case many would be wounded during the battle with the dragon.
At first, King Henry hesitated. Carlo was still so young, and the thought of him facing a dragon seemed reckless. But Carlo persuaded both Celistine and the King, arguing that as he was soon to be appointed King of the North, he needed to gain influence and prove his worth. To slay a dragon would symbolize the beginning of his reign. In the end, Carlo and his hundred soldiers set forth for Snow Village, while Johannes and Celistine departed for the Duchy of Boulevard to claim what rightfully belonged to the kingdom.
Carlo rode at the front upon his black courser horse, his long black pleated cape with fur collar sweeping in the wind. Beneath it, he wore a brown leather tunic strapped and buckled across the chest, emblazoned with the red dragon sigil of the North. A wide belt with pouches girded his waist, his black trousers tucked into knee-high boots. Their journey to Snow Village would take six hours.
Beside him rode Jacon, captain of his soldiers, armored and stern, with brown hair and dark eyes. Behind them followed Lady Rehena, riding her white horse, clad in a flowing gown of pale blue and white, trimmed with fur. A long silver-embroidered cape trailed behind her, yet even so she shivered. She had not expected such bitter cold and had brought no winter gloves.
Carlo noticed her struggling and halted his horse, waiting for her to draw near. Lady Rehena rode up, still rubbing her palms together for warmth. Without a word, Carlo caught her reins and pressed a pair of black winter gloves into her hands. Startled, she looked at him, wide-eyed.
"Here. Wear these," he said firmly.
Her cheeks flushed. "No… I am fine, Carlo," she murmured, embarrassed by his sudden kindness.
But Carlo insisted. He took her hands gently and slid the gloves onto them himself. Speechless, Rehena's heart pounded fiercely within her chest, and she dared not meet his eyes. Carlo turned back to the front, reclaiming his position as leader, guiding his men toward Snow Village, while Rehena rode behind him in silence, her thoughts adrift.
She glanced down at the gloves he had given her. They were already warm, carrying his heat. Realizing they had been his own, a smile touched her lips despite the cold, and she urged her horse to follow closely behind him.
"My prince, where are your winter gloves?" Jacon asked slyly once Carlo returned to his side. He had already noticed whose hands now wore them. Jacon smirked, watching Carlo's reaction.
"What?" Carlo said, raising an eyebrow.
"I didn't know you were such a gentleman—giving away your gloves to a lady in need." Jacon's teasing laugh rang out.
Carlo huffed, lifting his chin proudly. "She was cold. You know we must take care of her. She is both a lady and our physician."
"You mean you need to take care of her—so that she can take care of you?" Jacon chuckled.
Carlo flushed, stealing a swift glance at Rehena. Her cheeks were tinged scarlet, as though she had overheard their exchange, and she quickly averted her gaze. Flustered and ashamed, Carlo urged his horse forward, riding ahead of Jacon to escape his relentless teasing. Jacon only chuckled under his breath. Their bond was steadfast—two comrades bound by loyalty and battle.
***
Meanwhile, after eight long hours upon the road, Celistine at last arrived at the Duchy of Boulevard. The journey had been far longer than to Snow Village, for Boulevard lay in a distant quarter of the realm. As her carriage rattled across the wide lands, Celistine's thoughts turned sharply inward. What a vast domain this is… she mused, gazing from the window. If properly cultivated, the fields of Boulevard could serve as the very heart of our farming projects. With this soil, we might raise wheat and barley enough to feed the North without ever needing to purchase from foreign crowns. Chickens, cattle, sheep—there is room here to multiply them all. This land could become our lifeline.
Her carriage soon rolled up to the gatehouse of Boulevard, its stone archway bristling with guards. From there, the procession advanced through the estate grounds until it halted before the grand mansion. Celistine alighted, her gaze fixed upon the figure who awaited her at the steps.
There stood the Duke of Boulevard, Labendo Smore Boulevard. His hair had long since turned white with age, his frame thickened into corpulence. He wore a navy-blue military coat heavy with golden embroidery—braided epaulettes upon his shoulders, rows of gilded buttons gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. At his right hand stood his wife, clothed in a gown of extravagant richness: a square neckline over a tightly fitted bodice wrought with gold embroidery, a sweeping skirt gathered full and heavy, its sleeves puffed proudly at the shoulders before narrowing with lace at the wrist. The style was of the old Renaissance courts, decadent and ostentatious.
At the sight of them, Celistine felt her blood heat with quiet rage. How shameless, she thought, her lips tightening. This wretched family who have cheated countless merchants, filling their coffers with deceit—yet here they stand draped in finery as if virtue itself crowned their lives.
The Duke greeted them with an exaggerated bow, his fleshy hand pressed against his chest.
"Chancellor of the North, it is an honour most rare," he drawled, his voice thick with feigned courtesy. "Please, be welcome in my hall."
Celistine inclined her head but did not smile. She swept past him with measured poise, her long cloak trailing behind across the polished stone floor. Johannes followed close at her shoulder, silent as a sentinel, while the duke's attendants hurried to shut the doors with a heavy thud.
Within, the hall glittered with chandeliers and gilt-framed tapestries, yet to Celistine's eye it was nothing but a gaudy mask, hiding the rot beneath. Her father's wheat—the grain promised and paid for—remained absent from the North, and the people had gone hungry while this duke fattened himself amidst gold and velvet.
They came to a long table set beneath a towering hearth. The duke's wife took her seat with a rustle of silk, her lips curved in a smile that dripped with silent disdain. The duke himself lowered into his chair, the wood creaking beneath his weight. With a sweeping gesture, he invited Celistine to sit opposite.
"Your Grace Celistine," the duke intoned, his voice rich but heavy with mock courtesy. "It is… most unexpected to welcome the daughter of Lord King henry of the North in my hall. Your journey must have been long. Tell me—was the road kind to you?"
Celistine inclined her head with poise. "The road was as it always is, Your Grace—long, yet endurable. I thank you for your concern."
The duke's wife let out a soft laugh, thin as glass.
"Endurable, she says. Truly, the North breeds strong spirits." Her eyes lingered on Celistine's plain but dignified gown, a quiet contrast to her own silks, before she added,
"Strength is a fine thing… though not always enough."
Celistine did not flinch. She folded her hands atop the table, her gaze unwavering as it fixed upon the duke.
"Your Grace," she began, her voice calm but edged with steel, "I have come for one purpose. Months ago, my late father purchased wheat from you—grain which should by now be filling the granaries of the North. Yet nothing has been delivered. Not a single sack. I ask you, Duke Boulevard—where is it?"
The duke gave a slow, oily smile. He spread his hands as though in helplessness.
"Ah… the matter of grain. A delicate thing, my lady. There were… difficulties in the harvest, you understand. Weather most unfavourable. Wagons overturned, bandits upon the roads… It is not that I would deny the North, heavens no! Only that misfortune has a way of stealing what is rightfully ours."
Celistine's jaw tightened. Her Dark Violet eyes flashed, sharp as tempered steel.
"Misfortune?" she repeated. "Strange then, that I see your tables laden, your cellars full, and your people far from starving. It would seem misfortune spares only your household, while the North suffers hunger for which it has already paid dearly."
At this, Johannes shifted slightly behind her chair, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. The duke noticed, and his smile faltered, just for a breath.