"Is that an insult, Your Grace?" asked the Duke of Boulevard, his voice sharpened with pride as his gaze locked upon Celistine. His stare was bold, almost taunting, as though he had committed no wrong against her nor her people.
"A compliment, perhaps?" Celistine returned coldly, her tone dipped with sarcasm. Her eyes narrowed at the duke, dark with accusation.
"So then, where is the remaining wheat—or my father's moonshards, my lord? It has been two years, and yet you have not honoured what you promised us."
The Duke of Boulevard shifted uneasily in his seat, his lips parting as if to explain. "As I have said, Your Grace, there have been certain delays—" He tried to speak with a measured calm, though his eyes flickered nervously. But Celistine cut across him like a blade.
"How long must this so-called delay last? Two years? Whether you like it or not, you will return our money, Lord Boulevard." Her voice rang in the chamber, firm and unyielding.
The duchess, seated beside her husband, leaned forward to shield him with words.
"Your Grace, the wheat is imported. It is difficult to grow, and your father purchased the costly grain. He must wait a little longer. We do have stock, but it must first be delivered to those who ordered before your lord father."
Celistine arched a brow at the duchess, her expression carved with disdain. A brief silence lingered, heavy as iron, until a commotion arose outside. The chamber doors opened, and four of Boulevard's guards entered, dragging with them a man clad in a black and red tunic, a long dark cloak, and heavy boots. By his bearing, he seemed a soldier of the North.
"My lord, my lady," one guard announced, shoving the man forward, "we found this rat sneaking about our wheat stores."
They thrust the prisoner to his knees. Celistine's breath caught in her chest, though not from shock—rather from recognition. It seemed Johannes's spy had been caught in the very storehouse where the duke claimed to keep his imported wheat. She had expected such a turn.
"How dare you!" the duke roared, striding towards the captive, his face flushed crimson with rage. He raised a hand, intent on striking the man.
But before the blow could fall, Johannes stepped forward, his hand shooting out to seize the duke's wrist in a firm grip. The Duke of Boulevard froze, stunned by the man's boldness, as Johannes's cold eyes fixed upon him.
"Release this man," Johannes commanded the guards, his tone low yet brooking no refusal. "He is one of ours—a soldier of the North."
The guards looked uncertainly towards their master, awaiting his decision. Boulevard's face paled when the truth sank in—the man they had captured was indeed of Northern service.
"What?" Boulevard muttered, his eyes flicking nervously to Celistine.
The guards obeyed Johannes, releasing the soldier, who immediately strode forward. With a firm voice, he addressed his commander.
"Sir, before they seized me, I secured what you asked for. Here is the wheat they boast to be imported." He presented a small pouch of seeds, opening it before Celistine.
The duke stiffened, dread clouding his features as the truth crept dangerously close.
Celistine took the pouch and examined the seeds carefully. They were darker, uneven in shape, and smaller than the fine imported wheat she remembered from the Western Empire during her reign as empress. These grains were dull beige, some light brown—far removed from the pale golden, plump, and polished grains of true imports.
Her lips curved into a bitter smile. "Are you certain this is what you found?" she asked.
The soldier nodded, resolute. "Yes, Your Grace. These are the very seeds I saw in their storehouse. I swear it."
Johanes stepped closer, his brow furrowed as he took the pouch from Celistine's hand. He turned the grains over in his palm, letting them spill between his fingers with a careful eye. His gaze sharpened as he studied their size and colour, then he looked back to his lady.
"Your Grace, these are exactly what I observed when Prince Carlo last brought his delivery. They match in every way."
At his confirmation, the Duke of Boulevard swallowed hard, the sound thick in the silent hall.
A heavy swallow echoed from the Duke of Boulevard. His throat constricted, for the truth was laid bare. All these years, he had deceived merchants and ignorant farmers, passing cheap grain for costly imports. Even her father had been ensnared in the fraud.
Celistine's eyes burned with fury as she and Johannes turned their gaze upon him.
The duke threw up his hands. "This is a misunderstanding! You seek to frame me!" His finger jabbed wildly towards Celistine.
"Indeed, my husband—they frame us!" the duchess cried, rushing to his side, playing the victim with shameless theatrics.
Steel rasped as guards of both houses drew their swords. The air quivered with the threat of blood. Celistine rose from her chair, her decision firm. She knew now that Boulevard had no intention of returning what was owed.
She stepped closer, her voice ringing with righteous anger. "You still deny it, even as you are caught in deceit? You scam merchants and prey upon the ignorant, selling them false grain. Have you no shame?"
The duchess sneered, her words sharp as daggers. "Shame? The shame is yours, fallen Empress—cast aside for a lover, forsaken by the very throne you once held!"
The insult slid off Celistine's armour of composure. She met the duchess's venom with fire.
"Your jests do not move me. What matters is this—where is the money my father paid? Here lies proof of your husband's dealings." She held aloft a waybill, stamped with the seal of the Duchy of Boulevard, undeniable evidence of their fraud.
The duke sputtered, attempting one last defence. "Your Grace, the seeds may resemble Renia's, but they are imported, truly imported!"
Celistine gave a cold, incredulous laugh. "Imported, you say? Then tell me, my lord—if you only purchase grain from the East, how is it that you recognise the seeds of Renia?"
The duke faltered, his tongue betraying him. Pride had unmasked his deceit.
Celistine's lips curved in triumph. "So, you confess more than you intended."
Unease swept across Boulevard's face, though his arrogance made a final stand.
"Who cares? Do you think I fear you? You are no longer empress. You are but the daughter of a fallen kingdom. Even the North cannot stand against me!" His laughter was coarse, mocking not only Celistine but Johannes and the Northern soldiers at her back.
Her anger flared. "Then you choose bloodshed over peace? So be it. Protect your fraud while you still can. Time will expose you."
Boulevard bared his teeth. "Do not threaten me, Your Grace. The Duchy of Boulevard commands one thousand five hundred soldiers. What has the North? Nothing!"
Celistine drew a long breath, mastering her fury. She turned, her gaze fixed upon him with icy finality.
"We shall see, Duke Boulevard. But heed this—beware the consequence of your actions. The North does not grant second chances."
With that, she swept from the chamber, her cloak whispering across the stone floor, her green-and-white gown lending her quiet majesty, Johannes and her guard close behind. As she reached her carriage, she paused, lowering her voice to Johannes.
"See to it that their ties to the Western Empire are uncovered. I would know if Boulevard is in league with the Emperor."
Johannes bowed his head.
"At once, Your Grace." He signalled a soldier to begin the investigation, and together they departed swiftly for the North, already preparing for what loomed on the horizon—war against the treacherous Duchy of Boulevard.
***
In the midst of despair, whilst Celistine secretly planned her assault upon the Duchy of Beulevard, Prince Carlo and his men grappled with a far graver trial—the slaying of the Snow Dragon. Their first attempt had ended in bitter failure. The beast, vast as a fortress and merciless in its fury, had driven them back with terrible wounds inflicted upon many knights. Fortune alone had spared their lives, for not a single man had perished, though blood stained the snow like scattered rubies.
"Agh! Curse this pain!" Carlo cried out, his voice edged with frustration as Lady Rehena tended to the deep gash upon his shoulder blade. The blow had been delivered when he had pressed too boldly into the dragon's wrath.
The young lady's slender hands worked swiftly, her needle stitching the torn flesh with steady precision, her face calm though worry lingered in her eyes.
"Hold still, my lord. It will soon be mended," she whispered gently, her tone soothing yet firm, though Carlo shifted with impatience beneath her care.
The prince clenched his jaw, his pride stung by defeat. The failed assault gnawed at him, for the black gems hidden within the dragon's lair stirred both his greed and his resolve. He longed to claim them—not for himself alone, but to aid his sister Celistine in building a stable stronghold in the North. It was a hunger sharpened by pride, for Carlo could not bear to falter where others looked to him for strength.
Once Lady Rehena had bound his wound with careful hands, Carlo rose, grim determination carved into his features. He donned his winter armour anew, its black and silver plates lined with crimson trim, and strode to the wooden hall where his captains gathered. The snow village had offered them shelter, and its largest lodge now served as their council chamber.
Around the heavy oak table, upon which a map of the frozen lands was spread, his men debated in urgent tones.
"We cannot face the dragon directly, Your Grace," said Jacon, leaning forward, his gauntleted finger pressing upon the inked sketch of the beast's nesting ground.
"It circles above, striking from behind. Even the bravest knight cannot meet its fury alone."
"Aye," agreed the captain of the archers, his weathered face shadowed with defeat. "Our arrows are but twigs against its scales. Not even the sharpest shaft pierces its hide."
Carlo's gaze darkened. "Then where lies its weakness?" he demanded of Hector, the leader of Snow Village
Hector lowered his eyes, shame pressing upon his brow.
"Forgive me, my prince. I have studied blades and battle, but not the lore of dragonkind. In all the Snow Village, none possess such knowledge—our people are craftsmen of steel, not scholars of beasts."
Silence fell, the men shifting uneasily. Then, from the edge of the council, Lady Rehena's voice broke forth, soft yet clear. She had listened in patience until now.
"If steel and arrow fail," she said, her eyes steady upon Carlo, "then let us turn to fire. Ice yields before flame. Should we not wield the element that is its undoing?"
The captains turned their heads, curiosity stirring. Even Carlo's stern features softened with interest.
"A clever thought, my lady," Jacon admitted, though doubt creased his brow. "But how shall fire be delivered against so vast a creature?"
Hector, emboldened by her words, straightened. "What if we set charges within its lair? Fire-bombs, fashioned by our smiths. While the beast hunts abroad, we prepare the nest. When it returns, flame shall engulf it."
Carlo's eyes gleamed, hope rekindled. "A bold plan indeed. And when it rushes within its cave, we ensnare it at the entrance with a net of iron chains, heavy enough to bind its wings. But where, tell me, shall we find such a net? One fit for a dragon's size?"
Jacon stroked his chin. "And the bombs? They must burn hot enough to pierce ice itself."
Hector bowed slightly, confidence in his tone. "Leave that to us, my lords. The people of Snow Village are skilled in craft. We shall forge your chains and fashion your fire."
Carlo's lips curved into a rare smile. In the dim light of the council hall, his eyes shone with renewed ambition. Truly fortune bends to my will, he thought. Though the dragon had humbled him once, this time victory would be his.
Days passed. The forges of Snow Village blazed without rest. Sparks lit the night as Hector's men toiled, hammering iron links thick as a man's thigh, weaving them into a net vast enough to seal the dragon's cavern. Meanwhile, black-powder bombs were prepared, cased in steel and brimstone, each promising to kindle fire fierce enough to melt the very ice.
At last the hour came. Carlo stood armoured in black and silver, the red trim gleaming like blood against the snow. A long cloak billowed behind him as he tightened the reins of his stallion. Around him, knights readied their steeds, banners snapping in the frozen wind.
As he swung into the saddle, a soft voice halted him.
"Carlo…" Lady Rehena's tone trembled as she stepped forward, a small vial of medicine cradled in her hands.
The prince turned, his stern face easing as he beheld her. Concern shadowed her delicate features, her breath a mist in the frigid air.
"Take this with you," she urged, pressing the vial into his gauntleted hand. "Should you be wounded again, it will aid your healing. We cannot know what fate awaits you in that cavern."
Carlo looked down at her, a faint smile breaking through his grim resolve. He reached out and gently patted her head, for she stood barely to his chest. "Fear not, Rehena. I shall return unscathed."
Her cheeks flushed crimson, her heart leaping at the sound of her name upon his lips. For a moment their eyes lingered, the world stilled about them.
Then Jacon's laughter shattered the spell as he rode past upon his horse. "Truly, my prince? Ha! Shall we call this a farewell of lovers?"
Both Carlo and Rehena flushed with embarrassment, their gaze breaking. Without another word, Carlo mounted fully, turned his steed, and raised his hand in farewell. Lady Rehena clutched the folds of her gown, watching with bated breath as he rode forth.
And so, with cloak streaming and steel glinting, Prince Carlo led his company into the frozen wilds once more, hearts set upon their perilous second attempt to bring down the Snow Dragon.