It had been a full month since the Western Empire had been left without an empress. Since Celistine's departure, the burdens of the realm had fallen heavily upon Harold, and more so upon Medeya, who was soon to be crowned as empress.
Barron sat alone in his modest chamber, parchment and ink scattered across the desk, for with no empress to manage affairs, much of the labour had fallen upon him. Medeya, still unversed in the art of governance, preferred to busy herself with finery rather than matters of state. The only effort he had ever seen from her was the endless spending on gowns of the latest cut, jewels, and frivolities. And Harold, blinded by infatuation, indulged her every whim.
A sharp knock rattled the wooden door. Barron's brow furrowed as he bid the visitor enter. A weary messenger stepped forward, bowing low, and placed a sealed letter upon his desk.
"It comes from the Duchy of Boulevard, my lord," the man announced.
Barron's frown deepened. 'The Duchy of Boulevard?' Rarely did they send word without reason. His first thought was that the Duke was once again begging for coin to feed his starving people. With a sigh, Barron broke the seal. His eyes darted across the page—and then froze.
"What?" His voice cracked with disbelief. "The North seeks war with the Duchy of Boulevard? But why?"
He gripped the parchment tighter, his knuckles whitening. Unknown to him, the truth behind the North's aggression was bound to betrayal: they had invested grain with the Duke of Boulevard, and when he failed to honour the agreement, they now demanded recompense—by force.
Barron shook his head. "Surely this is a bluff. The North, near destitute, drowning in famine, can scarce muster an army to face even the weakest duchy. Impossible…"
Yet the unease would not leave him. His stomach churned as though a storm brewed within, and he found himself pacing the chamber before finally striding towards Harold's private rooms. His boots struck hard against the stone floor, each step echoing down the corridor, heavy with urgency. Reaching the door, he lifted his hand and rapped—once, twice, thrice.
Silence.
Barron frowned, drawing back slightly. Perhaps the Emperor was absent? He hovered there a moment, debating whether to withdraw, when faintly—through the thick oak—came the sound of laughter.
"My love, cease your teasing, it tickles so…" Medeya's playful voice spilled into the corridor.
Barron's jaw tightened. This was urgent. He pushed the door open, and the scene before him nearly unsteadied him.
There sat Harold upon a gilded couch, Medeya perched boldly upon his lap. Her gown—a flowing green silk, embroidered with threads of gold at the waist—slid delicately over her knees. Pearls gleamed in her pale hair, tumbling loosely over her shoulders. Harold, dressed in a white double-breasted jacket adorned with golden buttons and medals, looked every inch the monarch, yet his hands rested far too intimately upon her form.
Medeya gasped, springing upright when she noticed Barron at the door. Harold, turning his head with a scowl, brushed his hand through his hair, irritation flashing across his features.
"Barron," he growled, "have you forgotten the courtesy of knocking?"
"I did knock, Your Majesty—thrice, in fact," Barron replied, bowing stiffly. His eyes flicked to Medeya as he added, with deliberate precision,
"I entered only when I heard Her Highness' voice." Though not yet crowned, Medeya had manipulated servants into treating her as empress already. Barron obeyed for form's sake, though it galled him.
Harold leaned back, draping his arm across the high couch. "So why are you here, disturbing us?"
Barron straightened, his tone grave. "A letter has arrived from the Duke of Boulevard. It reports that the North plots to march against him, to seize lands and expand their territory."
Harold's brow barely twitched. His indifference chilled Barron. "Surely, sire, if this is true, it poses a threat not only to Boulevard but to our own borders."
Medeya laughed, light and mocking, as if Barron had spoken folly.
"The North? Expand? They cannot even feed themselves without the Western empire's grain. To think they might wage war is laughable!" She covered her lips with delicate fingers, but her eyes glistened with scorn.
Barron's fists tightened at his sides. The former Empress Celistine would never have dismissed such matters so carelessly. He took a deep breath, preparing to urge caution.
"But if we do not take this matter seriously, perhaps the North wi—" Barron began, voice tight with urgency, only to be cut off abruptly. Harold waved a hand, his tone sharp, leaving Barron's words unfinished.
"Enough, Barron. The Duke of Boulevard cries wolf, as ever. He is mired in fraud, his wife notorious for vile deeds—kidnapping children, selling them into misery. Boulevard commands scarcely fifteen hundred men. Tell me, how would the North prevail against such numbers when they cannot even purchase their own wheat?"
Barron bit down his words, frustration churning within him, yet he bowed stiffly, unwilling to defy the Emperor openly.
Instead, he ventured cautiously onto another matter. Barron's voice was measured, yet carried the weight of concern.
"Your Majesty… what of the Late Veterans? The soldiers of the late Emperor Philippe. They have remained loyal all these years, though long neglected. Should they not, at the very least, be granted grain for their service?"
He shifted slightly, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze unwavering, waiting for the Emperor's reaction.
At this, Harold's eyes flashed with venom.
"Ha! Those relics? I'll not waste coin on them. They are my father's folly, spoiled by his weakness. To feed them is to feed his memory, and I'll have no part of it!" He flung his hand dismissively, irritation lining every word.
Barron bowed again, his heart heavy. Since Celistine's absence, Harold had turned a blind eye to duty, leaving Medeya to squander wealth on luxuries whilst the empire's edges crumbled. Even her assigned charities for the border commoners lay neglected.
With weary steps, Barron departed. Yet rather than returning to his chamber, he descended deep into the bowels of the palace. A narrow stair wound downward, each step swallowing what little light remained. Few knew of this place—fewer still dared to enter. The air grew damp, the walls slick with shadow.
At the dungeon's gate, two guards straightened and saluted.
"My lord," they greeted.
Barron inclined his head, signalling the guards to step aside. The heavy iron door groaned as it swung open, and he strode through the dimly lit corridor, torchlight flickering across rusted bars and damp stone walls. His pace slowed as he approached one particular cell.
Inside, a woman knelt, her wrists cruelly chained to the wall. Her once-fine blue gown was torn and soiled, the bodice frayed, and the bow at her collar hung in tatters. Bruises marked her pale skin, and her black hair, tangled and matted, was tied back roughly. She slumped forward, head bowed, her body a map of punishment endured.
Barron stepped inside the cell and dragged a stool forward. Sitting down, he fixed a stern gaze upon her.
"So, Grace," he said, his tone cold and measured, "what was the Empress' plan before you fled the Western Empire?"
The woman stirred. Slowly, with a tremor of defiance, she lifted her chin. Emerald eyes blazed in the shadows, sharp with hatred. She glared at Barron as though her gaze alone could strike him down.
"How am I supposed to know my master's plans when I'm stuck here, idiot! And I'd rather die than tell each one of you!"
Grace shouted, her pride blazing as a loyal servant of Celistine. Barron, however, remained unshaken. He knew that even though she was well-informed, her loyalty to Celistine would never falter. Beating answers out of her was hopeless—a waste of effort.
Leaning closer, Barron grasped her chin, forcing Grace to lift her face to meet his cold, silver gaze. She glared at him, emerald eyes flashing with defiance, as if she could consume him with her stare alone.
Barron smirked. "Do you really think we would simply kill you and leave it at that?"
With a swift motion, he tightened his grip on her chin. Grace struggled, tugging at the chains binding her wrists, desperate to break free and return to the North.
"What do you want from me? Just kill me!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the cell, but Barron remained standing, unyielding.
"We will not let you escape," Barron said, his tone icy.
"I know your father—and the former Empress Celistine—will come for you. I am certain the North is already planning your rescue. And when they try, we will make it appear as though the North is stealing from the Western Empire."
Grace ground her teeth, her body trembling with rage. She longed to strike Barron immediately, but the chains held her fast.
"I hope you never succeed! May you all suffer the consequences of what you've done!" she spat, frustration and anger boiling through her words, powerless in her current state.
Before Barron could speak further, another voice echoed through the dungeon.
"How is my little puppy doing? Still miserable?"
Maxon stepped forward, a mocking smile playing on his lips. Grace recognized him instantly—the man who had become her enemy in the bar, who had tried to kill Celistine during the War of Renia. His hair, once dark purple, was now white, and his eyes the same blue as Medeya's, his sister. Rage flared in Grace, but she could do nothing.
"If I ever escape this place, you will be the first I kill! I would rather never return to the North than leave you alive, beast!" she screamed, fury in every word.
"What are you doing here, sir?" Barron asked, annoyance clear in his voice. Maxon's sudden appearance irritated him; the two had never been on good terms. Barron could not shake the feeling that Maxon was like a twisted reflection of Medeya—playful on the surface, but cunning underneath.
"I'm just visiting my crush," Maxon said with a laugh, stepping past Barron to approach Grace. He reached for her face, but Barron yanked his hand away forcefully, throwing it aside. Maxon staggered slightly but chuckled.
"Sheesh, man! Why so overprotective?" Maxon said, waving his hand in mock exasperation as he walked out of Grace's cell. Barron said nothing, simply fixing his composure and leaving Grace alone in the cell. Maxon followed, moving down the dungeon corridor.
As they went, Maxon called over his shoulder, "Remember, Barron… she's mine."
Barron stopped, spinning to glare at him. "She is not yours," he said firmly, and continued walking toward his office. Maxon mirrored his steps, heading in the direction of his sister. Meanwhile, Grace sat alone in her cell, tears streaming down her face, aching for her father and the others from the North.
"Please… someone save me!" she cried, her hands clasped together in desperate prayer.