A week had passed, and the Duchy of Boulevard seethed with anger. Their pleas to the Emperor had been neglected, their requests ignored.
"What shall we do, my husband?" the Duchess Boulevard asked, panic creeping into her voice, her eyes wide with worry.
"Simple!" the Duke of Boulevard declared, his confidence sharp and unwavering. "We shall strike! The North has no allies, only their men—and that will not suffice. We will win, I promise!" With that, he began preparing his forces, rallying soldiers alongside their only son, who would lead them into battle.
Meanwhile, Celistine had already positioned her troops across the vast, open field near the massive gates of the Duchy of Boulevard. The soldiers stood ready, anticipation taut in the air as they awaited the first sign of attack. Celistine remained in her tent, her posture regal, her gaze unwavering. She wore a long black coat, a decorative red vest, a white blouse with lace cuffs, black trousers, and ornate black high-heeled boots. Beside her, Johannes donned silver plate armor accented in red and black, his sword in hand, a black cape flowing behind him—a sentinel ready for battle at a moment's notice.
Celistine had already received a message from her spy in the Western Empire. With her was Johannes, waiting anxiously for news about his daughter, Grace, whose fate remained uncertain.
"Still no sign of Grace… damn it!" Celistine exclaimed, furious and desperate over the uncertainty surrounding the girl.
"I fear we are no closer to finding her," Celistine admitted, her voice heavy with sorrow. Johannes, sensing her concern, shared in her despair. The unknown fate of his daughter weighed heavily on them both. He placed a comforting hand on Celistine's shoulder, as if drawing strength from her resolve.
"There is no need for apologies, Your Majesty… all we can do is pray that Grace is still alive," Johannes replied, his heart burdened with grief.
"Fear not, Sir Johannes. We will rescue Grace as soon as possible!" Celistine said, the fire of anger and determination burning in her chest. She could feel her resolve harden, determined to save Johannes' daughter at any cost.
Fortunately, the Lord of Renia, Lord Herbet, had arrived with one thousand troops, honoring the pact he had made with Celistine. A council was convened immediately, a wide table at the center where all masters and commanders gathered, plotting strategies for the inevitable clash with the Duchy of Boulevard.
"Your Grace," Lord Herbet began, his voice steady yet cautious,
"Renia has lent its aid, as promised. But beyond this, we cannot provide further assistance without proper exchange. This is our second concession." Beside him stood his trusted knight, Sir Robert, vigilant and alert.
Celistine had anticipated this. All negotiations had their price; it was the law of politics, the rule of alliances.
"Lord Herbet," she said, eyes glinting with cunning, "you have heard of my brother's conquest—the dragon's nest. Its treasures are immense: diamonds, black gems, enough to make any kingdom wealthy beyond measure. Surely you have heard tales?"
Lord Herbet's eyes flickered with interest and doubt. "The black gems… the ones said to enhance mana? Is it true?"
"Indeed," Celistine replied. "And the reward for your assistance shall be generous—tons of diamonds. But the black gems… those shall remain under my control unless an equal exchange is offered."
Her words were calculated, her smile thin and sharp. Renia's lord felt both flattered and unsettled. Celistine paused as she noticed the unsettled expression on Lord Herbet's face and realized that this conversation could lead to the expansion of Northern territory—without shedding a single drop of blood.
"Is there no way your Grace could grant us the black gems?" Lord Herbet asked, curiosity and ambition burning in his voice.
Celistine's smile widened, her mind already plotting. "Then make Renia part of the Northern Kingdom's territory as I desire. In return, not only will I grant diamonds, but the black gems shall be yours under the new order."
Sir Robert bristled, sensing the audacity of the request. "Your Majesty, this is… outrageous!"
Lord Herbet silenced him with a nod. The room held its breath.
"If you wish Renia to join your Northern Kingdom, to command its knights, then my daughter shall marry your brother—next in line for the Northern throne," Herbet said with resolve. Celistine's eyes widened slightly, surprised by his boldness, yet a slow smile curved her lips.
"I never thought you could be so… ambitious," she murmured, her voice low and sharp, eyes glinting with both challenge and calculation. Rising gracefully from her seat, she moved closer, the weight of her presence filling the room. "I, Celistine, eldest daughter of King Henry of the North and head of the Northern Council, accept your terms. Renia shall join the North."
A stunned silence fell over the table, broken only by gasps and whispered murmurs of disbelief. Every eye was on them, measuring, questioning, fearing. Celistine extended her hand with quiet authority. Lord Herbet hesitated for only a heartbeat before grasping it firmly. The tension cracked—then broke. The deal was sealed.
The reason Celistine agreed to Lord Herbet's offer was simple: no one in the world—even among the nobles—would willingly aid her in her time of hardship. What the city of Renia offered fell short compared to the support she might have expected elsewhere.
"So—" Celistine began, but her words were cut short.
"Your Grace! Sir! The Duchy of Boulevard attacks!" a captain called out, panic in his voice.
Johannes and Sir Robert sprang into action, guiding Celistine and Lord Herbet to safety.
"Johannes, release those who wish to surrender and side with us. But the Boulevard family? No mercy. Do not allow a second chance," Celistine commanded, her voice steel and fire.
Johannes bowed deeply. Without hesitation, he led their troops, along with Renia's contingent, to meet the advancing forces. The battle had begun, the clash of wills and armies echoing across the vast fields—a testament to strategy, courage, and the indomitable will of Celistine.
"For the North! Charge!" cried Johanes as his soldiers surged forward once more against the walls of Duke Boulevard's fortress. After a bloody clash, the North prevailed yet again. The entire house of Boulevard was extinguished; none survived. Thus Celistine returned to the Kingdom of the North, bearing their banner and their hard-won triumph.
Celistine's carriage, with Lord Herbert riding in another just behind, passed through the Northern Kingdom's gates.
"ALL HAIL LADY CELISTINE!""JUSTICE HAS PREVAILED!""VICTORY FOR THE NORTH!"
As Celistine entered the gate, crowds of commoners greeted her joyfully, celebrating the victory. She raised her hand in salute to the people, who cheered alongside the Northern armies and cavalry. Upon reaching the Ceremonial Plaza, Celistine stepped down from her carriage, while Johanes dismounted from his horse. There, they beheld King Henry, with Cilist standing at his side. The young princess wore an off-shoulder gown of pale yellow trimmed with gold lace, with long white gloves. The king himself bore a golden crown, a red-and-gold cape, a black tunic, and a heavy chain of red-gemmed gold upon his breast.
Both Celistine and Johanes bent their knees before him, before the gathered people of the North, who roared with triumph.
"I, Henry, King of the North," the monarch proclaimed, "bestow my favour upon my eldest daughter. By her wisdom and her courage she has defeated the Duke of Boulevard."
The people shouted again in jubilation.
"And to my long-trusted companion, Johanes David Drusu," the king continued,
"since you aided us in conquering the Duchy of Boulevard, I grant you the title of Duke of Boulevard. From this day you shall be Johanes David Drusu, Duke of Boulevard, under the sovereign grant of the North."
Johanes' eyes widened in astonishment. He had not expected such an honour. Though joy filled him, sorrow lingered in his heart—for despite this title, he could not act freely without proof of his daughter Grace's true fate. Yet he rose from his knee with the others, and the celebration began anew.
Then came a cry:
"BEHOLD! Carlo Sebastian Norenian has slain the mighty beast!"
Jacon's voice rang over the crowd as Carlo entered upon a white steed, parading the severed head of a snow dragon. His men carried sacks filled with black gems and diamonds. Beside him rode Lady Rehena. The crowd erupted once more, hailing the twin children of King Henry.
"Indeed, Your Majesty, you have sired victorious heirs," Johanes said. The king nodded, beaming at his son's triumph. Celistine too thought within herself that the North was destined to rise from the ashes, for Carlo had not failed them.
Carlo dismounted and knelt before his father, while Celistine stood proudly beside the king.
"Your Majesty," Carlo said, bowing low, eyes closed in reverence, "I bring you the head of the beast."
"I, Henry, King of the North, hereby bestow the blessing of victory upon my son, Carlo. From this day I proclaim Carlo Sebastian Norenian my heir, the one who shall ascend the throne after me."
The people screamed the names of Carlo and Celistine together, for the North now claimed victory twice over.
"I shall grant a Triumphal Banquet tonight within the Ceremonial Hall," the king declared, and the rejoicing grew louder still.
Later, as Cilist assisted her father into the royal carriage bound for the main palace, King Henry's gaze fell upon his youngest daughter, Cilist. She sat silent, unmoved by her siblings' glory, staring out of the window at the cheering crowds.
"Cilist," the king asked softly, "how fare you this day?"
"Nothing, Father. I was only studying a magic relic," she replied, still gazing outward.
"Are you not pleased with your sister and brother's victory?" The king's heart trembled, fearing her coldness.
"I am happy for them, Father," she said suddenly, turning with a faint smile. "At least it is they who suffer the burden, and not I."
At her words King Henry's eyes widened slightly, yet a spark of pride warmed him. She is truly my daughter, he thought. And so the carriage rolled on toward the main palace, the night filled with cheers of victory.
While the North drowned itself in triumph and feasting, Barron sat in the Western Empire, seething in silence. Not a single whisper from the North had reached his ears. Celistine had seen through the shadowed eyes that prowled her lands, and with ruthless precision she had them dragged into the open and executed, one by one. She had tightened her hold, weaving a wall of steel about her kingdom, and thus no breath, no slip, no murmur of the North's rising strength dared seep into the West.
"Sir, another letter from the late veterans," his aide murmured.
Barron frowned, irritation cutting across his sharp features. Again. Another plea from soldiers once sworn to the dead Emperor.
"Burn it," Barron said coldly, though a shadow passed his eyes. "The current Emperor has no wish to waste his pity on them."
If the choice were his, Barron would have gathered them. Loyal, disciplined, battle-hardened—the veterans were power left to waste. The North was fragile beside the Western legions, yet with those men under his command, the balance might turn. But Emperor Harold's pride weighed heavier than reason, leaving Barron no path but obedience
Frustration pressed on him, driving his steps once more to Grace's cell. He could not name the reason—whether it was curiosity, or a greedy urge to strip her of the secrets she carried of the North. Two months had passed, and still no rescue came. 'Have they forsaken her?' Barron thought darkly as he entered the cold chamber.
There she was: hands shackled above her head, body frail, still kneeling on the damp stone.
"Grace," Barron called. His voice carried an edge, though beneath it there was something quieter, unspoken.
No answer.
His jaw tightened.
"Hey—you filthy woman!" He grabbed her chin, forcing her face up to him. But his arrogance faltered when he saw her closed eyes, her lips pale. She was not feigning. She was burning with fever.
'Grace! Wake up! I know your tricks!' Barron shook her gently at first, then harder, a sharp edge of panic creeping into his chest. Still she did not stir. Her skin burned against his touch—far hotter than any fever he had known. Shock broke through his composure. He spun toward the guards.
"Unlock her, now!" he barked at the guards. Keys rattled, chains fell, and Barron lowered her to the floor himself.
"Call the physician at once!" he ordered.
As the guards ran, Barron knelt, cradling Grace in his arms. He could feel his own heartbeat thundering, his breath quickening—not from duty, but from fear. Fear for her. 'Why am I worried for this woman?' he asked himself, unsettled by how naturally his arms held her, how unwilling he was to let go.
Suddenly, Grace's trembling hand clutched his arm. Her voice broke through, ragged, frightened:
"Dad… Mom… don't leave me… hic… please…"
Her body convulsed in his grip. Barron froze, stunned by the unfamiliar terror rising in his chest. Grace's seizure wracked her frame, her tears dampening his sleeve.
"Father! Save me! I'm afraid—Father!" she sobbed, clinging to him with desperate strength.
Barron's heart clenched, an ache he did not understand. Without thinking, he drew her into his arms, pressing her head against his chest, his hand smoothing over her damp, tangled hair.
"Shhh… I'm here. You're safe," he whispered, the words sounding foreign on his own tongue—gentle promises from a man who had never spoken them before. "Don't cry."
His thumb traced the line of her cheek, wiping away her tears, yet his touch lingered longer than it should have. Her trembling softened; the storm in her breaths eased against him.
"…Barron." The sound slipped from her lips, faint as a sigh, but it struck him like a blade. Her eyes stayed shut, yet she called to him, and something within him faltered.
He froze, stunned, then—before he could stop himself—his mouth curved into the smallest of smiles.
"You fight with fire," he murmured, voice low and unsteady, "but I never imagined you could be so… fragile."
He held her tighter, as though the weight of her frailty bound him more than chains ever could. Even when reason screamed to let go, his arms refused. When the physician finally arrived, Barron did not release her—he only shifted, keeping her close, unwilling to surrender her warmth just yet.