Grace stirred and slowly opened her eyes, finding herself laid upon something soft. As her vision cleared, she realised with a start that it was Barron who held her close. Shock coursed through her, and she quickly pulled herself away. Barron, noticing her sudden retreat, rose at once and pressed a hand to his forehead, as though to steady his thoughts.
Grace sat dumbfounded on the floor, wide-eyed and shaken. She could not understand why she had awoken in Barron's arms, why his embrace had been her refuge. Her mind raced, unsettled by the mystery of what had passed through the night.
"What… what happened to me?" she stammered breathlessly, her voice trembling as she pressed her back against the cold stone wall to keep distance between them.
"You were unconscious," Barron answered, his tone controlled though his hand ran uneasily through his silver hair. "Your body was weakened by a high fever. By Heaven's mercy, the physician said you will recover."
Mercy? Glad? Grace's thoughts spun at his words. Could it be true? Or was this another deceit from Barron's silver tongue? She clasped her trembling hands together to steady herself, unwilling to trust too quickly.
"Then why—why were you holding me?" she pressed on, her brows drawn tight, her voice breaking with confusion. "Why was I laid beside you, as though… as though I belonged there?"
Barron straightened, his dark gaze shadowed with something unspoken. He turned towards the barred door of her chamber, his expression unreadable.
"It was you who clung to me, as though you feared I would vanish if I moved," he said quietly. "I thought you were in the grip of a fit, for your fever was high and your body trembled as though in torment. Rest now. I shall bring you food."
With that, he departed, leaving Grace stricken with disbelief. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, her heart pounding wildly, the warmth of his embrace still lingering. Yet she fought with all her will to cast aside such feelings, to cage them lest they betray her. Why does my spirit find comfort in him? she thought bitterly, for it frightened her more than her illness.
Meanwhile, Barron returned to his chambers. In the great stone bath, steam rising about him, he leaned back with his gaze fixed upon the ceiling. The memory of the night came unbidden: Grace's pale face, her fragile breath against his chest as she slept, her slender fingers clutching his hand as though never to let go. His heart, long kept cold, had stirred at that sight.
For two months he had come to her prison, compelled by duty and command. He had watched in silence as Harold's guards struck her at the king's order, demanding confession. And yet every lash she bore carved a wound deep within him. He loathed the sight of her suffering, though he dared not show it. Why did her pain trouble him so? Why did her presence bring light to a soul long burdened with shadows?
When his bath was done, Barron dressed anew: a white blouse with long sleeves, layered with a sleeveless vest of dark blue velvet, its silver embroidery glinting faintly in the candlelight. A narrow belt drew in his waist, and dark trousers completed his attire. Composed once more, he left his chamber and strode towards the kitchens of the empire, to bring food for the captive maiden who haunted his every thought.
Barron's steps echoed faintly along the stone passageways as he departed the chamber, his cloak trailing behind him. He strode with steady pace toward the empire's kitchen, yet within his chest, his heart betrayed him with a heaviness he could not master. The thought of Grace lying frail upon the floor haunted his mind; her wide eyes, filled with both fear and wonder, had struck him deeper than any blade.
In her cell, Grace remained seated upon the cold ground, her slender fingers twisting nervously in her lap. Though her body trembled from the remnants of fever, it was not the sickness alone that unsettled her. Nay—it was the memory of Barron's arms, the warmth she had felt against his chest. She pressed a hand to her lips as though to silence the unspoken truth: Why dost my soul seek safety in the man who hath brought me naught but chains?
Her breath caught, sharp and uneven, as she fought to banish the treacherous thought. She rose unsteadily, pressing her palm against the wall for support. The chains about her ankles rattled softly, a cruel reminder of her captivity.
Moments later, the heavy door groaned open, and Barron returned. He bore a silver tray, upon which lay a bowl of warm broth and bread still steaming from the ovens. His garments were freshly donned, his hair damp from the bath, and for a fleeting instant Grace's gaze lingered upon him—too long, she feared.
"Eat, that thy strength may return," Barron said, setting the tray upon the small wooden table near the bars. His voice was low, guarded, yet there was a gentleness that betrayed his hardened mask.
Grace narrowed her eyes, her pride warring with the hunger in her belly. She hesitated, then whispered, "Why show such care? Is this another ploy? Another chain unseen?"
Barron's jaw tightened, his hand pausing upon the edge of the tray. For a long moment, he gave no answer, his dark eyes searching hers with a storm of emotions unspoken. Then, in a voice scarcely above a murmur, he replied, "Not all chains are forged of iron… some bind the heart."
The words left Grace silent, her breath caught in her throat. She lowered her gaze quickly, unwilling to let him see how her spirit wavered. She took the bread with trembling hands, yet her mind could scarce focus on the meal—for Barron's words lingered, heavier than the iron shackles at her feet.
Barron sat in silence, his eyes fixed upon Grace as she ate, when suddenly Medeya entered the cell with her guards and her brother, Maxon. Barron stiffened in shock. 'Why was the emperor's mistress here?' Only he and the emperor had the right to interrogate Grace within this private mansion.
Medeya swept in wearing an extravagant gown of red and white, embroidered with gold embellishments. The fabric flowed in long sleeves and a full skirt, far too lavish for a visit to a dungeon cell. By her side, Maxon stood in a brown coat, a teal vest, a crisp white cravat, light trousers, and tall boots.
Medeya's eyes instantly fell on Grace, her expression twisting with hideous disgust.
"Oh? Barron, I never knew you were fond of guarding a pig—so filthy and stinking," she sneered, her voice dripping with malice as she stared at Grace.
Grace ignored her, looking away as though she had not heard. Barron, however, pushed himself abruptly from his chair, facing Medeya with a glare so sharp it almost engulfed her in the shadow of his broad chest.
"Your Majesty," Barron said firmly, irritation lacing his tone, "what brings you here? A beauty such as yourself should not linger in such a place. The emperor may not be pleased."
Annoyed by his words, Medeya shoved him aside. In her wrath, she stormed to Grace, seizing the girl's hair and yanking it viciously.
"Aaackh!" Grace cried out in pain.
"Tell me!" Medeya roared, her face twisted with fury. "Who are Celistine's allies? What schemes is that bitch plotting, hmm?" She wrenched Grace's hair harder, her grip merciless.
Maxon's brow furrowed. Unthinkingly, his body moved, and he caught hold of Medeya's shoulder. He could not explain why, but his instinct drove him to stop her.
"Sister, enough. This is too much."
Pak!
Barron's eyes widened as Medeya struck her very own brother. Barron had always believed they were close—inseparable even. Medeya often pleaded with the emperor on Maxon's behalf, yet here she was, delivering a stinging blow that split Maxon's lip. Grace, stunned, could only stare.
"You've no right to stop me!" Medeya shouted, and Maxon staggered back, fear overcoming his will to intervene. Ever since childhood, he had followed her lead. Every decision of his life had bent beneath her shadow.
Still clutching Grace's hair, Medeya sneered. "Not a single word? Pathetic."
But Grace's glare burned with defiance. "No! Even if I die in your filthy hands, I will never betray my master, the former empress of the Four Kingdoms—Celistine Wezelia Norenian."
Medeya's face twisted with fury. She yanked harder on Grace's hair, dragging her closer. Barron watched, anger rising hot in his chest, though his body remained rooted to the spot, torn between action and restraint.
"Listen, you wretch!" Medeya hissed, her grin almost unhinged. "Betray Celistine and be my puppet, or I shall end your life." Her eyes gleamed with a twisted glee, eager to see Celistine suffer should her companion fall into disgrace.
Grace smirked despite her pain. "A puppet? Ha! Who are you? You are nothing compared to Her Majesty Celistine."
Medeya's eyes flared with rage. "What did just you say?"
"You are nothing but the emperor's bedfellow," Grace spat. "No wonder he delays your ascension to empress."
Pak!
Medeya's hand cracked across Grace's face. Then again.
"How!"
Pak!
"Dare!"
Pak!
"You!"
She raised her hand for yet another strike, but it froze in mid-air. Barron's strong hand had seized her wrist, his grip iron. His veins strained at his neck and temple, fury trembling through his frame. His cold eyes burned, unblinking, into Medeya's.
"What now, Barron? Do you care for this girl?" Medeya demanded, wrenching her hand free with a stomp of her heel.
Maxon hurried to Grace, helping her to sit upon the ground. Her face was swollen, her lips bloodied. His heart twisted at the sight. As he tried to dab the blood from her lips with a handkerchief, Grace turned away in disgust, refusing his aid. Rejected, Maxon left the cloth upon her dress, silently offering it before rising to his feet.
"Your Majesty," Barron said coldly, his voice low with restrained anger, "you have gone too far."
"Too far?" Medeya scoffed. "It is not wrong to punish this wretch—unless…" She leaned close, her smile crooked and menacing. "Do you hold affection for her?"
Her words pierced the air. Barron's face remained unreadable, though his glare never softened. Grace and Maxon froze, their eyes widening, too stunned to speak. Maxon's heart, however, clenched uneasily, desperate to know Barron's answer.
"I have no time for such trifles," Barron replied coldly. "My only concern is you, Your Majesty. Do not sully your hands on something so unworthy. If you wish to please the emperor, I suggest you obey his will instead."
Medeya rolled her eyes in irritation, then swept from the cell with her guards. Only Maxon and Barron remained.
Barron immediately ordered the guards to fetch a small wooden bed, warm water, and towels. He unlocked Grace's chains and lifted her gently, laying her upon the bed the guards had prepared. Grace's vision blurred from the blows, her head pounding as she struggled to see who carried her.
Maxon frowned deeply, frustration in his chest, yet he remained powerless. He wanted to help, but something within him faltered. 'Why did he care so much? Did he… already harbour feelings for Grace, though he dared not admit it?'
Unable to bear it, Maxon left the cell.
Barron knelt before Grace as she sat weakly on the wooden bed. He dipped a towel into the warm water and, with careful strokes, began to clean the blood and bruises from her face.
"Ouch!" Grace winced when he touched the tenderest part.
"Hold still," Barron murmured, setting the towel aside and applying ointment with surprising gentleness.
Grace's thoughts swirled. 'Why was he being so kind?' He had claimed before that he had no time for such feelings, yet the tenderness in his eyes told another story. The cold steel of his gaze softened only when it rested on her.
Her heart thudded, her cheeks warming, though she fought to deny it. She could not allow herself to fall—Barron was her master's enemy.
When he reached for more ointment, she stopped him, taking the jar from his hand. "I will do it myself. There is no need to go further."
He hesitated, stunned, before standing silently. Without another word, he left the cell.
The guards locked the door once more. Before Barron departed, he instructed them sharply: "if Medeya dared return, they were to report to him at once."
As he turned away, Grace's faint voice broke the silence. "Thank you, Barron."
He did not look back, striding out of the dungeon. Yet his heart pounded, her words echoing within him. Medeya's taunt—Do you hold affection for her?—repeated endlessly in his mind.
He did not know what he truly felt, only that he could not afford to fall. Grace was his master's enemy. He must not… he could not… feel for her.
And so, with a storm in his chest, Barron walked on towards his office, drowning himself in duty.