All the members of the Northern Kingdom, including Celistine, had gathered once more. The reason was Anderson, the Warden of Seawatch Port, who came bearing an extraordinary proposal: a warship. He claimed they could construct a vessel far more advanced than any of the Western Empire, for among Anderson's workers was a mysterious man with unparalleled knowledge of shipbuilding. Yet, Seawatch itself could not complete such a warship, for the materials were exorbitantly expensive, affordable only to a wealthy noble or a kingdom. It was under the guidance of Gilbert and Ana that the Seawatch leader first approached Celistine.
"You are well aware that the Northern Kingdom does not settle for mediocrity," Celistine said, her gaze fixed upon Anderson—cold, yet persuasive. She desired nothing less than for Seawatch to become her territory. Anderson, however, resisted. As Warden and leader of Seawatch Port, he had promised his people independence, a quiet life away from war. And yet, the Northern Kingdom possessed no harbour of its own, making Seawatch a prize of great strategic value.
"But Your Majesty," Anderson began, voice tense with concern for his people, "if the three kingdoms—especially the Eastern Kingdom—learn that I am siding with the North, they will strike Seawatch first."
"Do you truly believe Seawatch would be safe if the other kingdoms discovered your offer of an advanced ship?" Carlo interjected, his tone steady, icy, yet honest. "I understand your intention in approaching the North—but had you gone to the Western Empire first, your efforts would have been stolen, and your skill never acknowledged. Whether you trust us is entirely your choice."
Celistine's brother's words resonated sharply. It was far too perilous for Anderson to approach the three kingdoms as the leader of Seawatch, particularly when ambition ran rampant, and certain rulers sought only to expand their territories. His message regarding the Western Empire weighed heavily on Anderson, leaving him uncertain and anxious for the safety of his people.
"What if we were to form a mutual defense agreement, Your Grace?" Anderson ventured carefully. "I promise that our work would serve only you—nothing else."
Anderson's proposal hung in the air. A mutual defence agreement, wherein if one nation were attacked, the other would be obliged to intervene militarily. Celistine, already convinced, folded her fingers beneath her chin, contemplating the offer with a calculated air.
"Very well," she said finally.
"We shall agree. To ensure your safety, we will establish a military defence in Seawatch. Is that acceptable?" King Henry interjected, and Anderson, visibly relieved, nodded.
"But who will be in charge of overseeing the Seawatch warship project?" Lord Herbert asked, eyes locking with Celistine's. She longed to witness firsthand how the Northern fleet would be constructed, though she possessed little knowledge of ships and boats—save for the basics.
"I shall," Carlo anticipated, a quiet confidence in his voice, "for I have once studied ships and their workings."
Thus, the matter was settled. Carlo would dedicate himself to studying and managing the warship promised by Seawatch. He would also oversee the planning and construction of military installations to safeguard Seawatch, should the three kingdoms attack for siding with the North.
This arrangement necessitated a separation from Lady Rehena. She would remain in charge of the Northern Kingdom's agricultural needs, tending to the farmers and supervising the kingdom's agricultural programmed, leaving Carlo to focus entirely on Seawatch and its strategic development.
As the meeting was dismissed, Carlo knew he needed to discuss matters with the Warden of Seawatch Port. With his decision to depart in the next two days, he had to prepare himself for the long journey ahead—Seawatch lay far within the Northern Kingdom, a four-days travel at least. Such a journey demanded a little sacrifice.
Meanwhile, Celistine and King Henry remained in the meeting hall, deliberating on what could be done in the North to ensure the welfare of all. They also discussed the plan to separate the Northern Kingdom from the three other kingdoms, aiming to free it from Harold's control. After all, the North had already established its territory and strengthened its military.
During their conversation, Jacon, Carlo's best friend and a captain in the Northern Kingdom, arrived—accompanied by his elder brother, Jacob.
"Greetings, Your Majesties," both brothers said, bowing respectfully to Celistine and King Henry.
"Speak," commanded King Henry, his voice firm.
"This is my eldest brother, Jacob of the Northern Kingdom. He wishes to speak with you," Jacon said, introducing his elder sibling with a subtle bow.
"For…?" Celistine inquired, curious.
"I am Jacob, former knight under the late veteran commander Criston Hagwayne Hamsworth, Your Majesty. I am here to say something," Jacob explained.
Celistine's brow furrowed in confusion, unsure whom Jacob referred to. Yet, upon seeing her father's reaction, she noticed King Henry's eyes widen in surprise as he suddenly rose to his feet.
"You mean the late Emperor's most trusted war hero?" King Henry asked again, voice heavy with astonishment.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Jacob confirmed. Celistine remained puzzled, recalling only fragments of stories about the late veterans. They had vanished long ago, after Harold took control of the four kingdoms.
"Let me see your commander," King Henry said, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. Why would the great commander of the late veterans wish to speak with the Northern King? The butler allowed Criston to enter.
King Henry's eyes widened further as he approached his longtime friend. Criston and the king had fought countless battles together, and even though Henry now ruled the North, their bond remained unbroken. Celistine observed her father carefully, noting the subtle tension in his posture. King Henry gestured for Criston to sit beside him, while the brothers excused themselves.
"So, Criston, why are you here?" the king asked, leaning slightly forward. Criston took a deep breath; the sadness in his eyes reflected the suffering of his soldiers, long neglected by the Western Empire.
"I am here to seek your help. The late veteran soldiers are starving, Your Majesty. Emperor Harold has abandoned us," Criston said, his voice heavy with sorrow.
Celistine frowned slightly, intrigued. Even though she had heard tales of the late veterans' invincibility under Emperor Philippe, the reality of their plight was troubling. If the Northern Kingdom were to shelter these knights, it would give them an immense advantage—they could rival even the Imperial Knights.
"If the Emperor has abandoned you, why not start anew elsewhere?" Celistine asked gently, her tone measured.
"Your Grace, you are correct," Criston replied, his eyes downcast. "Yet many of my men have no family, born in orphanages. The late Emperor Philippe created the veterans to give these men purpose, a place to belong. We are family, and they have devoted their lives to the war…" His voice trembled slightly as he spoke, sorrow evident in every word.
"The reason I am here is because you are our only hope. The Eastern and Southern Kingdoms refused to aid us; they deem us a burden. And after the late Emperor conquered the colonisers, there seemed no more reason for war," Criston added, his tone laced with sadness and worry for his men.
Celistine considered his words carefully. Criston was right, yet she could not ignore the strained relations between the North and the West—especially with her plan to grant the Northern Kingdom independence, leaving them to manage without the aid of any king or emperor. She only bowed respectfully to her father, who would soon see Carlo ascend to the throne. A small, tight curl formed on her lips.
"We will agree," King Henry finally said. Criston's eyes brightened with hope at the announcement. At last, the North had gained what it desired, able to face the Western Empire without fear.
After Celistine concluded her discussion with Commander Criston, the late veterans were dismissed. The room fell quiet, only for Johannes, Grace's father, to enter, his face alive with urgency yet tinged with fear. His hands trembled slightly, betraying the weight of the news he carried.
"Your Majesties—Celistine and King Henry… my daughter… she is alive," he said, voice shaking. "The messenger said… they held her captive in the dungeon. No one could reach her…"
Celistine's heart thudded painfully in her chest. Relief mingled with a rush of hope—there was finally a chance to rescue Grace. She exhaled slowly, trying to steady her racing thoughts. Johannes's own eyes glistened with tears, and for a brief moment, he seemed a broken man, overwhelmed by both joy and fear.
Meanwhile, Grace remained trapped in the Western Kingdom's dungeon. Her mind was a constant whirl of possibilities. She observed every routine, every entrance of Barron or the guards, noting the precise moments they brought food: breakfast, lunch, dinner. Yet her mind always returned to the night, to the shadows where she might slip away unnoticed. Darkness was her ally, her skill in camouflage allowing her to vanish even in dim light—but the dungeon was a cage, and escape felt almost impossible, the vast distance to freedom mocking her.
Then, as if the universe had decided to test her further, a figure appeared in the shadows. White-haired, pale-skinned, eyes a piercing blue—Maxon. He stood silently, his gaze fixed on her. Grace's chest tightened. Anger flared as she furrowed her brows; the sight of him made her stomach twist with contempt.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice icy, cutting through the dimness.
"I came to see you," Maxon replied, but there was something different in his tone—warmer, softer, threaded with worry. Grace's eyes narrowed in disbelief. His voice… it was no longer the arrogant, cruel edge she remembered. Yet the memory of what he had done to Celistine washed over her, and her anger surged anew.
"For what? Here, in this cell?" Grace spat, her words sharp. "Congratulations—you've already won, along with your… shameless sister." She rolled her eyes and turned away, the tension coiling in her shoulders. She refused to look at him, refused to meet his eyes.
Maxon's hand pressed against the cold iron bars, his knuckles white. His expression was desperate, almost pleading. He wanted her to understand, to see why he had done what he did. Grace's chest rose and fell rapidly, her heart pounding with a mixture of fury and disbelief. She would never forgive him—not now, not ever.
"Please, Grace… believe me!" His voice cracked, urgent, raw with emotion.
Grace's fury boiled over. She strode toward him, every step deliberate, radiating anger, yet even as she moved, part of her trembled with the intensity of the moment.
"Who are you to make me believe you? You're the reason I'm locked up here!" she hissed, her eyes blazing.
"I know!" Maxon admitted, his gaze steady and earnest. "But if you come with me… we can escape. Together. Come to me, Grace. I'll get you out of here."
The weight of his words hung between them. Grace's mind raced—was he truly desperate, or was this some new scheme? She narrowed her eyes, every nerve alert. Still, despite herself, she felt the stirrings of something dangerous and unbidden in her chest.
"Ha! Why are you doing this?" she demanded, incredulity and anger mixing in her voice.
"Because… I love you," Maxon confessed, his voice low but unwavering. The words hit Grace like a stone, leaving her momentarily frozen, breath catching in her throat.
Unseen in the darkness, a shadow moved—Barron. He had rushed to the dungeon upon hearing reports of Maxon's intrusion, but froze, listening. He watched Grace and Maxon silently, irritation curling in his chest as Maxon's confession reached him. He didn't understand the sudden surge of emotion, the unbidden jealousy twisting in his heart. A whisper of feeling tugged at him: "Don't go with him. Stay with me." He pushed it away fiercely—there was no room for such distractions, no space for love where duty loomed—but he could not ignore it entirely. And so, he stayed, silent, observing, heart heavy with a storm he could not yet name.
Grace's eyes blazed with fury, her voice icy and sharp.
"No matter what feelings you have for me, it will never change how much I hate you," she said, her tone cold, unwavering.
"Is it just because of my mistake? I can abandon my sister for you, Grace—I would choose you!" Maxon pleaded, desperation threading through his voice.
Grace laughed bitterly, her lips curling with contempt. "Ha! Abandon your sister? You couldn't even defend yourself when she slapped you in front of me! You didn't stand your ground—you only fussed over some handkerchief of yours."
She stepped closer, pacing the small space inside the cell, letting her anger fill every inch of it. Her eyes bore into his, flames of hurt and resentment visible.
"The only person who ever stood in front of me while I took that slap… was Barron! He is better than you, Maxon!"
Her words struck Maxon like a physical blow. Pain and rage contorted his face, his blue eyes darkening. Grace's voice shook with anger, but she did not relent. The mention of Barron's name cut deeper than any insult could.
The moment the name "Barron" left her lips, hidden in the shadows, Barron's chest tightened violently. His hands curled instinctively at his sides, heart hammering uncontrollably. He had never felt jealousy so sharp, so undeniable. Grace's words hit him like a physical blow, and for the first time, he struggled to restrain himself—not just out of duty, but because his heart, against his will, had betrayed him.
Maxon's expression twisted in fury, misinterpreting Grace's words. His eyes darkened, a cruel smirk creeping across his face.
"So… you choose that bastard over me?" he snarled, voice low and dangerous. Without warning, he unlocked the cell. Grace stumbled backward, falling hard onto the cold stone floor, her heart hammering in terror.
Maxon lunged at her, forcing Grace to the cold stone floor. She struggled beneath him, her body pressed down, heart hammering in fear and anger. Maxon loomed over her, his intent clear in the harsh set of his jaw and the way his hands gripped her shoulders, pinning her in place. His gaze was dark and coercive, and Grace's stomach churned with a mix of terror and fury.
"I'll make you see… I'll make you choose me," Maxon hissed, his voice low, menacing. Grace's eyes widened, every muscle tensed in defiance, fighting against his control, as he tried to overpower her further, reaching toward her clothing.
Just as Maxon moved closer, Barron burst into the dungeon. He surged forward like a coiled spring, striking Maxon with relentless force. Maxon staggered, caught completely off guard by Barron's ferocity. Barron's eyes blazed with protective rage, his body taut, every movement precise and deadly.
"YOU BASTARD!" Barron roared, his voice echoing through the stone walls, fierce and uncontainable.
Maxon fell back, stunned and furious. Grace scrambled to her feet, trembling, chest heaving, finally safe from his grasp. Barron planted himself firmly between her and Maxon, his gaze sharp and unwavering, a silent warning that no one would dare touch her while he stood there.