Barron's fury erupted like a storm. With a clenched fist, he struck Maxon's face with unrelenting force, each blow landing hard against the bruised skin that was already marked from his earlier strikes. Maxon's features were a cruel map of pain and blood.
Grace trembled, her heart thudding wildly in her chest, but she forced herself to act. She threw her arms around Barron's back, clinging tightly as though her life depended on it, and tugged him away from Maxon with all her strength.
"Barron, enough!" she cried, turning him toward her and pressing both palms against his face, her fingers trembling.
"Are you hurt?" Barron asked, his eyes searching hers with deep concern, his voice tight with worry. But before she could answer, the cell erupted into chaos. Guards swarmed in, scattering about, startled and unprepared for what none had expected—the Emperor of the Four Kingdoms himself stepping into Grace's cell.
"What on earth is happening here?" Harold's voice thundered as he surveyed the scene. His gaze fell upon Maxon, sprawled unconscious, his face a mask of blood and bruises. Without hesitation, he barked, "Take him to the infirmary!" Barron felt a twinge of unease; he knew Harold had already begun piecing together the truth.
"Barron, did you do this?" Harold demanded, his eyes flaring with anger. Both Grace and Barron felt the weight of the Emperor's fury pressing down on them. Maxon was no ordinary man—he was one of Harold's most cherished companions, beloved because he was the brother of the mistress Harold held dear. Harold could not bear the thought of Medeya weeping over any harm that befell her kin. What he did not know, however, was that Medeya cared little for Maxon, seeing him merely as a pawn in her schemes.
Barron opened his mouth to respond, but Grace intervened without hesitation.
"It was me! I was the one who struck Maxon out of anger!" she declared, stepping boldly before the Emperor, shielding Barron with her trembling frame.
Barron froze, stunned into silence. He had struck Maxon to protect her, yet here she was claiming responsibility. His chest ached, knowing Harold's wrath would only grow if he learned the truth—that Barron had acted to protect Grace.
Harold's brows knitted tightly as he issued his command. "Force her to her knees," he ordered. "Whip her until her blood flows, until she speaks of her master's plans!"
The first lash cut across Grace's back. She screamed, a sharp cry of pain echoing through the cell.
"Ahhh!" she shrieked, writhing under the blow.
"How bold you are," Harold spat, "to strike the brother of my mistress."
Barron stood rigidly beside him, heart torn. Every scream that tore from Grace's lips stabbed at him like a dagger. He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, torn between helping her and obeying the Emperor. He knew that Harold already suspected the truth: it was Barron, not Grace, who had struck Maxon. The punishment was not for Grace to reveal secrets—it was a warning to Barron, to keep him away from her. His heart ached seeing the woman he cared for suffer in his stead, and he finally realized the depth of his feelings for her. His pain was doubled, knowing Grace had chosen to protect him instead.
"I do not know my master's plans! I do not know who aids him!" Grace gasped, the lie heavy on her lips. By the tenth lash, her body faltered, blood staining her gown. She trembled from weakness and pain. Barron's shout startled Harold slightly.
"Your Majesty!" Barron cried, striding forward to kneel before the Emperor. Grace shook her head weakly, signaling him not to, her body trembling with exhaustion. She had already prepared herself to die, every fibre of her being drained.
"It was I who struck Maxon," Barron said, voice firm despite the ache in his chest. "He tried to assault Grace. Please, spare her."
Harold smirked, exactly as he had anticipated.
"Ha? Do you care for her, Barron?" His gaze burned into Barron, fury and disbelief warring in his eyes.
Grace knelt in her blood, shocked at Barron's confession. His eyes met Harold's with unwavering determination.
"Yes, Your Majesty! I care for her," Barron said.
Harold's eyes widened with anger and disbelief. He had long suspected Barron's feelings. The young man's absences and visits to Grace's cell now made sense. The truth stung Harold like a blow: his most trusted companion since childhood had fallen for a woman from the enemy's side.
Grace's heart pounded violently in her chest, bloodied and battered as she listened. She had never expected him to answer so boldly. Even before her imprisonment, Barron had been kind to her, though Barron had always been cold—yet now, she saw the depth of his feelings, and her heart leapt painfully.
"Are you willing to defy me, Barron?" Harold asked, his tone sharp and chilling.
"All I can do is ask… punish me," Barron said, bowing his head to the ground.
"Guards! Give him twenty lashes!" Harold commanded.
"Nooo!" Grace cried, trying to intervene, but Harold's guards blocked her.
The whip fell, striking Barron again and again.
"Ahhh!" he shouted, his body convulsing with each blow. Blood spattered across the floor. Grace could only watch, horrified and unable to touch him, her hands trembling.
"Your reckless heart will be your ruin, Barron. Remember this!" Harold spat, his eyes blazing as he watched his once-beloved companion writhe in agony for the sake of a woman.
When the twentieth lash finally fell, Harold turned away. Barron lay crumpled, his back a torn, bleeding ruin.
Grace rushed to him, tears streaming freely. She dared not touch his mangled back, so raw and bloodied.
"You didn't have to do this for me, Barron… sob, sob," she whispered, her voice shaking.
Barron reached for her trembling hands, gripping them tightly despite his pain. His voice was ragged but resolute.
"For you, Grace… for no one else," he whispered, holding her arms with a quiet intensity, "all that I am is yours."
In that fleeting moment, two guards entered the cell again and lifted Barron's shattered body, carrying him toward the infirmary. Grace remained on her knees, weeping as her heart ached for him, her tears mingling with the blood-stained floor.
In Barron's bedchamber, after the physicians had tended to Barron's battered back, he finally lay down in his own room, face pressed into the bed. He could not bear to lean against the agony of his wounds, so he rested as best he could. For Barron, there was no regret in what he had done—he was willing to defy the Emperor himself to protect the girl he had come to love. The Western Empire had already begun to crumble in his absence; ever since Celistine, the true Empress of the Four Kingdoms, had vanished, even Harold no longer adhered strictly to palace duties. Only Medeya held sway, and the commoners of the Third Border were left to starve, for Medeya ignored the people, abandoning the role of distributing food donations which Celistine had once dutifully overseen.
As Barron rested, Medeya hurried to Maxon's side, having heard of his fate. She rushed into the room, her gaze sharp with curiosity and rising panic. There lay her poor brother, his face a cruel map of bruises, while doctors and attendants worked tirelessly to tend his injuries. Harold lingered nearby, concern etched on his face.
"What happened? Who did this to him, my love?" Medeya demanded, her voice sharp, as she gripped Harold's arms in disbelief.
Harold drew a long, steadying breath before speaking. "Barron did this…"
"Why? How could he?" Medeya's anger flared. She could scarcely comprehend that Barron had struck Maxon so violently. Medeya's fury stemmed not from concern over Maxon's wellbeing—though she often treated him harshly or ignored him entirely—but because, in some stubborn way, he was still her brother. And yet, what puzzled her most was the reason: why would Barron strike him so suddenly, without warning, and for what cause?
"Maxon had gone to speak with the prisoner named Grace," Harold explained, recounting what the guards had observed. "They were conversing, yet Maxon—without cause—attempted to assault her."
Medeya's temper ignited further. "So what? Grace deserved to be assaulted because she was a whore before, right? Ahhh! Harold, that wretched siren is like Celistine—they are manipulating both Barron and my brother!" Her voice dripped with fury and disbelief. She could not, would not, accept what had been done to Maxon.
"If truly that wretch knows nothing, then what are you waiting for, my love? Kill her now!"
Gasps rippled through the room. Even Harold himself, and the maids attending Maxon, were taken aback. None had expected Medeya's true nature—her ruthlessness—to emerge so openly. Harold paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully, processing the words of the woman he loved so dearly.
"Are you serious, my love?" Harold asked, a trace of disbelief in his voice.
"Do I look as if I am joking?" Medeya shot back, her eyes fierce. "If Grace remains alive, if we do not kill her, she will manipulate either my brother—who seems obsessed with her—or Barron will betray you because of her!" Her warning carried a cold, sharp edge: if Grace lived, disaster would follow. Harold considered her words carefully, recognizing the truth in them. Without Grace's interference, neither Maxon's attack nor Barron's intervention would have occurred. He drew a slow, deep breath.
"Very well," Harold said at last, his tone cold and resolute. "We will execute Grace."
Outside Maxon's room, Barron listened at the door, every word of Medeya and Harold's conversation reaching him. He heard the cruel plan laid bare: Harold intended to have Grace executed. The blood drained from Barron's face; his mind raced as he remained silent, hidden. Each word only steeled his resolve. Already, he began planning—plotting how he could rescue her, how he could keep her safe from the cruelty that awaited. The coldness in his eyes matched the icy determination in his heart as he prepared for the impossible task ahead: saving Grace from the Emperor's hand.