In the Northern Kingdom, in a bright Sky, Celistine stood tall before two thousand of the Late Veterans—the seasoned knights who had once served the late Emperor Philippe—assembled at the northern barracks. The morning sun glinted off their polished armor, casting shards of light that danced across the courtyard. Many of the northern soldiers watched curiously, whispers spreading like wildfire: ~'Why are the Western elite soldiers here, in Northern territory?'~
Celistine, ever composed, felt the weight of their gaze but remained serene. She knew the Northern Kingdom had chosen to sponsor the Late Veterans, and she herself would not allow their valor to be wasted. In her eyes, no soldier could rival the skill and cunning of these veterans—especially in the art of war, where their mastery of Black Gems was unmatched.
All the Late Veterans, including Sir Criston, sank to their knees in solemn respect before her. Celistine, adorned in a long emerald-green gown, its golden embroidery curling like vines along the fabric, stood radiant. Her golden-yellow hair was swept into an elegant, braided crown that encircled the top of her head, while soft waves cascaded down her back, catching the sunlight like threads of liquid gold. The gown's sweetheart neckline and long-slit sleeves framed her graceful form, while a golden belt cinched her waist, reflecting the honor she bestowed. The veterans' armor gleamed, representing the proud legacy of their service and the loyalty they were about to pledge anew.
"Your Majesty," Commander Criston intoned, kneeling before her with unwavering resolve. In his heart, Sir Criston had already made his decision: to serve Celistine and the Northern Kingdom with every ounce of his being.
Celistine lifted an ancestral sword, its polished steel catching the light—a blade reserved for ceremonies, blessings, and the anointing of those who vowed service to the realm. With measured steps, she approached Sir Criston and rested the sword gently upon his right shoulder.
"I, Celistine Wezelia Norenian, Chancellor of the Northern Kingdom and eldest daughter of King Henry of the North, ask you: Do you pledge your full loyalty to me and to the King of the North? Swear your oath that you and your armies will dedicate your souls, your strength, and your loyalty—not only to me, but to the people and the throne of the Northern Kingdom," she proclaimed, her voice echoing with authority and solemnity.
"I, Criston Zubaire Sicole, Commander of the Late Veterans and once loyal soldier of the late Emperor Philippe, swear my oath," Criston replied, his voice firm and unwavering. "I dedicate my soul, my honor, and my armies to serve, protect, and defend the people and the King of the North. All that I command is yours, Your Majesty."
Celistine nodded, then drew the sword across Criston's left shoulder, a blessing and a seal of loyalty. Rising from his knees, Criston met her gaze with a mixture of pride and reverence. One by one, his soldiers followed suit, kneeling, swearing their oaths, and rising as true soldiers of Celistine.
Her eyes swept across the faces of the veterans—once treasured by Philippe, now neglected under Emperor Harold's rule. Her chest tightened with sorrow at the sight of men who had been betrayed and left to suffer. Stepping forward, her voice rang out, carrying across the courtyard:
"To all soldiers of the Late Veterans! I know you have been neglected, abandoned by your former master. My heart aches to see your suffering, and I swear, by my life as the eldest daughter of the King of the North, I will care for you! I will give you the life you deserve, but only if you pledge your loyalty to me!"
The soldiers stirred, hope flickering in their eyes. Some could hardly contain their relief and joy—their commander had chosen the right master, one who would honor them and guide them to the very end.
"You shall feel no betrayal! You shall know no hunger! I will help you sharpen your skills and fortify your strength! Advanced swords embedded with Black Gems will be yours, weapons of honor, not tools of abuse! The reign of the Northern Kingdom has begun!"
"ALL HAIL HER MAJESTY CELISTINE!"
"AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"
The cry of the veterans erupted like a wave, a thunderous salute to their new sovereign. Inspiration and loyalty burned in their hearts, filling Celistine with triumph. Fear of the Western Empire melted away; she had secured twelve thousand knights, the Late Veterans included, and her legacy in the North was assured.
After Celistine had dismissed the veteran knights, her father's trusted companion — now the Duke of Boulevard — came forward. His face was drawn tight, his steps restless, as though the weight of the world pressed upon his shoulders. He wrung his hands together, unable to keep still, and his eyes darted about the hall before fixing on Celistine.
"Urgent news, Your Majesty!" Johanes's voice cracked with urgency.
Celistine's eyes widened. She led him swiftly inside the grand hall of the northern military barracks, where the commanders and captains had gathered in tense silence. A great map stretched across the table in the centre, sunlight spilling through the tall windows, casting long beams across the parchment. Every man stood rigid, their armour gleaming beneath the morning light, their gazes drawn to the Duke who seemed on the verge of breaking.
"What is it, Lord Johanes?" Celistine asked softly, forcing herself to appear calm. Beneath her poise, her heart trembled — not only as a queen but as Grace's dearest friend.
Johanes's lips quivered. He pressed a shaking hand to his brow as though steadying himself. When he spoke, his voice wavered between rage and despair.
"The message says… they will execute my daughter next week, on the very day that the Emperor's harlot will be crowned Empress."
The room froze. Celistine's chest tightened; the very mention of Grace's name struck her like a blade, and her heart throbbed with pain. Johanes's breathing grew ragged, uneven, and tears brimmed in his weary eyes. His hands gripped the edge of the table so fiercely that his knuckles blanched white, as though he clung to it to keep himself from collapsing entirely.
In that moment, Celistine's thoughts burned with bitterness. Harold — desperate, insatiable, clawing at every shred of power to secure his throne. And beside him, Medeya, eager and unashamed, hungering for the crown of an empress that was never hers by right.
"What shall we do, Your Majesty?" Johanes's voice broke as he turned to Celistine. His eyes pleaded with her — not as a duke before his queen, but as a father begging for the life of his child. "Tell me, I beg you… what must we do?"
He began to pace, pulling at his hair, his heavy boots echoing across the stone floor. His whole frame shook with frustration, and his words tumbled out in raw desperation. "We must strike them at once! We have knights enough, we can overwhelm them, we take take her back before it is too late!"
Celistine's lips parted, but she held her tongue. Her gaze dropped to the map, her fingers pressing against its surface as if searching for an answer within its lines. She drew in a long, steadying breath. She knew the truth — Johanes's love was clouding his judgement. An unplanned attack would only serve Emperor Harold's game.
"Take it easy, sir," Jacon, one of the captains, interjected, stepping forward. "Her Majesty will find a way. We must trust her."
But Johanes could not stand still. He clutched his chest as though the very mention of Grace's doom stole the air from his lungs. He paced again, his boots restless against the flagstones, his face twisted with grief.
Celestine finally spoke, her voice calm but edged with steel. "If we rush blindly into the Emperor's mansion, Lord Johanes, none of your men will return alive. You yourself will be cut down. And worse, the north will be accused of sending assassins against Harold. A rebellion… an uproar across every nation. Do you not see? That is exactly what he wants."
Johanes stopped, his shoulders sagging, his eyes brimming with anguish. "Then what choice have I?" His voice cracked, breaking into a whisper. "She is my daughter… my Grace… If I lose her, I lose the very breath in my chest." He pressed his palms together as though in prayer, bowing his head before Celistine.
"Perhaps," Jacon said carefully, glancing between them, "they keep her alive to bait us. To wait for the north to attempt a rescue. Is that not so, Your Majesty?"
Celistine's gaze darkened. She pressed her hand against her chin, her fingers curling tightly, and gave a single grave nod.
Suddenly, Sir Criston's voice rang clear across the hall. "I know of a passage."
Every head turned sharply to him. Johanes strode forward at once, grasping Criston by the arm, desperation in his grip. "What passage? Speak, man, speak!"
Criston held his ground. "A passage built by the late Emperor Philippe, leading to his private chambers. A secret escape, hidden from all — even from his son, Harold. It was designed for flight in desperate times."
Hope flickered across Johanes's face for the first time. His eyes widened, his lips parted, and his body seemed to tremble with the fragile light of possibility. "A way… A way to reach her…"
Celistine stepped closer, her voice urgent. "Then why not go now? Why not free her before the coronation?" Her heart beat fast, her longing to save Grace almost breaking her restraint.
Criston sighed, heavy with caution. "If we act too soon, Harold will tighten his guard. They already suspect the north will attempt something. He will use her life to draw us into ruin. He knows by now that we have heard of her execution."
Celistine's jaw tightened. "Then what is the plan?" she demanded.
Criston's gaze swept the commanders before fixing firmly on Celistine. "We save her on the day of the coronation. When the palace divides its guard — half for the Empress, half for the knights' celebrations — there will be fewer eyes upon Grace's cell. The Emperor will pour his strength into shielding his new Empress. And I know where her chamber lies."
A murmur rippled through the hall. For the first time, the suffocating weight of despair lifted slightly.
Johanes's eyes glistened, and he pressed his trembling hands together before his face, as if holding onto a prayer answered. "My Grace… my child… There may yet be hope." His voice shook, but it was filled with longing so raw that the hall itself seemed to hold its breath.
Celestine looked around the table, her own heart resolute. Her chest rose and fell with determination. "Sir Criston, then let us waste no time. Draw up the plan. We will save Grace — whatever it takes."
The words fell like a vow, burning with resolve. And in that moment, every man in the hall knew: lives would be risked, blood would be spilled, but Celistine would not abandon her friend — nor would Johanes cease fighting for his daughter.
*******
A vast, deserted plain lay silent and sun-bleached — peaceful in its emptiness, yet it belonged to a continent far from the foreign lands known as the Four Kingdoms. There, beyond any map the foreigners kept, lived another people: the desert-tan Blackthreads. Their homeland stretched like a breathing ocean of sand.
Beside the Pharaoh stood a man with raven hair, sun-kissed skin and golden eyes shaped like a lion's. He watched the shifting horizon with a taut, silent intensity — the sort of presence that made the air feel smaller.
A council had been called. They were preparing to strike at the place where the woman they hunted now hid: Minerva Ashatani — once a Velari, a mistress who had slain the pharaoness. Velari was a word in Vareshi, the language of the Blackthreads, their speech sounding nothing like the tongues of the foreign kingdoms.
The Vareshi message was read aloud in the hush of the hall:
"Eshar ven'thil ra'khet, Minerva thalara Rahemah sevara."
~We have received the letter: Minerva will be crowned empress.~
One of the Pharaoh's commanders spoke, his voice sharp as the council listened. At the Pharaoh's side stood his Vizier — the duke of their realm and his most trusted companion. The air around them grew taut, heavy with foreboding.
"Sira, Minerva thalara eshvara ven'thil syra. Esh thalara neshar, ven'ka eshvara thasira syra."
~So, Minerva has already achieved her aim. I believe she is prepared for what will follow.~
The Pharaoh listened, his gaze fixed on his companion. The man with the raven hair felt a surge of hatred at the name Minerva; the news burned in him.
Then the threat was voiced, cold and deliberate:
"Ven'ka thalara eshvara syra, eshvara thalara shyran esh ven'ka, sira. Esh thalara ven'ka syra esa. Esh thalara khevaran syra ash'thal, ven'ka thalara kharven syra esa lyra."
~If she has already gained the power she sought to shield herself from her sins against us, then so be it. We will grant her her desires. We will raze the Four Kingdoms and bring back the head of that woman.~
At that, the raven-haired man's jaw tightened; his anger was a thing the others could feel, a low thrum beneath their feet. Plans were set in motion — a ruthless scheme to hunt down Minerva Ashatani, who now hid under the name Medeya Sallazar.