It had been a month, and at last the day of preparation had begun. The wedding of Emperor Harold and his mistress, Medeya. Together, Medeya would be crowned as Empress — the long-held wish she had craved for so many years.
Medeya swept down the stone corridor towards the cell of Grace, her luxurious, extravagant gown trailing behind her. The light-coloured fabric shimmered under the torchlight, cinched at the waist with a gold belt, and adorned with intricate lace and jewels. A tiara glinted above her updo, loose strands framing her pale face, her white hair falling like silk against her ocean-blue eyes. Yet beneath such beauty lay a dangerous, unpredictable nature no one had foreseen.
She stopped before the iron bars, her gaze falling on Grace. The woman was bound by the wrists, her arms stretched high as heavy chains held her weight. Her body was mottled with bruises and fresh cuts, her skin drained of colour from the endless days of torture.
"Look at you," Medeya sneered, tilting her head, a cold smile playing at the corner of her lips. "So pitiful. So wretched." Her words cut like a blade as she slowly circled nearer to the bars.
"Poor you," she hissed, her voice dripping with mockery. "Even your master, Celistine, has already abandoned you." Medeya chuckled, dark and low, her eyes glittering with malice as she drank in the sight of Grace hanging helpless from her chains.
Grace forced her head up and met Medeya's gaze. A faint, defiant smirk tugged at her cracked lips.
"Goodbye," Medeya said sweetly, her tone twisting into venom. "I'll see you in hell. Your execution is today. Any last words?" She arched one perfect brow, savouring the moment.
Grace gathered the last of her strength, her chest heaving with each shallow breath. Then she lifted her head, her voice breaking yet fierce.
"The only true Empress of the Four Kingdoms is Empress Celistine!" she shouted. "You are nothing but a mistress!"
Medeya's smile faltered for a heartbeat, but she refused to let anger crease her perfect face. She raised her hand, tempted to strike Grace, but stopped short — she would not soil her gown on this pitiful creature.
"Goodbye," she said again, laughing harshly, her laughter echoing off the stone walls as she turned and swept from the cell.
Grace sagged against the chains, her head bowing. The floor beneath her blurred as tears welled in her eyes. Was Barron truly gone? It had been almost a month since he had last come to see her after that confession. Hope drained from her chest like blood from an open wound. Why had she allowed herself to fall for a man who could abandon her at the first sign of danger?
Her tears splashed onto the cold stone. She could not stop the thought — had everyone, even her master, forsaken her? She tried not to think it, but it clawed at her mind as her end crept closer.
"Barron… where are you, you fool!" she whispered hoarsely to herself, her voice breaking as she called his name. Tears burst forth anew as pain from her wrists mingled with the agony of betrayal.
While Grace wept in pain, Johannes — her father — and Sir Criston, the late veteran commander, had already arrived at the Western Empire. They lingered near the edge of the grand mansion, where thick forest pressed close against the walls.
The household was alive with chaos. Servants rushed in and out, carrying garlands and ribbons, hurriedly dressing the wide front yard of the estate. The wedding of Emperor Harold and Medeya was to be held there, not in the chapel or hall, but outside beneath the open sky. Medeya herself had demanded it. She longed for the brilliance of the heavens to shine down upon her, the glimmering light to dance upon her gown as though the world itself existed only to magnify her beauty.
By her command, the nobles had been forced to attire themselves in her chosen colours — the ladies in blue gowns, the gentlemen in black. No rival was permitted to steal her radiance; Medeya wanted only herself to be seen, to be adored, to be the sole star of her wedding.
Meanwhile, Johannes and Criston had donned the uniforms of Western palace guards, stolen from soldiers they had subdued. The disguise allowed them to move unnoticed among the watch, their teal tunics trimmed with white, belted and strapped across the chest. Metal pauldrons gleamed upon their shoulders, helmets shadowing their faces, dark trousers tucked into boots fitted with iron guards. To the untrained eye, they were nothing more than ordinary sentries of the Empire.
"Let's go," Sir Criston murmured, his tone low and sharp.
Step by step, they stole their way along the side of the mansion. There, half-hidden by ivy and moss, lay a narrow stone passageway — one of the secret routes built centuries past for the use of royals and their guards. This particular passage ran from the outer wall of the mansion, concealed near the servants' quarters, and curved inward beneath the foundations until it opened near the chambers of the late Emperor Philippe.
It was through this hidden way that Johannes and Criston pressed forward, for beyond Philippe's deserted chamber lay the cells where Grace was kept.
Grace remained silent, her body trembling, as she heard the heavy creak of the cell door finally opening. She didn't dare raise her head, certain that the guards had come at last to execute her.
"I suppose this is it," she whispered, her voice barely audible, and slowly closed her eyes. Her arms ached from hanging in the cold, biting chains, and a wave of hopelessness pressed down on her chest.
Then, in the suffocating silence, she felt someone step close. Strong hands touched the locks around her wrists, and with a sharp click, the chains fell away. Her arms gave way, and she stumbled—only to be caught by a broad, solid chest. Panic surged for a heartbeat, and then her eyes flew open.
Silver eyes met hers.
"Barron… you came back?" she breathed, disbelief and relief mingling so tightly her voice trembled. Her arms wrapped instinctively around his neck, clinging to him as though letting go would mean falling apart. She stared into the depths of his eyes, searching, questioning, and silently thanking him all at once.
"I'm sorry for making you wait nearly a month," Barron murmured, his voice low and urgent, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "But there's no time. We must leave now—before they realise. I'm getting you out of here."
Grace's heart thudded in her chest, wild and unsteady. She had never imagined he would come, never allowed herself the hope. A shiver ran through her as she steadied herself against him.
She stole a glance beyond his shoulder and gasped. The two executioners who had been meant to end her life lay sprawled across the stone floor, unconscious, their weapons clattering nearby. Grace's mind raced; it had to be Barron who had done this.
Her chest tightened, and yet, in the same breath, a flicker of warmth spread through her. Relief, fear, and a sharp, desperate gratitude mingled as she pressed closer to him.
Without another word, Barron lifted her, supporting her weight with ease, and together they moved swiftly through the narrow, shadowed corridors of the mansion's dungeon. Every step carried them closer to freedom, closer to a life she had dared to imagine only in fleeting, impossible dreams.
The guests rose as one, murmurs filling the hall, as Medeya prepared to walk down the red carpet. Her hand held the tight bouquet of white roses, but her mind flickered, first just a spark: Finally, all eyes will be on me.
Harold stood waiting, tall and composed in his white royal attire, matching the bishop at the front. Medeya's heels clicked softly against the polished floor, and the soft strains of violins painted the hall in a dreamlike haze. Every step is mine, she thought briefly, a quick thrill running through her.
As she reached Harold, he offered his hand. She placed hers in his, the smallest smile curling her lips, but inside, a full reflection swelled: This is the moment I have waited for, the moment my ambition, my beauty, my presence claims its rightful place. The world will see me, and none shall look away. From the very first glance of the nobles to the highest lords of the realm, all attention belongs to me.
The bishop's voice cut through the music, solemn and commanding. "Harold, Emperor of the Western Realm, and Medeya, your chosen consort, you stand before us to unite your lives. Do you pledge to honour, guide, and uphold one another, as partners in life and rulership?"
Harold's voice was steady, warm. "I do."
Medeya answered with deliberate grace, her words measured yet commanding: "I do. I shall stand beside you, Harold, and together we shall rule with unmatched grace and power." A brief, gleaming thought crossed her mind: See how they watch me… see how they admire me. All that I have ever desired is here, within my reach.
The bishop lifted his hands. "Then, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. And by this sacred ceremony, Medeya is now officially Empress of the Western Realm."
Harold lifted her hand, and this time, instead of a simple gesture, he pressed a soft, yet deliberate kiss to her lips. Gasps rippled through the hall, but Medeya did not flinch. Her chest swelled with triumph, a thrill running through her. From the very first whisper of ambition to the highest triumph of my dreams… this is mine.
The music swelled and applause rippled through the hall as Medeya walked beside Harold, every gesture perfect, every glance calculated. Her fleeting thoughts danced in patterns — first, the thrill of being seen; then, the full sweep of satisfaction, imagining her influence spreading across every noble present, all the way to the highest ranks of the empire.
She was Empress. She had claimed her crown. And every eye in the hall, fleeting or fixed, bore witness to her victory.
The nobles erupted into applause, their hands clapping in admiration, while Medeya's lips curled into a proud, radiant smile. Her heart swelled with triumph — she was officially Empress, her ambition realized at last.
Yet, that victorious moment froze as all eyes turned toward the red carpet. Emerging from the crowd of stunned courtiers was a figure unlike any they had seen. A tall, tan-skinned man, his raven-black hair cascading over broad shoulders, eyes gleaming gold like a lion's, sharp and piercing. He wore a black robe trimmed with gold, a red sash across his chest, a golden belt cinching his waist. A golden headpiece adorned his brow, a necklace with a blue gem shimmered in the light, and golden cuffs hugged his muscular arms. At his side hung a sword, its presence commanding respect. Every detail of his attire spoke of desert lands and fierce authority.
Whispers rippled through the hall. All attention, every gaze, focused on this unfamiliar man standing boldly before the Emperor and Medeya, the new Empress. Medeya's blue eyes widened, her mind racing. She had not expected this — an unexpected arrival, a challenge she had never foreseen.
The man stepped forward, his voice carrying across the hall with a weight that silenced the music and murmurs alike:
"Sireth, Minerva! Varethak tosh elunha, Empressi thul marvethan koth. Shivarak thol, ve'khar Blackthreads, ish'kalaran duun thas elvath."
~"Congratulations, Minerva! You have achieved your goal of becoming the Empress of the foreign land. I hope you are very satisfied, for we, the Blackthreads, will hold you accountable for your deeds."~
The words struck her like a blade.
Medeya's lips trembled slightly, her breath catching as a flicker of disbelief crossed her features. Her blue eyes widened for a heartbeat, pupils sharp as they locked onto the stranger. "Leonare Ashval Driftmoor," she finally managed, her voice quivering with restrained shock. "The commander of the Blackthreads."
The hall seemed to freeze. The nobles, the servants, every gaze turned toward Leonare, their whispers dying in the air. Medeya's chest tightened — this was a presence she had not anticipated, a challenge appearing in the very moment of her triumph.