Barron's fury blazed uncontrollably as he found himself cornered, pressed against the cold stone walls by the encroaching Western guards. His chest heaved, each breath sharp with rage, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap.
"The great loyal servant… the commander of the Eastern Empire, Barron Parcker Hebrew," Maxon sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. He raised his sword deliberately, the tip aimed directly at Barron, "…now dares to betray his master… all for the sake of a woman."
Barron's eyes narrowed, a storm of wrath and disbelief burning within them. "The Emperor… he has been ensnared by your sister, a siren," he spat, voice low but edged with ferocity. "From the very beginning, I feared her cunning. SHE IS MANIPULATING THE EMPEROR—dragging him to his own ruin!"
His stance remained unyielding, his sword arm steady, shielding Grace behind him. She could barely move, weakened by countless bruises and cuts that marred her body. Blood had soaked her dress, dark and sticky, and yet, despite her pain, she clung desperately to Barron's back, trembling with fear at the thought he might one day relent.
Maxon threw back his head and laughed, a cold, cruel sound that echoed through the chamber. "Hahaha! You know nothing, Barron. And thanks to your foolish devotion, it will soon be I who replaces you as commander. Your place, your rank… all yours to lose!"
Barron's jaw tightened, his pride flaring as he responded, voice booming with unshakable conviction. "Good! The only sovereign worth serving… was the late Empress of the Four Kingdoms, Celistine Wendelia Norenian!"
Grace's breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, stunned, as she saw the pure intention in his words. It was as if he had sworn a solemn oath to serve Celistine—but beneath that, she glimpsed the truth. Barron's loyalty to any throne had long since faded. What he desired now was simple: a life with the woman he had vowed to protect—Grace.
Maxon's smile twisted into a scornful sneer. "I do not care for your noble words. Hand her over to me, and I will ensure the Emperor spares your life. You may continue in your position… sound simple, yes?" His tone dripped with venom.
Grace's trembling fingers gripped the fabric of Barron's coat, her knuckles white. Fear coursed through her, chilling her to the bone. She prayed silently that Barron would not waver, that he would not surrender her to Maxon's cold hands.
But Barron's eyes did not falter. His gaze locked onto Maxon's, lethal and unwavering. "Grace is more important than any position," he said, his voice low and resolute.
Her heart fluttered wildly. Grace knew, in that moment, that she had changed him. The ruthless, feared Barron—once a man without mercy—was now willing to sacrifice everything for her.
Maxon's face darkened with rage. "Then you shall die!" he bellowed, his voice echoing in the hall. "Kill Barron—and bring her to me!"
The Western guards surged forward, steel flashing in the dim light. Their numbers grew unnaturally fast, as if Maxon had summoned them from the shadows themselves. Yet Barron met each attack with relentless precision, swinging his sword in a furious storm, cutting down one foe after another.
"Argh!" Barron roared as a guard's blade sliced across his shoulder, pain flaring white-hot through his body.
"Barron!" Grace screamed, desperation lending her strength. Despite her injuries, she seized a fallen sword and lunged to aid him, striking at the enemies that dared close in. Each movement tore at her already battered body, but she fought with the last reserves of her strength.
Barron's eyes caught hers, seeing the defiance burning there despite her exhaustion, despite the pain that wracked her every limb. He felt his heart twist—her courage, even now, fueled his own determination.
But danger was relentless. As Grace cornered herself against the wall, several guards moved to seize her, their blades poised to strike as Maxon commanded. Barron lunged to protect her, but a sudden blow from another guard caught him off guard. Pain exploded in his side, and his knees buckled, forcing him to drop to one knee, planting his sword firmly in the ground to prevent collapse.
"Barron!" Grace cried, tears stinging her eyes as she saw him injured, blood flowing freely from multiple wounds, staining his armour.
Maxon advanced slowly, deliberate, a predator savouring his moment. He pressed the tip of his sword under Barron's chin, forcing the wounded man to tilt his head back. A cruel, victorious smile spread across Maxon's face, and for a heartbeat, it seemed the fight was over. Barron's body sagged with pain, his strength failing him as he struggled to remain upright.
Grace thrashed against the guards, her hands clawing desperately at their grips, her voice raw and broken. "Let him go! Don't… don't you dare hurt him!"
Maxon ignored her cries, stepping closer. "How pitiful, Barron," he said, his tone icy, "to die before the woman you claim to protect. Look at yourself, kneeling… bloodied… powerless."
Barron's one good eye burned with defiance. He refused to break, despite every agonising injury. He could barely lift his sword, but his spirit remained unbowed.
Maxon's blade rose high, ready to deliver the final strike. "This ends now," he hissed.
"Nooooo!" Grace screamed, a piercing, shattering cry that filled the hall. Her voice was raw, desperate, and full of love and terror all at once.
As Barron heard Grace's screaming, he gripped his sword tightly and rose to his feet. With a roar, he swung a strike at Maxon. The man dodged, a smirk playing across his face, only a few strands of white hair catching the edge of Barron's blade.
Barron pressed on, swinging with all his strength, his silver eyes blazing with fury. Every strike was fueled by rage, every movement a desperate attempt to end the man who threatened everything he cared for. Maxon met each attack with chilling precision, deflecting and countering, his smirk never fading. Barron lunged for his opponent's heart, but Maxon was faster—his blade struck Barron's side first. Pain exploded through him, blood gushing from the wound, and he crumpled to the floor, barely able to support himself, his sword quivering in his grip.
"Poor Barron… you lose in front of the woman you swore to protect. Now you shall die!" Maxon's voice cut like a knife through the air, cold and merciless, as he raised his weapon for the finishing blow.
"ACK!" Suddenly, a sharp thwack rang out—an arrow shot cleanly through the chaos, striking Maxon and sending him stumbling backward. The surrounding guards froze, confusion flashing across their faces as they scanned the hallway for the source.
"GO! TAKE GRACE!"
A thunder of footsteps followed. Johannes, Grace's fearless father, burst into the corridor with six of his men, including Sir Criston, the commander of the late veterans. Their charge was like a wave, cutting through the guards that had trapped Barron and Grace. Maxon pressed against the wall, struggling as other guards rushed to assist him, but Johannes' men were methodical and ruthless, one by one taking down the Western soldiers.
"Let me go!" Maxon shouted, wrenching the arrow free from his shoulder, his smirk faltering slightly as the tide began to turn.
"Sir! We must head back and support the Emperor! Chaos has erupted in the front yard—a black man has attacked him!" a guard shouted urgently. Maxon's eyes widened, surprise and anger flashing at the unexpected attack. The enemy they had least expected now threatened everything, and the situation was spiraling beyond control.
"Guards! Don't let them escape—especially the girl I want!" Maxon barked, his voice sharp, commanding the remaining men as he surged forward toward Medeya, intent on uncovering the truth behind the disastrous wedding and the chaos that had erupted around his sister.
The hallway was a whirlwind of motion—swords clashing, cries echoing, and the metallic scent of blood thick in the air. Barron struggled to rise, his body trembling with pain, but the sight of Grace and the arrival of reinforcements gave him a flicker of hope. Even in the face of injury and overwhelming odds, he refused to let her go.
Meanwhile, the Emperor of the Western Empire busied himself, exchanging fierce blows of steel with his adversary, Leonare of the Blackthreads. Sparks flew as their swords clashed, echoing sharply through the front yard where the wedding was being held.
"Who are you! What do you want from my wife?" Harold's voice roared with fury, each strike of his blade precise, yet curious—why had Leonare and his men come for Medeya?
"Simple. We want your mistress's head, that's all," Leonare replied, his words chilling, a mocking lilt in his tone. He dodged Harold's sword with a calculated ease, weaving and twisting, narrowly avoiding a strike aimed at his head. For a moment, both men paused, catching their breath amid the flurry of motion.
"Like I would ever agree to that," Harold said, his glare sharp, pointing his sword straight at Leonare. His body tensed, ready for the next strike, every muscle coiled like a spring.
"HAHAHA! Congratulations—you've been fooled by the siren," Leonare laughed, the sound echoing coldly through the yard. He circled Harold, eyes gleaming with mischief, reveling in the Emperor's confusion. Harold's brow furrowed, his mind racing. He still couldn't understand why Leonare wanted Medeya's head, or the purpose behind this cruel game.
Without pause, the two clashed again. Swords collided in a storm of steel, sparks flying with each violent strike. Harold's attacks were strong, disciplined, and precise, yet Leonare moved like water, slipping through every guard, every parry, turning offense into a deadly counter. The hall around them seemed to blur—each swing faster than the eye could follow, each movement charged with lethal intent.
They fought on, neither yielding, the sound of clashing metal filling the air, reverberating through the walls like rolling thunder. Every strike, every step, held weight—the outcome could tip the balance of life and death, empire and chaos.
Johannes' men had already cleared the enemies surrounding Barron and Grace. Without hesitation, Johannes ran straight to his daughter.
"Grace, my daughter!" Johannes cried, pulling her into a tight embrace. It had been nearly a year since he had last seen her, ever since she had been imprisoned in the Western Empire's dungeon.
"Father, thank God you're here!" Grace sobbed, clutching him with trembling hands and a shaking voice. Johannes looked over his daughter, her body covered in bruises and blood. His brow furrowed when he noticed Barron leaning against the wall beside them, Sir Criston standing close by.
"You bastard! What did you do to my daughter? I will kill you!" Johannes roared, anger boiling as he grabbed Barron's shirt near his chest. Barron, however, was panting from the pain of his wounds, struggling to stay upright.
"Dad! Please don't! He helped me escape!" Grace cried, holding her father back. Johannes froze, uncertain of what Grace had said about Barron. Could it really be true? Or was Barron trying to manipulate him again, or perhaps this was some trap set by Harold?
"What?" Johannes asked, still shocked.
"Yes, Father, please! He chose to side with us—to side with Her Majesty Celistine," Grace explained, her voice firm despite her injuries. Johannes remained silent, still struggling to process the words, until Sir Criston intervened.
"Sir, we need to go now. Let me handle Barron—after all, he is my nephew," Sir Criston said. Johannes and Grace were stunned by the sudden revelation, yet they chose to retreat. They had achieved what they came for: saving Johannes' daughter, Grace.
Criston took Barron by the arm to support him as he walked, while Grace and Johannes followed closely together.
"There, through the kitchen—there's another way!" Barron said, pointing toward the kitchen door. Everyone had no choice but to trust him. Johannes, though cautious, allowed Barron to lead, hoping that following him would get them safely out of the mansion.