As Johanes, Grace, Sir Criston, and his men dragged the wounded Barron through the passage leading out of the mansion, their eyes were met with a dreadful sight. The ground was littered with lifeless bodies, and amidst them moved strange men clad in black. The sight bewildered Johanes, and even the battle-hardened Sir Criston felt a gnawing unease.
"Good heavens! What has become of the Emperor's wedding?" Johanes muttered, his voice trembling with disbelief.
"Are these intruders? But who are they? I know not their faces," Sir Criston murmured, his brow furrowed. For all his years of war, he had never seen warriors such as these. They prowled like predators, masked faces hidden in shadow, black tunics flowing with their movements, golden bracers gleaming under the sun. Their presence carried the weight of some foreign bloodline, something far removed from the Empire's soil.
Suddenly, one of the masked men surged forward, rushing straight at them. His stride was swift, merciless. One of Criston's men sprang to meet him, blades clashing with a shower of sparks. In an instant, more of the masked figures advanced, and the Western guards, drawn into the chaos, clashed steel against steel.
"We must go!" Johanes roared, his face pale with dread. "These masked men will drag us into their slaughter if we tarry!" His voice cut through the tumult as he grasped Grace's arm, urging her onwards.
Together they broke into a desperate flight, rushing out of the mansion where their loyal companions awaited with horses ready. The sound of clashing steel and screams of the fallen still rang behind them as they mounted and sped away.
At last, they had secured Grace's safety, tearing her from the jaws of the Emperor's accursed wedding. Yet their hearts bore a heavy weight. They had not foreseen such horror — not intruders cloaked in black, nor the blood spilled upon sacred ground. These men, with their foreign garb and hidden faces, were no clan of their own lands. Sir Criston and Johanes knew it was their duty to report this grim truth to Celistine, and to the King of the North.
Steel rang like thunder as Harold and Leonare's blades collided again and again, each strike sending sparks leaping into the smoky air. Both men circled, shoulders heaving, eyes locked in a deadly stare—each waiting for that single mistake that would decide which of them would fall.
"You fight with surprising ferocity for an emperor, Your Majesty," Leonare mocked, lips twisting into a cruel grin as he shifted his stance, his sword coiled and ready. His tone carried mockery, but his eyes burned with hunger for blood.
Harold's answering laugh was sharp and merciless. "Fear me? Ha! You should. For I shall end you here." His voice dripped with venom, his smirk dark with mischief, and yet beneath it pulsed an eagerness that bordered on madness. Every movement of his blade was deliberate, precise, and deadly—his swordsmanship rivalled Barron's own brutal mastery.
Leonare braced, ready to strike, when suddenly a figure appeared at his flank. Havan—his ever-loyal shadow—rushed to his side, face pale with desperation, eyes darting to the crumbling battle around them.
"Var'kesh" Havan urged, voice tight, almost breaking, "our soldiers are nearly slaughtered—we must retreat before it is too late!"
Harold's piercing gaze swept over the field. The truth was undeniable. Leonare's ranks were collapsing—men fell one after another, their cries drowned beneath the clash of steel. The field was littered with the broken bodies of his foe.
"Running out of men already?" Harold sneered, his voice laced with scorn as he levelled his blade directly at Leonare, the steel glinting with cold promise.
But Leonare did not falter. Instead, he met the emperor's mockery with a wild, defiant grin. "Then we fall back, Your Majesty… but know this—we shall meet again."
Harold barked a savage command, summoning his guards to cut them off, but before the order could take shape, Havan struck. With a swift flick of his wrist, he hurled a black sphere to the ground. A deafening hiss erupted as thick smoke exploded outward, engulfing the field in choking darkness.
Harold slashed wildly through the haze, his lungs burning, eyes straining against the blur. But when the smoke cleared—they were gone. Vanished like ghosts.
"Damn them!" Harold roared, his voice shaking the battlefield as fury rippled through his body. His grip on his sword was so tight his knuckles blanched white, his chest rising and falling with ragged fury. He had them within his grasp—and still, they had slipped away.
Yet rage was quickly poisoned by unease. Who were these men? From what hidden land did Leonare's bloodline hail? Why had they come—were they here to conquer, to colonise, to unravel his kingdom piece by piece?
And then, like a dagger, another thought pierced him. Medeya. His wife.
A shadow darker than battle swept over Harold's face. Could she be bound to these men by more than chance? Was she caught in their snare—or worse, did she stand among them in secret alliance?
The questions clawed at his mind, colder and sharper than any blade. Suspicion gnawed at him, twisting his heart in a torment deeper than fury.
******
Half a month had passed since Carlo, the crown prince of the Northern Kingdom, had been at Seawatch Harbor. Together with the harbor's forces, they had nearly completed five advanced warships, each prepared for the looming threat of war—particularly against the Western Empire, whose menace weighed heaviest upon them.
It was early morning, the sun barely brushing the horizon, yet Carlo still lay in bed. One hand rested on his brow, the other flung loosely over the sheets. His mind wandered, recalling how long he had been away from his kingdom. The truth was, he missed his beloved, Lady Rehena, terribly.
Since parting ways with her, Carlo and Lady Rehena had exchanged letters weekly. Now, after nearly two months stationed at Seawatch Harbor, he longed to return home. Yet Celistine had commanded that they complete at least five to ten advanced warships before anything else, ensuring the harbor was fortified should danger strike.
"Damn… I'm bored these days, yet obligation remains obligation," Carlo muttered to himself, rising to leave his room and make his way to breakfast.
At the table were Gilbert, the skilled baker, and Anderson, leader of Seawatch, along with Anderson's son, a boy the same age as Gilbert's child, and the young boy's mother, Anderson's wife, Olivia. Carlo was temporarily staying at Anderson's modest two-storey house, built simply of stone and wood—no extravagance, yet sturdy and welcoming.
"This bread is exquisite," Carlo said, breaking the warm loaf, savoring the texture and taste.
"Hahaha… that's Gilbert's work, Your Majesty," Olivia replied, handing food to her son. "He knows how to bake breads and sweets."
"Really? No wonder he owned a bakery in the Western Empire, I heard," Carlo said, cutting another piece of bread to eat.
"I remember, Your Majesty, Celistine used to crave the brownies I baked," Gilbert said, smiling, sipping his tea with a hint of nostalgia.
"Impressive… and after all this construction, what do you do for a living?" Carlo asked curiously, turning to his old companion, who had helped them so much.
"My wife and I started a small bakery here at Seawatch," Gilbert replied with a faint smile, though Carlo sensed a twinge of regret in his words, perhaps longing for the thriving bakery they had left behind in the Western Empire. A pang of guilt struck Carlo, and he offered something unexpected to Gilbert.
"You love baking, yes? And you can cook as well?" Carlo asked.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I am the baker, and my wife is a cook," Gilbert answered, curiosity flickering in his eyes at the sudden question.
"Then why not join us at the mansion? We are struggling to find such talented chefs," Carlo said, his tone joyful. Gilbert froze, stunned by the offer. Carlo felt the weight of guilt for Gilbert's family, caught up in the upheaval caused by Celistine and the Northern Kingdom. Now he sought to make amends.
"Are you certain, my Prince?" Gilbert asked, hesitantly.
"Yes. I am certain. And I am confident my sister will approve of this idea," Carlo said. Gilbert felt a warm relief bloom within him, his heart lifting at the promise of a more prosperous future, one that could finally bless his family with stability and happiness.
After their cheerful breakfast, Carlo accompanied Anderson down to the port to inspect the completed ships. The Seawatch men moved with remarkable efficiency, finishing the vessels quickly yet carefully, ensuring that each one would withstand the trials of war.
"Your Grace, the ship is ready for exhibit," one of Anderson's men announced, standing before a massive warship adorned with the Northern Kingdom's flag. Carlo could not hide his admiration—this craft was a testament to the skill and dedication of Seawatch Harbor's shipwrights.
"You see, Your Grace, we've installed a huge crossbow and cannons capable of dealing devastating damage to enemy vessels," Anderson explained, gesturing proudly at the warship's features. He then signaled his men to fire a demonstration shot.
When the cannon struck a smaller, ordinary boat, it splintered instantly, sending shards of wood flying. Even Carlo's eyes widened in astonishment at the sheer destructive power. The crossbows, too, were formidable—strong enough to pierce the heart of a dragon, if one were foolish enough to challenge them head-on.
"What do you say, Your Grace?" Anderson asked, smiling with quiet satisfaction, hinting that Carlo should begin negotiations regarding labor and construction costs, given that the Northern Kingdom had provided the raw materials.
Carlo and Anderson then proceeded to the meeting hall for the formal negotiation.
"1,500 Moonshards, Your Grace," Anderson declared. "It took us only two months to complete nearly five warships, and the men labored tirelessly to ensure every vessel was perfect." He paused, letting the weight of their effort sink in. Although Carlo thought the price slightly high, he knew it was fair for the skill and dedication required—and he would still await Celistine's approval.
"Very well," Carlo said firmly. "I shall send a letter to my sister. We will wait for her decision."
Yet one question lingered in his mind: who was truly responsible for designing these magnificent warships? Anderson had mentioned an assistant, a companion skilled in ship design. Carlo's curiosity could not be contained.
"Mr. Anderson, who is this companion you spoke of—the one who designed the warships?" Carlo asked, leaning slightly forward.
"Oh, you mean my assistant," Anderson replied, nodding.
"Yes," Carlo said, his gaze intent.
"Then let us go to his workshop, Your Grace. I hope he is there today," Anderson said, turning toward the path leading from the port.
And so, Carlo and Anderson made their way to the place Anderson had indicated—the workshop of the man who had designed the Northern Kingdom's formidable warships.