After the enemies had been driven away from the Emperor and the new Empress Medeya's wedding, Medeya was brushing her hair, though a deep unease tugged at her mind. The unexpected assault by the Blackthreads, demanding her head, had thrown the entire celebration into chaos. She remained in her private chambers, guarded closely by her soldiers, their presence a silent promise against any further threats.
Suddenly, the door burst open, and Medeya's eyes fell on Maxon, his shoulder pierced and bleeding, an arrow lodged firmly from Johanes.
"Maxon! What… what happened to you? And for heaven's sake, where have you been?!" Medeya demanded, panic and fury lacing her voice as the maids crowded around Maxon to tend to his wound.
"That bastard… I will have his head soon!" Maxon muttered, teeth clenched as he felt the sharp sting of his injury, gritting through the pain while his aides worked swiftly to staunch the blood.
Medeya's brow furrowed deeply, her lips parting in disbelief. "What!?"
"Nothing special," Maxon said, though his eyes blazed with fury. "I was busy capturing the traitor—the Emperor's most trusted assistant, Barron."
Medeya froze, her hair slipping slightly from her fingers. She could hardly believe what she had just heard. The Emperor's most loyal companion—someone she had never doubted—had betrayed him. Her eyes widened, shock etching deep lines on her face. She still had not recovered from the calamity at her own wedding, and now this.
"Anyway… how was your wedding? I heard there was chaos in the front yard where it was held," Maxon asked cautiously, his voice steady despite the wound.
"Shit! The Blackthreads are coming for us! They attacked my wedding!" Medeya exclaimed, fury cracking through her tone, her fists clenching at her sides. Rage and fear warred visibly across her features.
Before Maxeya could respond, the door opened again. A figure stepped inside, and both Medeya and Maxon stiffened. It was a man they had not expected, arriving silently yet commandingly, their private conversation now fully exposed.
"Coming from who, Medeya?" Harold's voice cut through the room like ice, calm yet filled with menace. He strode in, his white groom's attire now splattered with the blood of their attackers, his cold black eyes fixed on them. In his hands, he bore his sword, slick with fresh crimson.
Medeya's eyes widened. She had not prepared to speak the truth to Harold—not yet—and another lie formed on her lips, one she intended to spin quickly to cover the chaos she could not yet admit.
***
While Medeya, too afraid to confront Harold and reveal the truth about why the Blackthreads had attacked them, hesitated in the Northern Kingdom, the group of Johanes had already arrived at the palace. As soon as Celistine heard that the Johanes party had reached the mansion, she bolted toward them, her heart pounding, desperate to see her companion Grace again.
When she arrived in the grand hall, her eyes immediately fell upon Grace—alive, and remarkably well.
"GRACE!" Celistine cried, voice cracking under the weight of grief and overwhelming joy. She ran forward, arms outstretched, almost knocking into Grace in her eagerness.
"You're alive! You're back!" Celistine gasped, pressing both hands to Grace's cheeks, her fingers trembling. Tears streamed freely down her face. Grace's eyes glistened, mirroring her own emotion, and she clutched Celistine's arms, unable to speak at first.
"Your Majesty! I… I am back. Thank you for saving me," Grace whispered, her voice shaking, breath catching with relief. Celistine's own tears spilled as she hugged Grace tightly, as though she might never let go. Yet even in the warmth of their reunion, a quiet edge lingered in Celistine's mind—though her heart leapt with joy at seeing Grace, she sensed that there were still matters left unresolved, truths yet to be uncovered.
"Umm… Your Majesty, there are two things you need to know first," Grace's father, Johanes, interjected, his tone cautious. Celistine steadied herself, placing a hand gently on Grace's cheek and the other on her hands, grounding herself before addressing Johanes.
"And what are they?" she demanded, voice sharp and commanding, though her eyes betrayed her tension.
Johanes drew a deep breath, then gestured toward Barron, standing stiffly beside his uncle Criston, his body wrapped in bandages. Celistine's eyes narrowed in shock, brows knitting tightly, lips pressed into a thin line of anger. Her pulse quickened; a wave of fury washed over her. Without hesitation, she yanked Johanes' sword from its holster, moving with a fluid, almost predatory grace, rushing toward Barron.
"Your Grace!" Grace cried out, panic breaking through her joy, stepping between them.
Celistine leveled the sword at Barron's neck, her purple eyes blazing with a deadly intensity. Barron froze, every muscle locked in tension, his breath caught in his throat. The furious determination etched across Celistine's face warned him that a single misstep could cost him his life.
"Why are you here? Speak, or I will cut your head off!" Celistine demanded, voice cold, every word slicing through the hall like steel. Grace's hands trembled as she gripped Celistine's arm, trying to calm her, but Celistine's grip on the sword did not waver; the tip pressed harder against Barron's throat.
"Your Majesty… he is here to swear his oath and serve as your new protector," Grace said, her voice trembling, hands lightly touching Celistine's arm, trying desperately to calm her.
But Celistine did not falter; she pressed the sword harder against Barron's neck, her jaw set, eyes narrowed, every movement radiating deadly precision.
"How can we be certain? He is the loyal dog of that bastard emperor! He is the reason why you were imprisoned for so many months, Grace!" Celistine spat, eyes burning into Barron's.
"But he saved me, Your Majesty!" Grace pleaded, voice quivering, her hands shaking as she reached out to touch Celistine's arm, trying to ease her rage.
"What?" Celistine snapped, spinning to glare at Grace, lips tight, nostrils flaring.
"Your Majesty… he saved me from the assault the Maxon's inflicted—the brother of Medeya. Barron is the reason we all escaped the chaos," Grace explained, carefully guiding Celistine's hand downward from the sword. Slowly, Celistine's breathing eased, though a storm of doubt and caution still raged in her heart. She could not afford to trust too easily, wary that Barron's allegiance might be a trap set by the Western Emperor to test them.
"Tell me, Barron… what is behind your sudden betrayal of Harold?" Celistine demanded, voice cold as ice, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"The Emperor had already been blinded by his mistress. The Western people were starving because Medeya had misappropriated their budget. The Emperor himself colluded with smugglers to gain profit. I no longer knew what to do if you were lost," Barron said, his hands clenching at his sides, voice steady but tinged with frustration.
"At first, you were wrong, but so was I. The Western Empire is nothing without you," Barron continued, his eyes locking with Celistine's. She pondered the weight of his words, wondering if this truly marked the beginning of the Western Empire's decline. She thought bitterly that it was regrettable she had once let go of her role as empress, allowing her people to suffer. Still, she knew she must remain in the North, prioritizing her kingdom's welfare above all else.
"Is that all, Barron?" Celistine asked, her tone measured, though the tension in her shoulders remained taut. Barron lifted his head, posture proud and commanding, his silver hair catching the hall's light.
"No… I have come because of Grace. I… I fear my heart has long been claimed by one of your companions, and I can no longer deny it."
The hall froze. Johanes, Grace, and even Criston were stunned. Grace's cheeks burned crimson. Celistine's eyes narrowed further, anger erupting once more, and she pressed the sword hard against Barron's neck. A few strands of his hair fell loose under the pressure, but his gaze remained steady. Grace's flush faded to concern as she clasped her hands over her mouth, hiding the mixture of shock and worry.
"You must be jesting, Barron!" Celistine shouted, voice echoing through the hall. Barron dropped to his knees, head bowed, hands clasped in supplication, humbling himself before her.
"I speak truthfully, Your Majesty, regarding my feelings toward Grace! I am Barron Hebrew, the trusted and undefeated knight of the Western Empire. I declare I have betrayed my master and now serve the King of the North, and even Her Majesty Celistine herself! I have pledged my heart and my oath, which belong solely to Grace," Barron declared, voice firm, laced with courage and desperation, his chest heaving as he sought to prove his sincerity.
Celistine drew back her sword, returning it to Johanes, but her gaze remained icy.
"I still do not trust you! Lock him up!" Celistine commanded. Grace froze, torn between the man she loved and her Master. The Northern guards seized Barron by the shoulders; he did not resist, following their orders. As he was led away, he cast a glance at Grace, offering a small, reassuring smile to ease her worry. Grace, tears flowing, pressed one hand to her mouth, trying to mask her frustration and emotion.
"Treat Grace's wounds immediately. Sir Johanes, report everything to me together with sir Criston"
Celistine ordered, exiting the hall with her commands swiftly obeyed.
Yet unease lingered within her. Barron's sudden confession and the fact he harbored feelings for one of her closest companions, Grace, gnawed at her. She could not allow herself to relax, wary of a potential trap by Barron or the Western Emperor. She did not want Grace to hope, only to be hurt again. With resolve, Celistine moved toward the meeting hall, where her father and the others awaited.
Meanwhile,
When Anderson led Carlo toward the port where his assistant's workshop lay, they soon arrived at a small, unassuming house. Anderson pushed open the door, and immediately Carlo was confronted by an overwhelming sight—papers strewn everywhere, each one filled with intricate drawings. The house was in utter chaos; sheets covered the floors, tables, and every available surface. Carlo frowned, unable to hide his astonishment at the messy interior.
"Sorry, Your Majesty, that boy doesn't know how to clean, though—ehehe," Mr. Anderson said with a sheepish smile, gesturing at the scattered papers on the floor.
"Ever since that boy was little, he loved to draw boats… even planning them himself," Mr. Anderson continued, strolling through the cluttered house. It was clear the young man he spoke of wasn't present.
Carlo, meanwhile, was still absorbed in examining the scattered sheets, his fingers brushing over sketches of boats, designs, and diagrams, each one more detailed than the last. He barely noticed Mr. Anderson's voice as it carried on about his absent assistant.
Then Mr. Anderson raised his voice, calling out:"Kaelen! Are you here? We have visitors!"
"Kaelen!" Mrs. Anderson echoed, her tone sharp with impatience, searching for her assistant. Carlo, however, remained engrossed in the papers, stepping carefully over the chaos until he reached the front desk. Even there, stacks of sketches threatened to tumble to the floor. Yet something caught his eye—a neatly folded handkerchief, wedged in the drawer, with a letter marked PCW resting atop it.
A surge of curiosity rushed through Carlo. He reached for the handkerchief, his fingers trembling slightly, when suddenly the door swung open.
"Oh! Old Gramps, why are you here?"
Carlo spun around. A man had entered—golden yellow hair, identical to the Norenian lineage, and sky-blue eyes that carried the proud fire of Western royalty. He was tall, pale-skinned, and his smile—brilliant and achingly familiar—lit up the room. Carlo's heart raced; the resemblance was uncanny.
It was as though a lost prince had stepped back into the world, a perfect echo of someone thought gone forever.