When Celistine had gathered all her companions in the meeting hall, as they always did, they resumed their usual positions. Johanes, Sir Criston, King Henry, Celistine herself, and even Mandawe took their seats, each assuming the familiar stance they always held.
"So, Johanes, report," Celistine commanded, her voice calm but edged with authority. Johanes settled into his seat, shoulders tense, and began recounting the recent turmoil in the Western Empire, particularly their daring rescue of Grace.
"Your Majesty, as we aided my daughter in escaping the mansion… fortunately, with Barron's help as well… though we did not anticipate the chaos that would erupt once we emerged. The entire wedding was thrown into pandemonium," Johanes said, pausing as he weighed his words. Celistine's brows furrowed in confusion — had Harold discovered Johanes' plan to help Grace escape?
"What happened? Why did chaos suddenly erupt?" King Henry asked, leaning forward, his fingers steepled, eyes searching for answers.
"We do not know either," Johanes admitted, his voice tight with unease. "We saw men unlike any we have encountered before… clad in black tunics, masks hiding their faces, gold-armoured bracers gleaming, moving like predators." A shiver of uncertainty trembled through his words, betraying his own bewilderment at the attackers' origins.
"One of these unfamiliar men tried to strike us," Sir Criston added, placing a small patch onto the table before Celistine and King Henry. "We dodged him, thankfully… here is a piece I managed to seize from one of the dead attackers."
All eyes fell upon the patch. Confusion rippled through the room. None could identify it's origin. The emblem was striking: a black patch adorned with a golden scorpion claw.
"I believe this symbol represents a desert people," King Henry offered, his voice measured, though Celistine's brow remained knitted in doubt.
"What colour was their skin?" she asked, leaning forward, her voice sharp with curiosity.
"Tan, Your Grace," Johanes replied. "Eyes like molten gold, like a lion's, and hair varying between raven black and brown."
Celistine's eyes widened, a chill running down her spine. The description matched exactly the figure she had glimpsed at the party and again at Western Harbour — the same enigmatic stranger who had cast a shadow over the Western Empire's wedding. Tan skin, raven hair, golden eyes that gleamed like molten metal. It was the very same as those whom Johanes and Sir Criston had encountered, and the revelation sent a tightening knot of unease through her chest.
"Is there any reason they would attack the Western Empire?" Celistine's curiosity flared, but beneath it lurked unease. The North must remain vigilant. Could this be another threat, beyond the known kingdoms they had anticipated? A shadow creeping over the North — and perhaps the East, South, and West — if these unfamiliar black-clad men sought to dominate all four kingdoms. Celistine's mind raced; the northern forces must be secured before calamity struck.
"We do not know, Your Majesty," Johanes said, sorrow shadowing his expression. "By the time we emerged to escape… the wedding had descended into chaos."
"Then Sir Criston," Celistine commanded, her tone sharp, a subtle steel threading her voice.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Sir Criston replied, bowing his head.
"I want you and Sir Johanes to investigate this immediately. Find the person who can identify this emblem," Celistine ordered, rising from her seat, eyes blazing with determination. Johanes and Sir Criston straightened instantly, ready to act.
"But first, we must interrogate Barron, to see if he is aware of this," King Henry interjected. Every head nodded in agreement; the King's logic was sound. Perhaps Barron knew the truth of what had occurred at Harold's wedding, or the reason why these unfamiliar men had launched their sudden assault on the Western Empire. Their motives, their origin — all hung in a tense, unspoken question before them.
******
"EVERYONE OUT! EXCEPT YOU—AND YOUR BROTHER!"
The Emperor of the Western Empire thundered, his voice echoing across the grand chamber where the servants had been tending to Maxon's wounds. The startled attendants froze for a heartbeat before scurrying away, skirts brushing the marble floor as they bowed hastily. One of them, who had just finished wrapping the last bandage around Maxon's arm, left trembling in fear, her breath catching as the Emperor's fury rang in her ears.
Medeya stood frozen before Harold, her body shaking—not from the recent attack of the Blackthreads, but from the dread that her secret might finally be exposed. Her pulse hammered wildly beneath her ribs. Beside her, Maxon sat on the edge of the bed, clutching his freshly bandaged arm, his jaw tightening as he fought the pain.
"My love, what happened? Are you hurt?" Medeya asked, her voice trembling. She tried to grasp Harold's hands with her cold, shaking fingers—hoping to change the subject, to steer his thoughts away from what he might have discovered. But fear glimmered in her eyes. It wasn't fear of the Blackthreads anymore—it was fear of her husband's wrath.
Harold yanked his hands away and shoved her hard.
"Kyaa!" Medeya gasped as she stumbled and fell to the polished floor, her palms striking the cold surface. Her hair fell loose around her face as she looked up, breathless, her heart pounding. The Emperor's cold, black eyes glinted with merciless rage as he drew his sword and levelled it at her face.
Even Maxon froze, shocked at what he was witnessing. His own emperor—his sister's husband—now stood ready to strike her down. Medeya could not move; both her hands pressed against the ground as her trembling gaze met the edge of Harold's blade.
"Tell me the truth!" Harold's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "Who are they? Why do they know you—and why does that man, the one who ruined our wedding, keep calling you Minerva?!" His tone was ice-cold, every word a lash of accusation.
Medeya swallowed hard, her voice cracking. "I-I don't… I don't know them—"
"Liar!" Harold bellowed, his fury bursting like thunder. "TELL ME, OR I'LL CUT YOUR THROAT!"
The sword shifted, its tip grazing the delicate skin of her neck. Medeya's breath hitched. Her mind spun in confusion—if she told the truth, the empire would burn; if she lied, Harold's wrath might end her life right there.
"She killed the Queen of Pharaoh—on the Blackthreads' island," Maxon suddenly declared.
The words struck the room like lightning. Harold's head snapped toward him, his fury reigniting. He charged forward, sword raised to strike.
"Nooo!" Medeya cried, crawling across the floor and clutching Harold's leg, tears streaming down her face. "Please, my love—spare him! He's my brother!"
"What did you say!?" Harold barked. His blade turned sharply toward Maxon's chest.
Maxon did not flinch. Instead, he smirked faintly, lifting his hand to push the blade aside, still seated on the bed with his bare chest gleaming under the dim candlelight. The bandages around his torso were faintly stained with red. From the corner of his eye, Medeya caught his gaze and gave the slightest shake of her head — a silent plea, a warning not to speak the truth.
But Maxon ignored it. His eyes locked on Harold's, unwavering, his expression carved in cold defiance.
"Yes," he said flatly, his voice cutting through the tense air like ice.
The Emperor's fury blazed anew. His breath came ragged as he turned back toward Medeya, his entire body trembling with rage.
"You—!" he spat, raising his sword high above his head.
"My love, nooo!" Medeya screamed, covering her head with her arms. Her tears fell freely, streaking down her cheeks. But before Harold could strike, Maxon's voice cut through the tension.
"But, Your Majesty—Medeya didn't mean it!"
The sudden lie fell from his tongue like a spell. Harold froze mid-strike, his arm suspended in the air. Medeya blinked in confusion, her sobs softening as she turned her eyes to her brother, uncertain of his plan.
"Tell me the truth," Harold growled, glaring at Maxon.
Maxon lowered his head slightly, his voice trembling with fabricated grief. "We came from an island called the Blackthreads," he began. "Their language is Vareshi—a tongue unknown beyond their shores. We were born there as slaves, Vereshi by blood."
Harold's brow furrowed. He hesitated, lowering his sword slightly as curiosity replaced fury.
"Continue," he commanded.
Maxon straightened his posture, wincing in pretend pain. "The people of the Blackthreads are cruel," he said, voice shaking. "They are born with dark gifts. They can kill men effortlessly. They enslave their own kind—rape, torment, and break their servants. We were among those victims. Even my sister… Medeya…"—his voice cracked, and tears glimmered in his eyes—"…was assaulted by their king because of her beauty."
Medeya's eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. She wanted to speak, to deny his lies, but the words died in her throat. Her brother's tears glistened under the torchlight—perfectly placed, perfectly false.
"The Queen of the Blackthreads grew jealous," Maxon continued, his voice trembling like that of a wounded soul. "She could not bear that her husband desired my sister. She tried to kill Medeya—but my sister fought back. She didn't mean to slay the Queen—it was only to survive. And when the Queen fell, we fled. We had no choice but to escape here, to the Western Empire."
Harold's hand slackened. His sword slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. The room fell silent except for the sound of his heavy breathing. He looked at Medeya—his wife, still trembling in her torn wedding gown, her tears glistening like dew.
"Is… is that true?" Harold whispered.
Medeya could not answer. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
"Yes," Maxon said softly, his eyes filled with false innocence. "She only wished to survive. That is why we came here."
Harold's breath shuddered as guilt flooded his face. Slowly, he dropped to his knees before Medeya. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Forgive me."
He wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressing her head against his chest. One hand rested protectively over her hair, the other gripping her back as if afraid she might vanish.
"I'm sorry, my love… I didn't mean to," he said, his voice thick with regret.
"I was scared…" Medeya sobbed against his shoulder. "I thought you'd kill me… I thought you wouldn't believe me… I'm sorry!" Her cries grew louder, her sobs echoing beyond the chamber walls, her shoulders trembling beneath Harold's embrace.
"I'm sorry," Harold murmured again, holding her even tighter.
Across the room, Maxon sat watching the scene with a faint, mocking smile. His eyes glinted with triumph—the mask of sorrow long gone.
The Emperor's heart had been conquered once again by their lies. As Harold clung to Medeya, whispering apologies, Maxon's lips curved into a sinister grin. Medeya lifted her gaze and met her brother's eyes.
In that silent exchange, both of them smiled—an evil, knowing smile.
They had won.
Their deceit had triumphed once more, and the Emperor—blind with love and guilt—had been fooled again by the very ones he thought he had saved.