When Celistine finally reached the northern prison cells — the cold, stone chambers where Barron had been kept captive — the air hung heavy with silence. The scent of damp walls and iron chains lingered in the air. She walked with firm steps, her cloak brushing the ground behind her. Beside her stood Sir Johanes, Duke of Boulevard and Commander of the Northern Army, his expression grim yet loyal.
They halted before Barron's cell. The dim torchlight flickered against the iron bars, casting restless shadows across Barron's hardened face.
"Barron," Celistine spoke coldly, her tone sharp as a blade. "Do you have any knowledge of the attacker during the Emperor's wedding?"
Barron lifted his head slowly, meeting her gaze with steady eyes. "I do not, Your Majesty… but there is something you must know — something I learned from the Emperor's mistress," he replied, his voice serious, his eyes never leaving hers.
Celistine's brows furrowed, her suspicion deepening. "What do you mean?" she demanded.
"The last time I passed by the mistress's chamber," Barron said, lowering his voice, "I overheard a discussion between her and her brother… they mentioned the word Blackthreads."
At once, Celistine's eyes narrowed. The name struck a chord within her. She glanced briefly at Johanes, who shared the same puzzled look.
"As a loyal servant of the Western Empire," Barron continued, "I ordered one of my men to investigate. That's when I discovered what Lady Medeya truly meant by 'Blackthreads.'"
Celistine stepped closer, her voice turning colder. "And what did you find?"
Barron exhaled deeply. "The Blackthreads… they are a tribe from another continent — people of the desert isles, dark-skinned and fierce. They are unmatched in battle, brutal and relentless when provoked. None of our soldiers could rival their skill in combat."
Celistine's pulse quickened. Even Johanes' composure faltered as the truth unfolded. The very group who had dared to strike the Emperor's wedding were not from any known kingdom, but from a distant land — a tribe whose name was spoken only in whispers.
"Have you told the Emperor about this?" Celistine asked sharply.
Barron shook his head. "No, Your Majesty. I was meant to… but before I could, I was punished — for striking the mistress's brother, Maxon."
Celistine's expression hardened. "Why did you attack him?"
Barron's jaw clenched as his rage surfaced. "Because he assaulted Grace," he said through gritted teeth. "I lost control… I beat him until I could barely move my own hands. If I had the chance, I would have killed him."
His fists tightened, the veins on his forearms bulging with fury as the memory returned. Celistine's eyes softened, not out of pity, but because she shared his anger. She despised Maxon's cruelty — and she was silently grateful that Barron had been there for Grace.
"Thank you, Barron," she murmured. Even Johanes inclined his head in silent respect. Enemy or not, Barron had protected one of their own.
Celistine straightened, regaining her composure. "Now, back to our concern. Is that all you've discovered?"
Barron hesitated, his gaze shifting to the floor before meeting hers again. "There are… rumours, Your Majesty. My informants spoke of something strange — that the King of the Blackthreads had a mistress. Her name was said to be Minerva."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It's believed that this mistress killed the King's own wife — the Queen. There is, however, no proof that Medeya was the same woman. I cannot confirm this… yet."
Celistine slowly curled her fingers into a fist, her thoughts clouded with unease. Why would the Blackthreads attack the Emperor's wedding? she wondered. Was it vengeance? Or something far more dangerous?
She recalled that Medeya hailed from the Southern Empire — but that did not guarantee her loyalty. Perhaps she had wandered from the South… only to ensnare the Emperor with her beauty and deceit.
"There might be two reasons why they attacked, Your Majesty," Barron interrupted her thoughts.
Johanes turned to him. "And what might those be?"
Barron's gaze darkened. "Either the Blackthreads plan to colonize the Four Kingdoms…" — he paused, his tone lowering to a near whisper — "or Medeya is the mistress they've been searching for."
A chill swept through the cell. The torches flickered, as if trembling with the weight of his words. Celistine's eyes locked onto Barron's — sharp, calculating, and full of unspoken dread.
***
When Carlo saw him again, he finally understood who Mrs. Anderson had been talking about—the man who designed the warship in the North. It was none other than Kaelan, Mr. Anderson's assistant.
"Oh… Gramps, do you need something?" the man named Kaelan asked as he turned to face Mr. Anderson. Carlo noticed the ease between them—the way Kaelan spoke felt almost… familiar. He wondered if perhaps Kaelan was related to Mrs. Anderson. Yet something deeper stirred within him, a strange sense that the man before him was more than a mere assistant. There was something noble in his posture, something that whispered royalty.
"Who's this, Gramps?" Kaelan asked again, his sky-blue eyes glinting with curiosity, catching the light in such a way that Carlo's breath faltered for a moment. Those eyes—bright yet distant—seemed far from ordinary. Carlo couldn't shake the feeling that this man carried the blood of kings.
"Oh! Bow your head, you foolish boy," Mrs. Anderson hissed, nudging Kaelan's arm sharply. "This is His Majesty, the Crown Prince of the North—Carlo Sebastian Norenian."
Kaelan blinked in shock. "Oh—my apologies, Your Majesty! I didn't know. Please pardon my untidy house."
He quickly bowed, nearly knocking over a chair, then rushed to gather the scattered papers and tools around the room. A faint flush coloured his cheeks as he cleared a small wooden table. Carlo watched silently, intrigued by Kaelan's humble manner. Despite his clumsy movements, there was something graceful about him—something that didn't fit with the small, dusty home he lived in.
Once the table was cleared, they all sat down. Mr. Anderson and the Crown Prince took their seats, while Kaelan quietly prepared tea for them. His movements were calm but steady, his sleeves rolled up, revealing faint marks of ink and soot upon his hands—proof of long nights spent drafting designs.
"Thank you," Carlo murmured as Kaelan set a porcelain cup before him. The aroma of spiced tea filled the air.
The three of them sat together, each with their cup, a quiet hum between them.
"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty," Kaelan began, his tone cautious yet respectful. "May I ask what brings you here?"
"He's here to see you, Kaelan," Mr. Anderson answered before Carlo could speak. "Right, Your Majesty?"
"Yes, actually." Carlo leaned forward slightly, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "What is your full name?"
"Kaelan of Seawatch only, Your Majesty," he replied with a polite smile.
"Oh… Seawatch," Carlo repeated softly, tasting the name like an echo from a half-forgotten tale.
"How did you learn such a skill? Designing warships isn't common talent." He took a sip of his tea, studying the man's expression.
Kaelan gave a sheepish grin and scratched the back of his neck. "I'm not quite sure, Your Majesty. It's as if I was born with it. Ever since I can remember, I've been sketching boats, ships, even war vessels. I just… felt drawn to them."
His words were simple, but the sincerity in his voice was disarming. As he spoke, he reached for a piece of bread and took a bite—his hunger evident, though he tried to hide it.
"Magnificent, isn't it, Your Majesty?" Mr. Anderson said proudly, gently ruffling Kaelan's hair as though he were a son. "A rare soul who can design warships without formal training or noble education."
Carlo's lips curved faintly, impressed yet troubled. He couldn't ignore the odd familiarity between them—the way Kaelan's eyes mirrored his own, the faint similarity in their hair, their stance.
"How old are you, Kaelan?" he asked softly.
"Thirty-seven, Your Grace," Kaelan replied with a modest smile.
Carlo nodded, but something inside him stirred uneasily. Thirty-seven? He looked at Kaelan once more—his features, his aura, his gentle voice. A strange connection pressed against his chest, unexplainable yet undeniable.
Still, he pushed the thought aside. Perhaps it was his imagination, or perhaps fatigue from the long journey was clouding his mind. After all, Kaelan was much older than him. Carlo himself was only twenty-three.
The three of them continued their peaceful tea at the small wooden table in Kaelan's humble home, the warm scent of bread and tea blending with the faint crackle of the hearth. Outside, the wind whispered softly through the trees, while inside, their quiet conversation drifted toward the structure and design of warships—each word deepening the silent mystery that hung in the air between the Crown Prince and the man named Kaelan.
Back in the northern kingdom, night had fully settled over the castle. The corridors were hushed, the only sounds the occasional crackle from the hearth and the distant wind rattling the windowpanes. Celistine sat alone in her office, candlelight flickering across the scattered parchments that lay like a map of her restless thoughts. Every scrap of information she had gathered about the Blackthreads seemed incomplete, every lead elusive. Why had they crossed into foreign lands so suddenly? What was their purpose in the four kingdoms?
'So… that man I met at the Western Harbor… was he truly one of the Blackthreads?' she wondered, her mind tracing the fleeting memory of their conversation. A faint shiver of familiarity lingered, and her pulse quickened slightly. 'But what is their ultimate goal?'
A soft knock echoed through the quiet office.
"Enter," she commanded, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade, carrying both authority and a subtle edge of suspicion.
The door opened slowly, revealing Johanes, who stepped aside to allow a young woman to enter. She was a maid from the northern mansion, her black hair framing a tan face and striking golden eyes. Her simple uniform marked her as a servant, yet her presence carried an unusual weight, as if the shadows themselves lingered closer to her. Celistine's mind raced. Something about her reminded her of the man she had encountered in the Western Empire.
"Your Majesty," Johanes said, bowing slightly, his tone respectful yet cautious. "This is Zubara of the Blackthreads, one of the maids in our household. I believe she hails from their tribe."
Celistine's purple eyes narrowed, the candlelight casting her gaze into sharp angles. 'A spy, perhaps?' she thought, every muscle in her body tensing subtly.
"So… tell me, woman," she began, leaning forward slightly, her fingers curling under her chin. "Are you a spy for the Blackthreads?"
The young woman's eyes widened, her body instinctively lowering into a bow. A tremor ran through her hands.
"Your Majesty! I swear on my life, I am no spy. Though I am from their tribe, I beg you to believe me—I have a husband and a child living in your kingdom." Her voice quavered, yet carried the weight of earnest desperation.
Celistine paused, surprised by the sincerity, though suspicion still lingered like a shadow. "Then why are you here? What do you know of the Blackthreads?"
The young woman straightened, though her hands fidgeted nervously at her sides. Her voice, though shaken, remained steady.
"My husband… he was once a wanderer, a soul drawn to distant lands and endless horizons. During his journeys through the Blackthreads Empire, our paths crossed, and in the quiet of those fleeting moments, our hearts found one another… and we fell in love, as naturally as the night follows the day."
"Was your husband from the North?" Johanes asked, curiosity tightening his brow.
"Yes, Your Majesty," she replied. "We endured the crises of the North long before Your Majesty returned."
Celistine's thoughts sharpened. "It is said the Blackthreads are cruel—monsters in battle. They slaughter, abuse… even their slaves?"
The maid hesitated, glancing from Celistine to Johanes, her golden eyes reflecting the candlelight like molten gold. "Your Majesty, it is true—the Blackthreads soldiers are fearsome and brutal in battle. But I have never heard of them abusing their slaves or common folk."
Celistine's purple eyes searched her face, trying to pierce any trace of deceit. "Are you saying this out of fear?"
"No, Your Majesty," the woman replied firmly, her stance straightening, her voice unwavering. "I speak only the truth."
Celistine leaned closer, her gaze piercing. "Then… can you tell us why they suddenly attacked the Western Emperor's wedding?"
The young woman's face drained of color, and she pressed her palms together as if trying to steady the storm within her. From what she had known of her own tribe, the Blackthreads never acted without purpose; each strike, each move, carried meaning. Her mind raced through possibilities, the shadows of the office flickering across her thoughts. And then—like a spark igniting in the dark—an idea struck, sharp and undeniable.
"Perhaps… the Blackthreads were pursuing the previous sinful mistress of their King," she ventured carefully.
The room fell silent. Celistine's eyes widened, as did Johanes's. The candlelight flickered violently as if mirroring the sudden storm of thought in their minds.
"So, if the Blackthreads were after their King's sinful mistress, and then suddenly attacked the Western Palace… what does that mean?" Johanes asked, curling one arm across his chest, tension stiff in his shoulders. He and Celistine exchanged a sharp, silent look, understanding passing between them like a secret.
"Medeya…" Celistine whispered, her voice low, almost swallowed by the night. They already knew—the identity of the sinful mistress of the Blackthreads King had just become chillingly clear.
Outside, the wind howled through the castle towers, rattling shutters and carrying the faint scent of the Northlands, while inside, the three of them remained frozen in the candlelit office, caught between the shadows of fear and revelation.