"Long time no see," Medeya said, her voice light but sharp with amusement. Her ladies-in-waiting tittered behind her, whispering and mocking in low tones that carried through the courtyard.
For Celistine, the sight of the Empress was no surprise. Medeya had already predicted she would attend the meeting in her father's place — not the King of the North, not any envoy, but Celistine herself. And it wasn't just Medeya who had anticipated her arrival; even Maxon and the Emperor were expecting her. It was clear that Celistine needed to stay alert, even if she still believed she had made the right decision to bring Leon along on this journey.
Medeya was dressed like a jewel in the sun. She wore a magnificent off-the-shoulder ballgown in deep sapphire blue, the bodice embroidered with golden vines that shimmered with every breath she took. The full skirt flowed like water, its fabric layered and kissed with gold embellishments. Around her neck glimmered a matching choker and bracelet, and her silver-white hair was tied into a perfect bun, adorned with gemstones that sparkled beneath the daylight. Her sky-blue eyes gleamed coldly — perfectly matching her dress.
Celistine's eyes briefly wandered over her gown — not out of envy, but quiet calculation. She thought to herself, if Medeya continues wearing such extravagant things every day, I won't be shocked if the Western Empire falls into bankruptcy.
"Long time no see, Your Majesty the Empress," Celistine replied, placing a hand over her chest in courtesy. But she did not bow. Medeya, in her eyes, had never earned that kind of respect.
"The Empress's title certainly suits me, don't you think, ladies?" Medeya grinned, her gaze cutting like glass. Her ladies-in-waiting laughed nervously, their faces pale as they hurried to agree. Medeya basked in it, her chin tilted proudly — flaunting her power before Celistine like a peacock showing its feathers.
"May I proceed to the meeting hall now, Your Majesty?" Celistine asked with a forced smile, her patience thinning. "I believe we've already greeted each other properly."
She stepped forward, but Medeya swiftly blocked her path, her smirk returning. Celistine's brow twitched; irritation began to hum beneath her calm expression.
"I'm afraid you're too late," Medeya said, voice dripping with false sweetness. "The meeting has already finished — quite some time ago, in fact."
Celistine met her eyes with a calm that only made Medeya's smugness grow. "Oh? Is that so? Then perhaps I should see it for myself," she said coolly, brushing past Medeya and deliberately bumping her shoulder.
Her gown, regal and striking, was an elegant contrast to Medeya's excess. Celistine's off-the-shoulder dress was crafted in black and crimson, the bodice trimmed with gold embroidery. A flowing red cape hung from her shoulders, and a delicate golden headpiece crowned her braided updo, glinting softly as she moved. Her golden hair, tied into a loose bun with a few strands framing her face, gave her an air both graceful and formidable. Around her neck hung a simple cross pendant — a quiet mark of strength.
"You—!" Medeya hissed, her temper flaring. She raised a hand, ready to seize Celistine's arm, when a voice interrupted them.
"Greetings, Your Highness."
Both women turned. Standing before them was Maxon, bowing politely — though there was a trace of mockery in his tone.
So he's replaced Barron as the Emperor's supervisor, Celistine thought, studying his composed demeanour.
"Why are you here?" Medeya snapped, glaring at her younger brother. Her look was a silent command: stay out of this.
But Maxon ignored her. Instead, he turned to Celistine, his expression charming but unreadable. "Your Highness," he said smoothly, "the Emperor requests the presence of the King of the North. May I ask if he's in the carriage with you?"
His words were a calculated strike. Everyone knew only kings were allowed to attend the Council of Four — no woman had ever been permitted to take part.
"I'm afraid the King of the North is too old to travel such a long journey," Celistine replied, placing a hand on her chest in graceful apology.
"Oh, really?" Maxon's smile widened slightly. "Then may I see the future King of the North, perhaps?" His tone dripped with provocation, each word intended to test her composure.
"My brother had urgent matters to attend," Celistine answered calmly, her voice steady despite the challenge. "Therefore, I am the only one who can represent our kingdom."
"Then," Maxon said, his smirk fading into politeness, "let us hope the Emperor and the others will not be too uncomfortable with such an arrangement."
He extended an arm, half in mockery, half in courtesy. "Allow me to escort you to the hall."
Celistine accepted with a composed nod, Criston stepping close behind her, watchful and tense. Behind them, Medeya stood frozen in the courtyard — lips pressed tight, humiliated.
As they walked through the long marble corridor, Celistine found her gaze drawn to Maxon's back. His dark blue suit, laced with silver embroidery, caught the light with each movement. His white hair, tousled yet neat, reminded her too much of his sister's — and that alone made her uneasy.
Still, she wasn't nervous. She had faced worse than court mockery. What stirred inside her was not fear, but curiosity — a quiet question that had lingered since she left the North. How will Harold react when he sees me again?
Their steps echoed as they reached the grand doors of the meeting hall — the heart of the Eastern Empire's mansion. Celistine took a deep breath, bracing herself for what awaited beyond.
Then, without hesitation, she entered.
As Celistine entered the grand meeting room of the Four Kingdoms, a still hush greeted her. The chamber was vast and solemn, built of marble and gold, with banners of each kingdom hanging proudly from the arched ceiling. In the centre stood a massive round table, its surface polished to a gleam. At it's heart were four white circular relics — each glowing faintly, a symbol of unity among the realms.
Harold's gaze lifted the moment she stepped through the doors. His expression was unreadable, but the glint in his dark eyes betrayed familiarity — as though he had expected her all along.
Celistine walked with steady grace to the front, her gown whispering across the marble floor. She placed her hand on her chest and bowed her head slightly.
"Greetings, Your Majesty, the Emperor," she said softly, her tone calm but commanding.
Before she could sit, Harold's voice cut through the still air.
"We wish to speak to the King, not you, Celistine," he said coldly, folding his arms. He sat in the centre between the two other monarchs — King Malvorn Orryn Casinova of the Eastern Empire and King Arthur Cedric Mondelia of the South.
Celistine did not flinch. Instead, she strode to the empty seat meant for the North — directly across from Harold — and lowered herself into it with deliberate pride. Her chin lifted, eyes unyielding. She would not be treated as a mere substitute. The North no longer bends to anyone, she thought.
As expected, Maxon stood beside Harold like a shadow, while the attendants of the other kings waited silently behind their lords. At Celistine's side stood Criston, alert and watchful — his hand never straying far from his sword.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty the Emperor, and my lords," Celistine said, carefully lifting the edge of her gown before taking her seat. Her fingers brushed one of the glowing relics — the ritual mark of attendance — before folding neatly upon her lap. "I am here on behalf of my father, who is no longer able to travel such long distances. My brother, on the other hand, attends to urgent matters within the North."
"What matters could possibly be more urgent than a summons from the Emperor?" King Arthur interrupted, his voice gravelly but strong. He sipped his tea, eyes narrowing with disdain. Age had marked his face, but his authority remained as sharp as steel.
"Indeed," said King Malvorn of the East, flicking his hand in mockery. "If this is how the future King of the North behaves, I fear he lacks both knowledge and etiquette."
Their words might have cut another, but Celistine merely inclined her head slightly, her expression cool as stone. She knew they were insulting her brother Carlo, who even now fought against the pests they themselves had unleashed upon the North.
"Well, my lords, I beg your apologies—"
"Is that all you can do?" Harold interrupted sharply. "Apologies in place of your father and brother? Or are they too afraid to attend this meeting themselves — so they sent you instead?"
Celistine's eyes hardened. Her stare met Harold's without hesitation, violet irises glinting with frost.
"What kind of meeting is this?" King Malvorn slammed his palm against the table. "A woman should not represent her kingdom in a council of kings. It is wholly inappropriate!"
"I did warn the Princess of the North that this might be improper," Maxon said smoothly, lowering his head in feigned respect — though his lips curved with pride, eager to impress the assembly.
Criston's jaw tightened. His hand clenched around his sword hilt, the tendons in his wrist visible. He was seconds away from drawing it, his loyalty burning hotter than his temper. But Celistine only lifted a hand, halting him. Her composure remained unshaken — cold, unreadable, dangerous.
She could see it clearly now — the way they had all gathered against her, trying to break her spirit through mockery. It was not anger she felt but a quiet, confident defiance.
Then she smiled. A slow, knowing smile that unsettled even Harold.
"I no longer care about etiquette," she said softly, her tone sharp as glass. "I am here to clarify matters concerning the North, Your Majesty. Am I correct?"
Her fingers interlaced on the table, elbows resting lightly upon its edge. Her gaze did not waver from Harold's.
Harold leaned back, crossing his arms again. "And what of the North?" he asked, his lips curling.\
"They still appear weak to me."
"They don't even have half the strength of our armies," scoffed King Arthur, chuckling into his teacup.
"Oh? Is that so?" Celistine tilted her head, her smile deepening. "Then perhaps His Majesty the Emperor should allow his attendant to explain what news he received from the North — since one of his spies was caught there."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Harold's brow furrowed. Both kings turned their heads sharply towards Maxon, whose composure faltered for the briefest second. He knew then — he had walked straight into her trap.
Celistine's mind flickered back to her sister, Cilist — the true architect behind their plan. She had advised letting one of Maxon's shadows infiltrate the North, only to capture him later. The idea was brilliant: let the spy report their strength himself. That way, the truth would strike harder when it came from the Emperor's own servant.
Harold's jaw tightened, his face shadowed with disbelief — and irritation.
"Well," Maxon began stiffly, his tone clipped, "if I may speak, my lord — the North now possesses a massive army of twelve thousand knights, including Late veterans. They've also built ten advanced warships and secured enough supplies to feed the entire kingdom."
He paused, his gaze cutting towards Celistine with a subtle sneer, as if to say, Are you satisfied now?
Celistine only smiled, the corner of her lips lifting slightly.
The room fell into stunned silence. Even the two kings exchanged uneasy glances. Harold, however, remained motionless — only his eyes darkened.
Of course, he had already known. Maxon had informed him beforehand. Yet what truly unsettled him wasn't the news — it was Celistine's composure, her confidence, the way she sat before him not as a broken woman but as an equal.
So this is why I summoned her, he thought. To see if I could still bend her.
But as he looked at her now — proud, poised, and radiant — something twisted painfully inside him. She was no longer the timid woman he once commanded. Her beauty had only grown sharper, her poise more regal.
'Why does she look even more beautiful after our divorce?' he thought bitterly. 'She should be mourning, not blooming.'
Celistine caught his stare and met it head-on — a silent challenge between two who once knew each other's hearts too well.
"Is this true, Your Majesty?" asked King Malvorn, still reeling in disbelief.
Harold's jaw flexed as he answered, "Yes, my lords. The North we once knew is no longer the same."
His voice was steady, but his eyes — dark and burning — were fixed entirely on Celistine. The sight of her, sitting there with that cunning smile and proud chin, made his chest tighten with something between admiration and resentment.
So this is the woman I thought I could destroy, he thought grimly. And yet here she stands, untouchable.