"ENOUGH!" Harold thundered, slamming his hand onto the table with such force that the sound reverberated through the chamber, silencing everyone. Even Celistine paused, though not out of fear—she merely rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, her expression one of cool disdain.
"If you refuse to participate in this war, then at least return my soldiers," Harold commanded, his tone sharp and uncompromising.
"Your soldiers? What do you mean?" Celistine asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The late veteran soldiers… those originally under my father, which you claim as yours," Harold said, his voice tinged with the certainty of ownership. Yet Celistine's expression remained incredulous, almost mocking, as if his words were laughable. Beside her, Criston's face betrayed a flicker of worry—he feared she might actually yield to the Eastern Emperor's demands.
"I'm sorry, I cannot do that," Celistine said firmly, her voice calm, yet resolute.
"And why, my lady? I believe the Emperor did not grant you permission to take what is not yours," Maxon added, his lips curling into a teasing, almost predatory smile.
"Really? I did not claim them of my own accord. They sought me out because the very Emperor you serve neglected them," Celistine replied, a smirk playing upon her lips. Harold's eyes widened, for her words were indisputably true. Indeed, Harold had turned his back on the veterans, shunning them as reminders of his foolish father's failures. Meanwhile, the two monarchs, King Arthur and King Malvorn, watched in disbelief, unable to comprehend how Harold could squander such capable men.
"So, then it seems I must retrieve them myself," Harold said, his glare slicing toward Celistine.
Celistine's smirk widened. "Then if you want them back, you shall pay me, of course."
"Ha! How audacious! And why should I pay you for what? When it was you who decided to take them?" Harold snapped, mocking, yet Celistine did not flinch; she allowed his insult to roll off her, untouched.
"Pay me eight hundred thousand Moonshards as repayment for two years of sponsoring your so-called army. I provided them with advanced swords, armour, and maintenance, not to mention their already honed swordsmanship. There is nothing left for you to claim but use them as you will," Celistine said, gesturing with her hand as though she were a merchant selling her wares.
Criston's worry deepened; he feared she might truly bargain with such a greedy Emperor. Leaning closer to her ear, he whispered, his voice tinged with desperation, "Are you certain, Your Highness? You wish to sell us off?"
Celistine leaned forward, covering her mouth to ensure no one else could hear. "Do not worry… even if they could afford to purchase your services, I will not surrender you," she assured him with a wink. Relieved, Criston returned to his post, standing tall beside her, clad in his black-and-red Northern Knight uniform with armour gleaming beneath the light.
"This is absurd! Is this the measure of your greed, Celistine?" Harold shouted, unable to restrain his fury. "Do you truly intend to go this far when all we desire is peace?" His tone softened, laced with false pity, attempting to manipulate her.
"Peace?" Celistine mocked, her voice sharp as a blade. "Peace exists only in your perception, Harold. Had you not enslaved the North in hardship, perhaps I would stand with you now, facing the Blackthreads."
"Are you still unable to move on, Celistine? Now is the time for unity; we face a grave threat," Harold said, his frustration spilling through, veins taut at his temples.
"Unity? You mean using the North as your battlefield, pushing my troops into suicide while you and your companions take all the credit—is that your game, Harold?" Celistine's eyes blazed dark purple with resentment, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury.
"That is precisely why women are forbidden from this assembly—they are such a headache," King Arthur muttered, massaging his forehead, yet Celistine caught his glance.
"You know nothing, Celistine, because you are a woman. You do not understand what you are doing!" Harold burst, his anger boiling over. "Do you intend to side with the Blackthreads merely to enact your revenge?"
"No… I shall not side with any of you. But one thing I will make perfectly clear, Harold," Celistine said, her voice cold and piercing, meeting his gaze with unwavering intensity. Harold shifted uneasily under her stare.
"If you launch a sudden attack on the North, we will be forced to align with the Blackthreads, and your kingdom will face peril," she warned, each word deliberate and firm.
"Is that a threat, my lady?" King Malvorn of the Eastern Empire asked, raising an eyebrow. Celistine turned her attention to him with a measured, icy gaze.
"No," she said, smirking, rising gracefully from her seat. "It is a warning. I shall take my leave, for I am here to make it clear: the North will not side with any of you." She turned her back on the three monarchs, Criston standing steadfast beside her.
As Celistine reached the door, Western guards suddenly crossed their swords, blocking her passage—Harold's command clear. Her eyes widened, and a flicker of nervousness tugged at her heart, while Criston positioned himself behind her, shielding her from harm.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, fury flaring, spinning to face Harold. He grinned, alongside the other two monarchs, and she realized they were attempting to trap her. Her hands trembled behind her skirt, memories of past entrapments flooding back. Her brows knitted in frustration.
"Do you truly believe I will let you leave without securing what I desire?" Harold said, rising slowly from his seat, each deliberate step towards her radiating menace.
Criston sprang forward, drawing his sword to block Harold, but Harold did not flinch. A signal from him, and three guards lunged, restraining Criston.
"Wha-what are you doing?!" Criston shouted, struggling as the guards forced him to the ground, bending his knees painfully, hands bound behind his back.
"Criston! Ack!" Celistine cried, watching in horror as the guards pinned him. Two men seized her by the shoulders, restraining her as Harold approached.
Suddenly, Harold's hand gripped her delicate chin, forcing her face upward so that their eyes met, dangerously close. Celistine's eyes widened with anger and disbelief, yet she felt powerless under his touch.
"You never learn, Celistine," Harold said, a cruel, lingering grin tugging at his lips, his dark eyes fixed on her violet gaze with a predatory intensity. He leaned closer, so near that his breath brushed against her face, his eyes flickering with a dangerous curiosity as they roamed her red lips. "I wonder… what your lips taste like," he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, almost teasing.
"No!" Celistine shouted, struggling to break free, but his grip was relentless, unyielding. Her eyes squeezed shut, a mixture of fear and defiance warring within her. Her heart hammered against her chest, terror twisting with indignation. Bitterly, she thought that had she foreseen this, she would have struck at the Western Empire long ago. Yet amid the chaos, one thought clung to her—a fragile hope that someone she trusted would come to her save.
"Leon…" she murmured, her voice barely audible, a trembling whisper that sent a ripple of shock through Harold.
"What?" he demanded, eyes narrowing, his curiosity piqued and a dark edge of threat in his tone.
But suddenly—
BANG!
Harold's attempted kiss was interrupted by the sudden crash of the door bursting open. A knight, injured, stumbled inside, and all eyes widened in disbelief, including Harold's.
A familiar figure strode swiftly toward Celistine, and her eyes widened in disbelief as she felt the warmth of a man's chest. His arm wrapped firmly yet protectively around her shoulders, shielding her as if nothing could harm her while he held her close.
"I believe my lady called my name," Leon announced, the ever-unexpected savior, barging into the chamber with impeccable timing. Shock rippled through the room; even Harold could scarcely believe that the man standing before him was the leader of the Blackthreads, the same Leon he had once fought against at his own wedding.
*********
In the morning, Rehena and Barron decided to stroll through the township of the Eastern Kingdom, a place overflowing with impoverished folk, begging for scraps along the streets. Though the Eastern Empire was famed for its abundance of food and resources, it had miserably failed to care for its own people. Rehena could not help but notice that the kingdom was just the same from the Western Empire, infamous for its greed and neglect.
The three guards assigned to Rehena had already spread out, investigating every corner of the Eastern Empire for details they might uncover. As Rehena and Barron passed through the filthy slum, Rehena was clad in a simple brown commoner's dress with a matching cloak, while Barron wore a brown long-sleeved tunic, trousers, boots, and a cloak. They were disguised as ordinary townsfolk, blending into the crowd, though Barron remained alert, noticing the many guards roaming the streets.
"My lady… stay close to me, so you won't get lost," Barron murmured. Rehena nodded silently, staying just behind him as they walked cautiously along the street.
Suddenly, Rehena collided with a small child—a little girl, her brown hair messy, wearing a dress stitched together from scraps. She was so thin that Rehena's heart ached; in neither the Northern Kingdom nor her own city had she never seen children suffering in such dire poverty.
"Miss… I'm hungry… could you give me some money?" the girl whimpered, tugging at Rehena's dress. Barron instinctively moved to shoo her away, but Rehena gently stopped him. Kneeling, she faced the child, placing her hands on the girl's shoulders.
"How old are you, my child?" Rehena asked with a soft smile. She reached into her pocket and produced a a small pocket of moonshards.
"I'm seven… my mother is sick," the girl whispered. Rehena's heart twisted even tighter at the words. She handed the girl a small pouch of Moonshards, carefully placing it into the child's trembling palm. Guiding the girl's hands to close it, she smiled warmly.
"Keep this a secret, and go to your mother quickly," Rehena instructed.
"Thank you, Miss!" the girl exclaimed, hugging her tightly before running off toward her home. Rehena stood and brushed the dirt from her dress, glancing to her left, where Barron walked beside her. Her eyes widened as she realized that everyone in the slum had witnessed her act of kindness.
"Yo—you gave money to that child?" an old woman demanded, pointing at Rehena.
"Are you here to give charity to us?" another asked, hope lighting their weary faces.
"Please, noble lady, lend us money!" yet another implored.
Rehena stepped back instinctively as more and more people approached, hands reaching greedily toward the pouch tucked in her dress. Barron's eyes narrowed, alarmed at the swelling crowd, and he tried to get closer to her—but the pressing mass of people made it impossible.
"My lady!" Barron shouted from a few meters away. Rehena's eyes widened in panic. She was trapped. The crowd surged around her like ravenous beasts, all calling, "Give us money!" "We are starving!" "We are hungry!"
"No—no! Stay away!" she cried, hands trembling as she struggled. Fingers tugged at her dress, a hand grasped her waist. The terror of the crowd pressed in from all sides. Barron pulled back slightly, trying desperately to reach her, but distance and the throng made it impossible. Rehena's eyes squeezed shut; her body shook with fear and helplessness.
"Help!" she shouted.
"Kyaaa!" she screamed again as someone seized her waist from the side. A flash of light blinded her for a moment. Opening her eyes in shock, she saw a tall man—around 6'4", black hair cut short in a soft, textured style, red eyes striking against pale skin—grasp her firmly. In an instant, he lifted her out of the crowd and flung the pouch of Moonshards onto the marble floor. Coins scattered in every direction, and the starving townsfolk scrambled eagerly to collect them.
Rehena looked up, astonished, as the mysterious man carried her safely away from the pressing, desperate crowd. At last, both she and her enigmatic savior had escaped the chaos unscathed.