As the first pale light of dawn stretched across the sky, Celistine and Grace moved with quiet purpose, preparing to depart. The air was still cool, kissed by the faint scent of morning dew that clung gently to the leaves and grass around the palace gardens. It was the twenty-third day of the sixth moon, a time long marked by tradition—when the Empress took her twice-yearly journey to the town below. She came not only to observe but to feel the pulse of her people, to witness the whispers of life within the Western Empire's vast estates, where prosperity and hardship intertwined beneath the same sky.
Yet beneath the guise of duty, Celistine's heart carried a secret weight. She sought to glean hidden truths, to find those who might aid her in sending vital letters northward—letters that could alter the course of kingdoms. Grace, ever faithful, stood close, a silent sentinel beside her, her eyes reflecting the concern and loyalty she held for her Empress.
When the Empress settled within the carriage, the sturdy frame flanked by twenty steadfast soldiers, Harold watched from the shadowed window of his chamber, his breath steady but cold as ice. His hands folded behind his back, he traced the slow movement of the carriage as it began its path through the waking streets of the capital, his gaze sharp and unyielding.
"Barron," his voice came low, threading through the quiet stillness of the room.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the reply was swift and certain, the voice of a man who had long learned to obey without question.
"You know what you must do," Harold said, his tone steady and cold as winter's breath. His eyes never left the fading figure of Celistine, for each of her twice-yearly patrols was watched with hawk-like vigilance. Hidden eyes followed her every step, tracing her movements and those of her trusted Grace. For Harold knew well that beneath her calm lay plans not yet revealed—plans that might yet turn the tide against him and unravel his own carefully woven power.
With a swift motion, Barron departed, shadows swallowing his form as he moved to summon the network of spies bound to the Empress's secret path.
Within the carriage, Celistine and Grace journeyed in peaceful silence, the soft rhythm of the wheels carrying them through the quiet dawn. Celistine's eyes drifted to the town spread beneath them—Zerifia's mansion poised gently atop the hill. It was not a towering fortress, but perched just enough to require a winding path before one could descend to the bustling streets below. From her seat by the window, Celistine could see the hill's gentle slope unfolding into the heart of the town, bathed in the soft, golden hues of early morning.
Every glance at Zerifia's town filled her with a quiet joy, stirred by the serene beauty of the Western Empire. Yet beneath that joy lay a heaviness she could not cast aside. Though she dwelled here, among the prosperity of the West, her thoughts remained with the Northern Kingdom—wondering how it fared, her mind quietly weaving plans for what must come. The divide between these realms was not just land, but fate itself.
Grace noticed the subtle shadow clouding Celistine's eyes and gently broke the silence.
"What weighs on you, Your Majesty?" she asked, voice soft with care.
"I worry for the Northern Kingdom," Celistine answered, her tone touched with sorrow. Feeling the weight of her Empress's burden, Grace reached out and took both of Celistine's hands within her own, offering comfort through the simple touch.
"We will face it together," Grace said with a hopeful smile, steady and reassuring. "Whatever may come, we will endure."
A faint smile flickered on Celistine's lips, warmed by Grace's steadfast support.
"We will survive," Celistine whispered, a prayer lifted silently to the stars. She turned back to the window, her gaze lingering on the horizon, where duty and destiny awaited her still.
While Celistine's steps carried her down the winding path toward the town on her patrol, the castle walls kept a secret in their shadow. Beneath the ancient boughs of towering trees, where sunlight dared not fall, a woman in a cloak of weathered brown stood unseen. Beside her lingered a man draped in the same muted hue, both faces hidden beneath the fold of their hoods. They spoke in low voices, their words like whispers caught between leaves, shrouded in mystery and dread.
"You know what must be done," the woman said, her voice soft, yet iron-bound with command.
"Yes, my lady," the man replied, his tone steady as stone, almost daring in its certainty.
"If your hand moves cleanly, if no trace is left behind, I shall grant you the place your heart has long sought."
At this, she turned away, the hem of her cloak stirring the moss underfoot, and they drifted apart—two shadows dissolving into the forest's breath.
Her path led her to a modest, weatherworn door—one she had crossed before. It opened into a dim vault of wine, the air heavy with oak, dust, and the quiet sigh of years gone by. She slipped deeper, passing into a narrow passage, and paused before the threshold of the scullery.
Here she gathered herself. Fingers brushed the folds of her cloak into place, smoothing each line with a precision born of habit. In the muted half-light, she drew back the hood and let it fall.
A cascade of hair, white as winter's first snow, spilled over her shoulders, catching the dim gleam from a high, narrow window. Eyes the hue of deep ice met the shadows—cold, luminous, and strangely untouchable. Her gown, of silk the same pure shade, clung with an elegance that whispered of courts and crowns.
She emerged into the scullery where the head chef, flushed and glistening, inclined his head in greeting.
"Lady Medeya, have you discovered His Majesty's pleasure?" he asked, the strain of both duty and awe in his voice.
Medeya's smile was a gentle blade—soft in appearance, sharp in truth.
"I believe His Majesty would favour tea over wine," she said, her lie gliding from her tongue as though woven from silk.
Without lingering, she passed through, shunning the kitchen's stifling heat and the stench of broth thick with grease. The clatter of pans and the sweat of men seemed to her a vulgar intrusion upon grace. In her thoughts, she dismissed them—undisciplined, unworthy, and utterly beneath her.
With measured, unhurried steps, she slipped from the noise and the heat, her mind already fixed upon where Harold awaited.
When Celistine reached the outer border of the Westerial Empire—a sprawling expanse where commoners and townsfolk lived in earnest—the sheer breadth of the population struck her. Over eighty thousand souls made their homes here, and poverty was a stubborn shadow none could deny. Yet, by the grace and benevolence of Empress Celistine, these humble folk were offered hope: sturdier houses, steady support to ease their burdens. To an untrained eye, the outer border might not seem a commoner's refuge, for the people carried themselves with fierce pride and sharp purpose. Still, Celistine ensured that wheat and provisions were supplied regularly, sustaining the daily lives of her subjects.
A quiet happiness warmed her as she observed the lines of villagers patiently awaiting their share of grain. The soft murmurs of gratitude, the gentle rustling of cloth, and the eager anticipation of hopeful faces filled the air with a fragile peace. Suddenly, a figure broke through the crowd—a young girl with fiery red-orange hair, freckles dusting her cheeks, no older than sixteen. Her eyes glistened with tears; her steps were hurried, trembling with fear, as if chased by shadows unseen.
Two guards moved swiftly to block her path, but Celistine's voice rang out with unwavering authority, dismissing them. The girl fell to her knees before the Empress, bowing her head low. The gathered crowd fell silent, all eyes fixed on this strange exchange—the poor girl and the Empress in an unspoken bond.
Celistine knelt and gently raised the girl's chin, her hand warm as she wiped away the tears streaming down the frightened face. Her voice softened with genuine concern.
"What ails you, my child?"
"M-my…" the girl choked, tears spilling freely as words failed her. Celistine gathered her into a comforting embrace, holding her close until the tremors stilled.
"My father is sick. Please, Your Grace, help him," she whispered, desperation thick in her voice.
Without hesitation, Celistine, alongside her faithful maid Grace and her guards, hurried through the nearby lanes—no more than five houses away—to the girl's home. They reached a modest, green-painted shop, once a small bakery adorned with delicate cupcakes—the 'Greenery Bakeshop'—now cold and shuttered.
Inside, an elderly woman greeted the Empress with a weary nod. Together, they entered a dim chamber where the girl's father lay, fragile and gasping for breath, each breath ragged and shallow. The man's skin burned with fever, his body frail and wasted.
Celistine quickly pressed a warm cloth to his brow, her hands steady and gentle despite the tension tightening her chest.
"What has he eaten? Why has this befallen him?" she asked, eyes sharp, seeking answers in the worried faces around her.
"We know not, Your Grace," the wife answered, clutching Celistine's hand as if for life itself. "Three days past, my husband returned from Renia City with wheat for our bakery. Since then, he has fallen ill. Five days now, we have been unable to open."
Celistine's gaze darkened as she examined the man closely. Her knowledge of herbs and poisons, honed since her youth, stirred memories.
"My father gave me these," the girl said, producing small black berries, glossy and round like grapes.
Recognition flashed in Celistine's eyes. She had encountered these same berries years ago—back when she was but sixteen, travelling with her father, King Henry, in the Northern Kingdom. At that time, a brief stop in Renia City had led to a similar poison, one that had felled her with fever. She had survived only by the grace of elderflower tea—a rare remedy brewed from a flower that bloomed but once a year.
"There is no cause for fear," Celistine said, voice calm yet resolute. "Though these berries are poisonous, they will not claim his life. With care, your husband will recover in time—perhaps within two weeks."
She prepared to depart, but the worry etched on the wife's face stopped her.
"Your Grace, is there no way to hasten his healing?" the woman pleaded, dropping to her knees.
Grace stepped forward, curiosity and concern mingling in her tone. "May we ask what brought this poison to him?"
The woman's voice trembled. "My husband sources wheat from Renia City—it is the cheapest we can afford, necessary to keep bread affordable for the common folk. If we delay any longer, our bakery will close, and ruin will follow. Our earnings today were meant for that very purchase."
Celistine's eyes met Grace's, a sudden understanding passing between them.
"Grace, bring me the elderflower," Celistine commanded.
Grace's face paled in shock. "But Your Grace, there is only one—and it is reserved for you alone. Should you fall ill—"
"Go," Celistine snapped, her glare brooking no refusal.
With a heavy heart, Grace bowed and hurried back to the royal clinic to retrieve the precious elderflower—the rare bloom that flourished but once each year in the Eastern Empire, a costly treasure reserved for royalty alone.
While Celistine waited for Grace to return with the elderflower, a man cloaked in dark brown lingered just outside the Greenery Bakeshop, hidden in the shadowed alley. His eyes gleamed with malice as he surveyed the quiet street, waiting for the perfect moment. With a cruel grin, he pulled a sharp stone from his cloak and, with swift precision, slashed the rump of one of the horses pulling Celistine's carriage.
The carriage was drawn by four powerful steeds — a sudden, wild bolt would turn them into a dangerous force of destruction. If the horses charged uncontrollably, chaos would ensue, and Celistine, along with any bystanders, would be at grave risk.
"Ha! Just waiting for the perfect moment," the man muttered to himself, his voice low and venomous.
Moments later, Grace arrived from the main mansion. Celistine instructed the sick man's wife to boil the elderflower. Soon, the fragrant tea was ready, and they carefully fed it to the fevered man. Hours passed as they waited in tense silence.
Finally, the man's breathing steadied; the fever broke. Relief flooded the room.
"Thank you, Your Grace," the wife whispered, tears of gratitude shimmering in her eyes. "May the heavens bless you."
But Celistine's face darkened with frustration. "We need your help, Ma'am."
The woman's brow furrowed in confusion. Celistine gestured for Grace to bring the girl outside, wanting a private word with the wife.
Grace's eyes darted around cautiously, ensuring no eavesdroppers. She already sensed the gravity of Celistine's request.
In the heavy silence, the woman—Ana—finally spoke, voice trembling but steady. "What can we do for you, my Empress?"
Celistine's voice dropped to a whisper, her gaze unwavering. "You and your husband must travel north—to the City of Renia—to purchase wheat."
Ana's eyes widened in disbelief. "But why, Your Majesty?"
"It's a long story," Celistine said, a flicker of greed and desperation in her eyes. "I need you to deliver a letter across the northern border—secretly. No one can know, not even the Emperor. Only you and I."
Ana's face drained of color. "I'm sorry, Your Grace, but the north is heavily guarded. If we cross, we may never return. We would be forced to live in isolation for the rest of our days."
Celistine's mind raced—Harold's heavy guard on the northern border made more sense now. She pleaded, her voice soft but urgent.
"Please, Ana. I know you can find a way to enter unseen."
Ana's resolve wavered, but fear held firm. "I wish I could help, but we cannot. Thank you for the elderflower. We will repay your kindness, Your Majesty."
She bowed her head in sorrow. Celistine understood—Ana's family's survival was at stake.
A heavy sadness settled over Celistine as she turned away, murmuring a quiet prayer to the heavens: Oh, dear Heavenly God, please guide me.
She stepped slowly out of Ana's home, the weight of failure heavy upon her shoulders. Grace followed silently, sensing the Empress's despair.
As Celistine walked through the street beside the Greenery Bakeshop, the sun dipped low, painting the sky with fiery hues of orange and crimson—the day's last light waning toward dusk. She lifted her eyes, searching the fading glow, wondering what fate awaited her next.
Suddenly, a voice broke the stillness.
"Your Majesty!"
Melody, the red-orange-haired girl with freckles, rushed forward and threw her arms tightly around Celistine.
"Thank you! Thank you, Your Majesty! My father is awake! The fever has broken!" Melody's joy shone bright in her eyes.
A flicker of comfort warmed Celistine's heart. She returned the embrace, squeezing the girl gently, the sadness in her own soul momentarily eased by Melody's hope.
But then—a thundering roar shattered the moment.
Four wild horses from Celistine's carriage came hurtling toward them at terrifying speed—uncontrolled, wild-eyed, and furious.
With barely a moment to react, Celistine shoved Melody out of harm's way.
"YOUR MAJESTY!" Grace's scream tore through the chaos.
The impact was brutal.
Celistine was thrown backward as one of the horses slammed into her. Her head struck the hard ground with a sickening crack, blood blossoming across her temple.
Confusion swirled through her fading senses; Grace's frantic voice echoed dimly.
And then, darkness claimed her.