The sun blazed over the hidden port of a foreign kingdom, its golden light glinting off the sea where the ships of the Blackthreads stood anchored in grim readiness. There, beneath the heat and the cries of distant gulls, Leonare and his men lingered, preparing for the coming war against the Western Empire.
The Blackthreads commanded more than ten thousand soldiers — a mighty force — yet Leonare's men knew that the Western Empire, when joined with the Four Kingdoms, matched their strength in number and steel.
Inside Leonare's private tent, the air smelled faintly of salt, parchment, and burning oil. He lounged lazily on a wooden chair, one leg propped upon the table, gazing absently at the canvas ceiling as if the answer to his thoughts might be written there. Across from him, his companion and ever-loyal sidekick, Havan, bent over a large map of the Four Kingdoms, tracing routes with a gloved finger, muttering to himself about possible strongholds where they could form new troops for the war to come.
Leonare's attire was as striking as his presence — a long black, open-front coat adorned with golden gears and embellishments, dark trousers traced with matching accents, and a jeweled belt that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Around his neck hung a decorative pendant that glinted whenever he moved.
Havan, in contrast, dressed like a wanderer of the desert — a light robe with ornate trim, a dark sash at his waist, and a black scarf draped loosely around his neck. His expression was calm but sharp, his every motion deliberate.
"Havan," Leonare began, his tone casual but curious, "if Minerva was crowned as the new Empress of the Four Kingdoms… then where is the former Empress of the West?"
Havan didn't look up. "Former? You mean that girl you were so intrigued by?" he replied coolly, his eyes still scanning the map.
Leonare smirked faintly. "You've heard anything about her?"
"I might have."
At that, Leonare straightened in his seat, lowering his boots to the floor, his interest suddenly rekindled. "You do?"
Havan raised a brow, finally glancing at him. "You're really fixing your posture just for her?" His tone dripped with sarcasm, and his eyebrow arched mockingly.
"Got a problem with that?" Leonare shot back, mirroring his companion's expression.
Havan sighed, exasperated, and leaned back in his chair. "Fine," he muttered. "I did send a few birds to look into her whereabouts after Minerva replaced her. Word has it she fled north. The name that kept coming up was Celistine. I don't know her full title, but that's what they call her."
Leonare's eyes flickered with interest. "Celistine…" he whispered, tasting the name like it was both a secret and a promise. His heart gave a strange thrum of excitement. He had heard whispers about her back when he was stationed in the capital of the Western Empire — stories told in the markets and among the guards. They said the former Empress was wise, graceful, and kind beyond measure. Leonare had always wondered what kind of woman could hold such a title and still inspire such warmth.
"That's all?" Leonare asked after a pause, his voice tinged with disappointment.
Havan merely gave him a look, the kind that said his commander might be losing his mind. With a long breath, he continued, "The former Empress of the Western Empire — as my scouts report — has been sheltered in the North. The North, as you know, has grown stronger these past seasons. Their armies rival even the Western Empire's now, and their borders stretch further than before. But their relations with the other three kingdoms have soured."
Havan's tone deepened, his eyes narrowing on the map. "For us Blackthreads, the North poses both a risk and an opportunity. If they ever join forces with the Three Kingdoms, even with their grudges, it could turn the tide of power against us."
Leonare leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand, his mind already spinning with schemes.
"What if," he said slowly, "we form an alliance with the North instead? Since they despise the Three Kingdoms, we might find common ground."
Havan gave him a flat look. "Don't tell me this sudden idea of yours is just an excuse to see that girl again?"
Leonare chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "Alright, fine — you caught me. Let's just say… I miss her." His grin widened, playful yet sincere. Deep down, he knew it wasn't a lie. He did miss her — the woman he had met only once yet never forgotten. Celistine, the eldest daughter of the North.
Havan exhaled, shaking his head but unable to hide a faint smirk. "Well, it's not a bad move. If we set our sights on the North, it might turn out to be our greatest advantage."
He returned his focus to the map, pointing at potential sites where they could establish their base — places hidden from both the Western and Northern scouts. Leonare, meanwhile, stared blankly ahead, lost in thought. The memory of Celistine filled his mind like a quiet flame, and the corners of his lips curved ever so slightly.
He could almost see her again — the gentle yet regal presence that had once caught his attention. It had been so long… far too long. And now, fate was stirring once more.
Soon, he thought, 'I will see her again.'
And for the first time in years, Leonare felt something akin to excitement — dangerous, reckless, but alive.
The daylight poured gently over the vast barracks of the Northern Kingdom, where the clang of steel and the thud of boots echoed through the air like the pulse of a living heart. Celistine stood amidst it all, observing with quiet grace the soldiers of the North as they trained with unyielding focus. The black-gemmed swords glimmered in the sunlight — weapons born of the mountains and tempered with the magic of their land. She paid close attention to the veteran soldiers, those whom she herself had sponsored, now training side by side with the young recruits.
Celistine wore a soft grey dress, lighter than her usual royal garments — simple yet elegant, befitting a sovereign who preferred to walk among her people rather than stand above them. The wind played with the loose strands of her hair as she watched two soldiers sparring fiercely, the black gems on their blades casting faint sparks as metal clashed against metal.
"As you can see, Your Majesty," said Sir Johanes, bowing slightly as he stepped beside her, "if we pit the younger knights using the black-gemmed blades against the older veterans who fight without them — their strength is nearly equal. But should the veterans wield the black gems as well, their power would easily surpass the others."
Celistine's lips curved into a faint smile as she watched the soldiers train with determination that stirred pride in her heart. "They are magnificent, aren't they?" Johanes remarked, his voice carrying both admiration and exhaustion.
"They are indeed, Sir Johanes," she replied softly, her eyes following a young soldier who managed to disarm his opponent with precision. "You have shaped them into something remarkable."
They continued down the long stone corridor that overlooked the training yard. The sound of swords, the scent of metal and earth, and the proud banners of the North filled the air with a sense of unbreakable resolve. Along the path, the craftsmen of the Snow Village were busy at work — known throughout the land for their unmatched skill in forging swords and shields. Their artistry, Celistine thought, was one of the North's greatest strengths.
"Any news from Carlo, my brother?" Celistine asked as they entered the council hall — a grand chamber adorned with old maps and northern crests. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching on the dust motes that danced lazily in the air.
Johanes motioned toward a wide table where a massive map of the Four Kingdoms was spread. He waited for her to sit before taking his own place beside her. Across from them stood Criston, Barron's uncle and a trusted northern knight.
"They are nearly finished with the fleet, Your Majesty," Johanes reported. "And the port of Sewatch has sent word — they are inviting you and His Majesty to their upcoming celebration."
Celistine's lips softened into a quiet smile. "It seems my brother has done his duty well."
"Inspired by Lady Rehena, no doubt," Johanes added with a teasing smirk. Celistine chuckled, shaking her head. The thought of young Prince Carlo, toiling over warships while pining for his beloved Lady Rehena, was both amusing and endearing.
'Poor boy,' she thought affectionately, as both she and Johanes shared a quiet laugh.
After the mirth settled, Celistine's expression softened with concern. "And what of Grace? Has her injury healed?" she asked, her tone laced with gentle worry. Grace, the daughter of Johanes, had long been one of Celistine's dearest companions.
"She's recovering well," Johanes replied, his voice turning subdued. "But she's been rather occupied — she accompanied Barron to the northern cells today." He hesitated, then added, "I fear my daughter has grown… fond of him."
Celistine's gaze lowered thoughtfully. She could feel the father's unease in his tone — the fear of losing his daughter's heart to a man whose loyalty was still uncertain. Barron might have proven useful, but trust was a fragile thing in the North. Yet Celistine could not bring herself to forbid Grace from seeing him. Grace had risked much for her sake — even her life — when Celistine escaped the North during darker days.
Perhaps fate, Celistine mused, had woven their paths for a reason. Perhaps Grace's presence was meant to change Barron's heart, to draw him away from his shadows. Still, a trace of doubt remained. She feared for Grace — and for Johanes, should his daughter's love end in sorrow.
"Let us wait for the right moment, Sir Johanes," Celistine said at last, her voice warm with reassurance. "Time will reveal what must be done."
Before Johanes could answer, Criston cleared his throat respectfully. "Pardon my intrusion, Your Majesty," he began, bowing slightly. "I know Barron well — perhaps better than most. He may have once served the Emperor with unwavering loyalty, but I assure you, he is not beyond redemption. Once Barron devotes himself to something… or someone… he never turns away."
Celistine lifted her gaze, curious. Criston continued with quiet conviction, "I thank Sir Johanes's daughter for reminding my nephew who he truly is. She has done more than she realises."
Though Barron was not Criston's blood, he had trained the boy since childhood. He knew the depths of Barron's discipline — and his stubbornness.
Criston bowed again. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Your Majesty. I do not wish to restore his image in your eyes, only to tell you the truth as I know it."
Celistine sat silently for a moment, his words echoing through her thoughts. She remembered Barron's eyes — cold yet burdened with something unspoken. It wasn't the North he seemed to desire… but Grace herself.
"Perhaps," Celistine murmured, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips, "we shall find a time when I can truly trust him."
Her gaze shifted back to the great map before her, the symbols of the Blackthreads marked in ink. Her expression hardened slightly, returning to her duty. "Until then," she whispered, her fingers brushing across the map's edge, "I will use every detail we have — for the North's sake."
And in that quiet chamber, beneath the banners of snow and steel, Celistine's calm eyes burned with a fire that spoke of both grace and strength — the mark of a ruler born to endure the storm.