Celistine had slipped away to a quiet corner of the Duke's mansion, a secluded spot where she and Harold could speak undisturbed. They settled in the open garden, a few meters away from Maxon and Leon, facing each other like two adversaries poised on the edge of something inevitable.
"What now, Harold?" Celistine asked, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, her brows knitting in irritation at his sudden demand to speak alone.
"Why so angry?" Harold's tone was sharp, laced with his usual impatience whenever he addressed her. "Do you really need to do this, Celistine?" He waved a hand almost dismissively, feigning concern, and the gesture made Celistine recoil inwardly, a wave of disgust rising in her throat.
"Are you… threatened, Your Majesty?" she shot back, raising her brow at him.
"It's not that," Harold replied, his voice darkening. "But do you truly intend to spill blood just for vengeance? To act this way over what I did to the North?" His words carried blame, carefully pointed, as if trying to bend her guilt around his own actions.
"Ha!" Celistine's laugh was sharp, bitter. "So now it's my fault for feeling this way? You people only see how terrible someone can become after you've broken them. You're the one who made me like this, Harold!" Her purple eyes blazed, fierce and unyielding, her frown deepening. Harold's composure faltered; even his anger needed restraint now, measured carefully, for he knew he had to tame her first, regain some semblance of her favour.
"You're acting like a child, Celistine," Harold murmured as he stepped closer, slowly, cautiously. Celistine recoiled instinctively, wary of what he might attempt.
"This isn't you," he continued, his eyes gleaming. "Where is the Celistine I once knew—the daughter of the North, the Empress giver of kin? Do you truly wish to squander that legacy for revenge?"
"Empress? You have already… Medeya, Harold? What a bluff," Celistine spat the words, each one dripping with contempt, mocking every syllable that fell from his mouth.
"Is there anything I can do to appease you?" Harold's face softened with an expression that almost betrayed genuine concern. Celistine's eyes narrowed; she recognized the ploy immediately. Another bait, another scheme designed to ensnare her.
"To appease me? Really?" Her voice was incredulous. "How could you possibly appease me? You've already destroyed my kingdom, ruined everything I held dear, and you… ruined me, Harold!" Her hands gestured wildly in frustration, trembling slightly as the fury in her chest battled with the sorrow she struggled to contain.
"I loved you from the day we married," she admitted, her voice faltering, trembling on the brink of tears. "And what did you do? You neglected me, treated me as if I were invisible, just another subject among your people!" Her words were raw, a painful confession, and Harold felt a pang of something he hadn't expected—regret, or perhaps the tiniest flicker of conscience—but deep within, he knew he needed to continue pressing, to reclaim the fragile tether of her heart.
"Do you know what hurts, Harold?" Celistine whispered, placing a hand over her chest, her voice breaking. "I loved you with a depth that threatened to drown me, so fiercely that I nearly abandoned everything—my people, my duty—just to be yours." She hadn't realized the tears had begun to fall, glistening on her cheeks as she stared into his face, seeing in his expression a reflection of the pain he had caused.
The wind stirred the garden, brushing her hair across her face. The afternoon sun was dipping towards the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Celistine and Harold locked eyes, two hearts entangled in grief and regret. Her heart ached at the sight of the man she once adored, now the architect of her torment, betrayer of her trust, destroyer of her people.
"Did you ever see me as your wife, Harold? What have I done to deserve your anger? Why are you so furious with me?" Celistine continued, wiping the tears streaking her cheeks. Harold's chest tightened; her words struck at him, igniting a confusing swirl of envy and guilt. All his life, he had been told by her mother that the North was greedy, deceitful, dangerous—but now, seeing Celistine weep, he glimpsed the truth he had ignored. She was clever, fearless, more capable than he had ever allowed himself to see. And perhaps that had been the reason for his neglect—pride, jealousy, an unwillingness to be overshadowed.
Yet now, witnessing her tears, a pang of pity, raw and unwelcome, pierced him. Without understanding why, his body moved closer, instinctively, as if drawn by some unseen force. He longed to embrace her.
"Celistine… I'm so—"
His words were abruptly cut off as Leon appeared, storming into the space between them. With a sudden shove, he forced Harold back a step, nearly throwing him off balance. In an instant, Leon swept Celistine into his left arm, lifting her head to meet his fierce, golden gaze. Her eyes widened in shock at the unexpected embrace, heart pounding as the warmth of him—solid, unwavering—enveloped her. Every muscle in her body relaxed slightly, clinging to the steadfast presence she had longed for during the darkest hours of her despair. Leon's grip was protective, possessive, yet gentle, as if he was silently promising that no harm would touch her while he stood there.
Leon's eyes glinted like a lion's, blazing with protective fury, silently warning Harold not to come any nearer.. Every heartbeat thumped audibly in her ear, the scent of him grounding her, offering the comfort she hadn't realized she needed. Harold's expression hardened, a mask of controlled anger, as the two men stood glaring at each other, a silent battle waging between them.
"It appears His Majesty was about to embrace someone," Leon drawled, one brow lifting as a slow, taunting smile curved his lips. "Are you not afraid of your mistress, Your Majesty?"
Harold's jaw tightened. His eyes darkened as they locked onto Leon with unmistakable hostility. "Does your tribe not understand the meaning of privacy, stranger?" he snapped, his gaze sharp and cutting.
Celistine stiffened at the tension pressing in around her. She gently placed her hands against Leon's chest, pushing him away from her hold, her movements careful yet firm, as though trying to quiet a storm before it broke loose.
"Why are you here?" she asked, confusion flickering across her face as she looked at Leon.
"I heard you crying," Leon replied, his brows drawing together as concern shadowed his eyes. His voice lowered, thick with restrained emotion. "I followed the sound." Then his gaze slid back to Harold, his expression hardening. "Though it seems the emperor is already planning something disgraceful again."
Harold's composure snapped. "Mind your tongue, desert people," he warned coldly. "You stand on my land. I could have you killed for such insolence."
Leon did not flinch. Instead, a mocking grin spread across his face, deliberate and provoking, as though he welcomed the threat rather than feared it.
"Enough!" Celistine shouted, stepping forward before either man could move. She positioned herself between them, her heart pounding as she raised her arms instinctively, as if her body alone could keep blood from being spilled.
"Celistine," Harold said sharply, pointing accusingly, his voice thick with frustration. "Do you truly intend to side with that man? You have no idea what schemes he is weaving against you. The Blackthreads are ruthless, driven by nothing but hunger for power. They are deceiving you."
"Who told you that?" Celistine demanded, her eyes narrowing.
"Medeya," Harold replied without hesitation, waving a dismissive hand. "I trust her judgement."
A faint, bitter smirk tugged at Celistine's lips, disbelief flashing across her features. "And you truly expect me to trust you, Harold?"
"You must," he insisted, stepping closer, his tone shifting into something almost pleading. "I cannot believe a woman as clever as you would fall into the hands of our enemies. Come with me, Celistine." He extended his hand toward her, desperation slipping through the cracks of his authority.
Leon's body tensed beside her. The muscles along his arms tightened, veins standing out beneath his skin as fury surged through him. His fists clenched, every instinct urging him to strike. Yet Celistine reached out, stopping him with a single touch, her silent command grounding him despite his confusion.
"The only person who has been plotting against me is you, Harold," Celistine said quietly, though the sharpness in her gaze cut deeper than any raised voice.
Harold's eyes widened, irritation flaring openly across his face. "What? Is this still about my past actions?" he barked. "Enough. What is done is done. Our focus should be on defeating the Blackthreads!"
His voice echoed with anger, but no matter how fiercely he spoke, it failed to sway her.
"You cannot change my mind," Celistine replied firmly. Her expression was resolute, unyielding. She turned away from him without another glance. "Come, Leon."
As she walked toward her carriage, Leon paused just long enough to cast Harold a final smirk, slow and deliberate.
"You will regret this," Harold warned, his glare burning with fury, fixed firmly on Leon.
Celistine did not respond. She continued forward, her steps steady, refusing to look back.
Leon followed her, then stopped briefly and turned his head. "The regret will be yours, Your Majesty," he said coolly, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. "I look forward to meeting you on the battlefield."
With that, he turned away, leaving Harold standing alone, seething in the silence they left behind.
****
Days had slipped by since the King of the Eastern Empire, Malvorn, issued his final warning to his rejected son, Maxsimirian—an order clear and merciless: he was never to interfere, nor align himself with any of the Northern people.
Now seated within the confines of his study, Malvorn leaned heavily against his chair, the weight of unrest pressing down upon him. Behind him stood his wife—once his mistress—Josephina, her slender fingers pressing gently against his temples, massaging his forehead with slow, practiced movements.
"What troubles you so deeply, my love?" Josephina murmured, her voice soft, almost indulgent.
Malvorn exhaled sharply, irritation tightening his features. "That wretched bastard," he growled. "He does nothing but poison my thoughts and split my patience in two."
A smile crept across Josephina's lips—subtle, dark, deliberate. "Then why not end them all?" she suggested smoothly, her tone carrying a dangerous sweetness. It was a thought neither of them found unfamiliar; the seed had long since taken root.
"Soon," Malvorn replied, his voice low and certain. One of his hands reached for Josephina's, gripping it possessively. "Gaspare's village will become nothing more than a graveyard. Just wait."
Josephina continued her touch, calm and unhurried, as the evening air drifted in through the open balcony doors. The stillness shattered when a knock echoed through the chamber. Malvorn gestured sharply, granting entry.
A man stepped inside, dressed in a black suit that clung to his ageing frame. His hair was dark, streaked faintly with grey, a thick moustache resting above his lip. His eyes—pale and unsettling—held no warmth as he bowed deeply, pressing his arm across his chest.
"Your Majesty," he announced, his voice measured. "The drug has been prepared."
Both the king and Josephina paused, blinking in unison as the words settled.
"Are you certain, Darius?" Malvorn asked, his posture straightening as anticipation flickered across his face.
Josephina moved closer to the man, her gaze sharp and probing.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Darius replied calmly. "It has already been tested. The results were… successful."
Josephina's restraint dissolved. "Did you hear that, my king?" she exclaimed, barely containing her delight. "The moment has arrived."
Malvorn's lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile. "Indeed," he said quietly. "The time has come."
Josephina's eyes gleamed. "Gaspare will turn to ashes," she whispered fervently.
Their laughter followed—low, cruel, and triumphant—filling the study as the King and Queen of the Eastern Empire savored the nearing fulfilment of a scheme born from the Empress Dowager herself, mother to the current Western Emperor.
Yet in their celebration, they failed to notice the presence beyond the balcony.
A shadow lingered in silence, hidden by the dark. It had heard everything.
And without delay, it slipped away—carrying the truth toward its master, knowing the cost of even a moment's hesitation.