Evening had settled over the Western Palace, casting long shadows across its towering stone walls. Within the grand council chamber, Emperor Harold of the Four Kingdoms sat at the head of the immense table, his presence commanding silence. Gathered before him were his most trusted men—his council, Maxson, and the Duke of Valendrige—each seated with rigid posture, fully aware that the decisions made within these walls would shape the fate of kingdoms. The air was heavy, thick with unspoken tension, as the plan to strike Portekwero reached its final stage.
"So, all arrangements have now been settled," Maxson announced, his voice steady as he rose slightly from his seat. His hand hovered over the map spread across the table, tracing the route with deliberate precision. "The Valendrige Knights, together with Ducarte's soldiers, will march towards Portekwero. Three thousand armed men—enough to launch an ambush and deliver a surprise assault before they can respond."
A brief silence followed, the weight of his words sinking in. By that moment, every man present understood the truth—they were no longer preparing for war. It had already begun.
"But how can we ensure our victory, Your Majesty," the Duke of Valendrige asked at last, his voice strained, fingers curling against the polished surface of the table. "How do we prevent the North from seeking vengeance upon us?"
Harold remained still, his expression unreadable, yet before he could respond, Maxson turned sharply toward the duke.
"Are you now regretting your decision, my lord?" Maxson questioned, his gaze piercing. "Do you repent for choosing to stand beside the Emperor?"
The duke stiffened, rising halfway from his chair before forcing himself to bow his head. "I beg your forgiveness, my lord… and Your Majesty," he said, unease evident in his tone. "I only wished to ensure that all unfolds according to plan." Beneath his formal words lingered doubt and apprehension, shadows of uncertainty cast by the bold choices made by Maxson and Harold alike.
Maxson did not relent. He reached for the banner bearing Zerefia's crest and placed it firmly upon Portekwero on the map, then moved it toward Lagandorf. "Once Portekwero is seized and compelled to join our side," he explained, his finger pressing down as if to claim the land itself, "our next target will be Lagandorf—territory long occupied by the North. Should both lands fall under our control, we will gain a clear opening along the Northern border. As we gradually reclaim the northwestern regions, their strength to strike back will weaken."
The chamber remained silent, save for the faint rustle of cloth and the flicker of torches along the walls.
"Baron Ducarte," Emperor Harold finally spoke, his deep voice cutting through the stillness.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" the baron replied at once, rising smoothly from his seat. He bowed deeply, every movement disciplined and precise, a knight bound to the Emperor through loyalty and blood. His maroon hair was neatly kept, framing sharp black eyes that reflected unwavering resolve. Clad in his military western uniform—blue and white woven together with authority—he stood with composed strength, embodying both rank and duty.
"Inform David—one of your lieutenants—to prepare the assault upon arrival in Portekwero," Harold commanded. His tone was firm, leaving no room for hesitation.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Baron Ducarte answered without delay.
Harold rose slowly from his sit, his hands resting upon the table as his gaze swept across the council. "All forces will depart tomorrow," he declared coldly. "Leave nothing behind. Wipe them out if they refuse to surrender and serve under my rule."
Those were his final words before dismissing the council. Baron Ducarte bowed once more before leaving the chamber, already preparing the soldiers for the attack on Portekwero—where the North's military base lay, unaware of the storm approaching.
War was no longer a distant threat. It was already advancing, and the North had yet to realize it.
*******
Two days had passed.
At the inn where Celistine and the others had stayed for a short while, she was already preparing for departure, bound once more for the North. The carriage stood ready outside, its interior filled with her belongings, carefully arranged by her two maids who accompanied her closely. Celistine stepped inside wearing her formal travel attire, the fabric falling neatly against her figure, her hair drawn back into a simple bun that spoke of quiet elegance rather than excess.
As she moved toward her seat by the carriage window, she paused and turned slightly, her voice drifting backward. "Are you sure you do not wish to come along?" she asked, directing her words toward Leon, who stood just behind her.
"Already missing me?" Leon replied with a teasing lilt, one brow lifting as a faint smile curved his lips.
Celistine let out a short scoff, her chin tilting upward. "As if I would," she answered, a smirk betraying her pride, though her eyes flashed with mild irritation at his persistent mockery.
Leon chuckled softly before lifting his hand in a casual gesture. "There are matters I must settle at our base," he explained. "I will return in a few days."
"I will see you then, Leon," Celistine said, her tone measured. She reached for the curtain and drew it shut, cutting off his view as the carriage began to roll forward. Outside, Leon simply nodded toward Criston—a silent acknowledgement of their separation. As the carriage moved away, his expression shifted, the light humor fading into stern resolve.
One of the Blackthreads Men stepped forward and offered him a horse. Without hesitation, Leon mounted, and together with his men, he headed back toward their base, where the Blackthreads army awaited. Havan had delivered a message—an order from the Pharaoh, king of the Blackthreads—summoning Leon From their lairs. Whatever the Pharaoh intended, Leon knew he must return and face it.
As Leon rode away, Celistine sat quietly inside the carriage, her thoughts drifting despite her efforts to focus on strategy. Something felt unsettled within her. The silence felt heavier than it should have, almost unfamiliar. She realized, with faint annoyance, that the journey already felt dull without Leon's presence.
Suddenly, she stiffened.
"Celistine, what are you thinking?" she scolded herself under her breath. Heat rushed to her cheeks as color bloomed across her face. She pressed both palms against her cheeks, as though trying to steady the rapid rhythm of her heart, willing herself to regain composure.
"I cannot be like this," she whispered, drawing in a slow breath, then releasing it carefully until her chest no longer felt so tight. She did not understand why thoughts of Leon surfaced so easily, uninvited and persistent. Yet the truth surfaced quietly—whenever she needed reassurance, whenever danger loomed too close, Leon had always been there.
"Is this how it feels," she murmured softly, "to have someone who protects you?"
Alone in the carriage, her gaze drifted upward toward the bright sky. Moonlight filtered through, pale and calm, and for reasons she refused to dwell upon, it reminded her of Leon's eyes. She quickly shook the thought away, grounding herself in reason. This was about war, about alliances and negotiations—nothing more. Leon was simply cordial toward her, nothing beyond that.
After a brief pause, Celistine tapped lightly against the carriage wall and ordered it to stop. She requested Criston's presence, and he immediately halted his horse before approaching her carriage.
Leaning forward slightly, Celistine drew aside the curtain and looked at him. "Your Highness," Criston said respectfully, placing a hand to his chest as he bowed his head.
"We will head to Portekwero first," Celistine instructed, her voice firm despite the unease stirring within her. "I wish to visit the land before we return home."
Criston nodded without question and turned to lead the carriage toward Portekwero. As they changed direction, Celistine sat back slowly, her expression clouded with unease. A sense of foreboding lingered in her chest—something about Portekwero felt wrong, and she knew she could not ignore it.
******
While Celistine made her way toward Portekwero, events were unfolding far away in the Eastern Empire.
Several days had passed since the incident between Rehena and Max, yet not a single word had been exchanged between them. Rehena had diligently completed her studies alongside Rowena, attending to every lesson with unwavering focus. By the time she was finished, the sun had begun it's slow descent, painting the village in hues of gold and amber. It was at this moment that Rehena made the decision to depart from Gaspare Village.
"Are you sure you want to leave? I will miss you so much, Rehena—my poor student!" Rowena cried, her voice breaking like a child's as she clung to Rehena, pressing her tear-streaked cheeks against hers.
"Come now, my sister… they must return home," Roselia, Max's mother, intervened gently, gathering Rowena in her arms and guiding her away from Rehena.
"I must return home as soon as possible, Lady Rowena," Rehena said softly, a gentle smile gracing her face as she bowed her head in respect. "But I shall visit when time permits."
Roselia stepped closer and extended a book toward her. "Here, Rehena," she said. The weight and presence of it immediately drew Rehena's curiosity. She took it, her fingers brushing over its cover, wondering what kind of treasure the late Queen of the Eastern Empire had entrusted to her.
"This is the Almanac of Herbs," Roselia explained, smiling warmly. "A compendium of healing, created by my ancestors. It is time I passed it on to you. This is the only thing we can offer to support the North."
Rehena's eyes widened in awe. For all these years, the myths had whispered the truth—the Eastern Empire alone possessed such unparalleled knowledge of herbs and remedies. Overcome, she clutched the book tightly against her chest, her heart swelling with gratitude, and turned to smile at both Rowena and Roselia.
"Thank you, Lady Rowena… and Your Highness, former Queen," she said, bowing once more before lifting her head.
A sudden gust of wind swept through, lifting strands of her brown hair. She tucked them behind her ears, glancing upward without thought. And there, above her, at the window, stood Max. Shock coursed through her as she met his fierce red eyes. His hair fell loosely around his face, his attire—a light-coloured long-sleeved shirt, dark green vest trimmed with gold, dark grey trousers, and a brown belt—framed a presence both striking and commanding. Meanwhile, Rehena stood in her simple green dress, hair loose, unadorned.
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. Rehena offered only a small, gentle smile. That unexpected gesture caused Max's heart to skip a beat, his chest tightening as his cheeks flushed crimson. She turned and stepped into her carriage, leaving him standing there, silently watching. Max closed the curtain of his chamber, swallowing his guilt and frustration. Since that day when he had threatened her, silence had stretched between them. Though he had sought to vent his anger at the King of the Eastern Empire through her, he now knew it had been wrong. Deep down, he should never have unleashed it upon Rehena.
"Perhaps… this is for the best, for both of us," he whispered to himself. Leaning briefly against the wall, he steadied himself, then composed his expression and left his chamber. There were matters awaiting him in Gaspare Village that demanded his attention.
Inside the carriage, Rehena sat quietly alongside Barron, who remained upright, arms crossed and expression steadfast, betraying nothing.
"So, my lady," Barron began, breaking the silence as the carriage moved smoothly along the road, "how goes your study of medicine?"
"It's going well," Rehena replied brightly. "There's so much to learn. I'm eager to bring this knowledge to the North. Finally, we are going home." Her smile was cheerful, radiating warmth. Barron allowed a faint smile to touch his lips, though his posture remained rigid. For days, they had waited patiently, and now the journey home—the North that had awaited them—was within reach.
Several miles passed before they finally crossed the Eastern boundary. Night had settled heavily over the land, almost halfway to midnight. Rehena leaned back in her seat, thoughtful, while Barron remained alert, crossing his arms, a trace of unease beneath his composed exterior. His mind wandered to the shadows of Robert and Joshua—the men he had dispatched to investigate the old factory near the abandoned chapel—and he wondered why they had not yet reported back.
After a few minutes, the carriage came to a halt. Barron instructed them to spend the night in a remote forest, where they would set up a tent, share a meal, and depart early the next day. Rehena stepped carefully from the carriage, followed by Baron and Joshua, who began arranging firewood.
"Sir Baron… my lady!" Harith and Robert suddenly shouted, urging their horses forward with urgency. The two men halted abruptly before them, catching their breath from the rush.
"What is the matter?" Baron asked, unease flickering across his face as Rehena approached him. The tension in the night was palpable. Something—he could feel it—was about to unfold, and it was linked to the investigation they had assigned in the Eastern Empire.