In the midst of the evening, the two shadows of Barron emerged, their movements silent as they came to report their findings.
"Sir… When I sneaked into the old chapel I had mentioned earlier, I discovered what appeared to be a factory producing man-made medicines," Harith reported, holding out a small transparent glass vial containing a dark, almost viscous liquid. "It looked… illicit. Perhaps even a drug created for some hidden agenda." He paused, his hands trembling slightly as he offered the bottle. "I saw numerous people… they seemed like unwilling subjects, exposed to experiments involving rats and other creatures. I managed to follow one of their workers to a storage area, and there were stacks of wooden boxes filled with these vials. I… I do not know what kind of medicine this is."
Rehena took the small bottle in her hands, turning it slowly as the liquid inside shimmered with a foreboding darkness. Beside her, Barron's piercing eyes scanned the vial intently, each of them silently trying to deduce the potential effects of the substance that one of their comrades had uncovered.
"What could this be? Does the Eastern Empire possess something like this?" Rehena whispered, her brow furrowed with curiosity and unease. She rotated the vial gently between her fingers, examining it from every angle. "Could it… perhaps be the Queen's new medicine for her people?" she added, her voice tinged with both fear and skepticism.
"If it were a medicine the Queen usually produces, they would not have hidden it," Barron murmured, his jaw tight, his gaze steady yet cold.
"Could be—"
"Sir! I forgot! I have something urgent to report!" Robert suddenly burst in, his words cutting through the tense atmosphere like a knife.
Barron's eyes narrowed. "What is it, Robert?"
Robert's breath came fast, almost panicked. "It's urgent, Sir, my lady. We need to ride to Gaspare immediately and inform the Second Prince." His tone carried desperation, and the urgency in his voice made even the most composed among them shift uneasily.
Rehena's eyes widened, a flicker of fear dancing across her face, though her heartbeat thrummed with a strange, protective determination. "Tell us, Robert," she urged, her hands tightening into fists at her sides, sensing the weight of impending disaster.
"I've heard… the King and Queen intend to burn the people of Gaspare alive," Robert said, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "The King has commanded that all descendants of the former Queen—the Second Prince's mother—be executed so that no one can interfere with their drug-making. I believe the vial Harith confiscated is precisely what the King meant. We must hurry and warn them!"
Shock froze them for a heartbeat. Even Rehena felt her stomach drop, a cold wave of dread washing over her. Barron, as ever composed, straightened immediately, the hard edge of resolve returning to his face.
"Everyone, ready your horses. Joshua, stay here with the lady," Barron commanded, his voice sharp, commanding obedience. He turned to move, but Rehena's hand shot out, gripping the fabric of his coat, her fingers curling around it with fierce insistence.
"Barron… let me come, please!" she pleaded, her voice quivering with urgency. Her eyes, wide and resolute, met his, revealing both fear and determination.
"But my lady—"
"There's no time! Please, let me come, Sir Barron," she interrupted, cutting through his protest with sheer will. Barron hesitated, his jaw clenching as he measured her resolve. Finally, he relented, allowing her to accompany them to Gaspare, understanding that her insistence came from genuine courage and necessity.
Together, Barron and Rehena, flanked by three of his most trusted knights, moved to the carriage. The horses were untied, four coursers of unmatched stamina, specifically chosen by Barron to ensure they could endure whatever trials lay ahead. Each horse pawed the ground impatiently, sensing the urgency of their riders.
With one last glance at the darkening horizon, Barron mounted his horse, his cloak fluttering in the evening wind. Rehena climbed onto her own mount, one by one, her heart hammering in her chest, senses sharp and alert to every rustle and shadow around them. The three knights followed closely, their expressions taut with tension, each fully aware that the journey ahead would test their courage, their loyalty, and their very survival.
As night deepened around them, they set forth—racing against time, against fire, and against a fate that threatened to consume everything they held dear.
Several miles away from the village of Gaspare, Max was finishing his duties in a small neighbouring settlement. The village was modest and worn, its people weary from recent hardships. They had requested minor assistance from the Second Prince, and Max, as always, had seen the task through personally. Food supplies had been distributed, injuries treated, and quiet reassurances offered to calm frightened hearts.
When everything was finally settled, Max decided it was time to return home. His body ached with exhaustion, and all he longed for was rest. Accompanied by two men from Gaspare, he rode calmly along the dirt road, his black horse moving at an easy pace beneath him. The evening air was quiet—almost too quiet.
Then, suddenly—
"Your Highness!"
The sharp cry shattered the silence.
Max's eyes widened. He pulled hard on the reins and twisted in his saddle, his heart leaping into his throat. Behind him, riding at full speed, were Rehena, Barron, and three knights. Their horses were lathered with sweat, their faces tight with urgency.
Max brought his horse to a halt as they approached.
"What is the sudden fuss?" he asked, confusion lining his face as his brows knitted together. "I thought you had already left."
"My Lord, you must listen to us," Barron said immediately, his voice firm.
Rehena leaned forward in her saddle, breathless. "The late Queen is in dan—"
BOOOOOOOOM!
The earth trembled violently beneath them.
Rehena's words were swallowed by the deafening explosion. All heads snapped toward the horizon as a massive plume of black smoke rose into the darkening sky. The firelight flickered beneath the clouds like a wound torn open in the night.
It was coming from Gaspare.
Rehena's blood ran cold. Her breath caught painfully in her chest.
"No…" she whispered, horror seeping into her voice. Her hands trembled as she stared at the smoke. "Lady Rosellia is in danger. Barron, we must go—now! We have to save her!"
Before anyone could respond, Rehena drove her heels into her horse's sides. The animal surged forward, galloping wildly toward the burning village. Max hesitated only for a heartbeat before spurring his own horse after her, dread coiling tightly in his chest.
The black smoke grew thicker with every second. Flames lit the horizon, and Max felt his heart skip violently. Something was terribly wrong. This was no accident—this was an attack.
They reached Gaspare moments later.
The sight before them stole the air from their lungs.
The once-fertile fields were ablaze, golden crops reduced to crackling fire. Homes that had once echoed with laughter were now engulfed in flames, collapsing in showers of sparks. Smoke choked the air, thick with the stench of burning wood—and blood.
Rehena's eyes widened in terror.
Max froze.
Queen's official guards were everywhere.
Villagers screamed as they ran, only to be cut down mercilessly. Steel flashed in the firelight as bodies fell to the ground. Some begged. Some tried to shield their children. None were spared.
"No!" Max cried, his hands shaking violently on the reins. His chest felt as though it were being crushed. He could barely breathe as he witnessed the slaughter of his people.
Rehena remained frozen in her saddle, her face pale. Yet this scene—this horror—was not unfamiliar. Memories surged back uninvited: her own village, Renia, burning years ago when thieves had destroyed it. The same screams. The same helplessness.
She clenched her fists, rage overtaking fear.
"Save the former Queen!" Rehena shouted with all her strength, her voice cutting through the chaos.
Barron reacted instantly.
"You three!" he commanded his knights. "Save as many civilians as you can. Kill the guards if you must, but do not engage recklessly. Your top priority is the people—get them to safety. Go!"
The knights nodded, eyes blazing with determination, and charged straight into the inferno.
Meanwhile, Rehena, Max, and Barron turned their horses toward the mansion that stood at the heart of Gaspare—the former royal residence.
Max leaned forward desperately, urging his horse onward.
"Mother… please hold on," he murmured under his breath, his voice cracking as fear tightened around his heart. "Please…"
The mansion loomed ahead through the smoke and fire, its gates silhouetted against the flames. Somewhere inside, Lady Rosellia—the former Queen of the Southern Kingdom—was trapped.
And time was running out.
********
It was already mid-morning when Celistine's carriage moved steadily along the road towards Portekwero. The wheels rolled in measured rhythm, accompanied by the presence of her knights, one hundred strong, led by Criston. Inside the carriage, Celistine sat alone, surrounded by silence—yet her body refused to be calm.
An unfamiliar unease stirred within her chest.
Her heartbeat quickened without warning, thudding harder than it should. She lifted her right hand and pressed it gently against her breast, rubbing slow circles as if to soothe what she could not name. The sensation lingered, heavy and persistent, refusing to fade.
"Perhaps I am simply exhausted from the journey," she murmured to herself, forcing steadiness into her voice.
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, then another, carefully releasing each one. Still, the feeling remained.
Moments later, the carriage slowed—then stopped entirely.
The sudden halt pulled Celistine from her thoughts. Her eyes opened at once, brows knitting together in confusion. They had not yet reached their destination… or so she believed.
Before she could speak, a knock sounded against the carriage door.
"My lady," Criston called from outside. "You need to see this."
Something in his voice made her stomach tighten. It was not urgency alone—there was fear woven into his tone, and beneath it, a weight that sounded disturbingly close to grief.
Celistine did not answer immediately. She reached for the door and opened it herself, stepping down from the carriage. The moment her boots touched the ground, the world before her stole the breath from her lungs.
Her eyes widened in horror.
Around her, her knights stood frozen, their faces drained of colour. Her two maids gasped sharply, both raising trembling hands to their mouths, struggling to hold back cries that threatened to break free.
"What… what on earth has happened?" Celistine stammered, her voice shaking as disbelief overtook her.
Portekwero lay in ruins.
The once-standing walls lay shattered, stone reduced to rubble and dust. Bodies were scattered across the ground—Portekwero's knights and, among them, soldiers of the North—lying cold and motionless as if the battlefield itself had been frozen in time. Burned banners lay half-buried in ash, their colours erased by fire. Swords, armour, and shields were strewn everywhere, abandoned, twisted, or darkened with dried blood.
The air carried the scent of smoke and death.
Celistine's hands trembled at her sides. Panic surged through her chest as she searched desperately for answers, for reason—anything that could explain such devastation. Slowly, cautiously, they moved through the gates of Portekwero. Inside, the barracks were destroyed, supplies ruined, structures reduced to scorched remains.
"My lady," Criston called from behind her.
She turned at once.
"When I followed you," Criston continued, holding something out, "I noticed one of the fallen knights bore a different insignia—unlike ours."
He placed the object into her palm.
It was a badge.
Celistine stared at it, her fingers tightening around the metal as she recognized the mark carved upon it—the letter V.
Her brow furrowed deeply.
She knew exactly who was responsible.
Before she could speak, hurried footsteps echoed nearby.
"Your Highness!" a knight shouted as he ran towards them. It was one of the boulevard guards—men once led by Lord Johanes.
"Lord Johanes…" the knight gasped, struggling for breath, "Lord Johanes is dead!"
The words struck like a blade.
Shock rippled through everyone present. Gasps filled the air, disbelief flashing across every face—including Celistine's. Her chest tightened painfully as the weight of the news settled in.
This was not what she had expected to find.
What was meant to be a journey of inspection had become something far darker. Her steps slowed as dread seeped into her bones, the reality of Portekwero's fall pressing heavily upon her heart.
Her journey had not merely changed course—
—it had plunged into sorrow and bloodshed.