The Third Bell After Sunrise — Morning
Celistine was busy preparing for The Moon's Bounty — a celebration marking the success of Harold's expedition to Bettersary Province, where he had discovered a cave filled with pearls, soon to be crafted into royal treasures.
She moved through the grand hall, arranging flower vases and decorations to match the Western Kingdom's theme. Royal Sky Blue — the colour representing the empire — adorned every corner. It was the hue of vows unbroken, peace unshaken, and wisdom as boundless as the horizon itself. To some, it symbolised the sky itself: beautiful, yet unreachable. Every table and drape was set in this regal blue, perfectly matched with golden-white candles that shimmered softly. When the nobles danced later, the hall would glow as if the moon had descended among them.
In the midst of her work, a sudden voice startled Celistine.
"Greetings, Lady Celistine," came an elegant tone.
She turned to see Medeya.
Lady? Celistine raised an eyebrow, surprised by Medeya's boldness. Still, she returned the greeting with a polite smile, wary of what game Medeya might be playing. Encounters like this were far too familiar—scenes she often read about in books, which rarely ended well.
"It seems you are very passionate about your duties, Lady," Medeya said, stepping closer to a vase of Forget-Me-Nots. She gently touched the petals, a small smile playing on her lips.
"Yes, Lady Medeya," Celistine replied with a soft smile, though her tone held a faint chill — a careful mask to hide her unease.
"But do you believe," Medeya began, "that not everything in this world is meant to belong?"
Celistine wasn't sure if it was a question or a veiled warning. Medeya plucked a flower's head and fixed her with a cold, unwavering stare — one that held the unspoken threat that she could strike at any moment. The sweetness in Medeya's face vanished, replaced by the dangerous sharpness in her blue eyes — the very eyes Harold often admired.
Celistine didn't flinch. She answered softly but firmly, knowing Medeya's true intent.
"I believe so. But some things cannot be changed — like your destiny, or your duty as Empress to the Emperor."
Medeya laughed softly.
"So the rumours are true — you really are the sun of Zerefia, an Empress of the commoners."
Indeed, Celistine was known as the commoners' Empress. She refused to lose herself in the court's luxury, instead using her position and wealth to aid the people of Zerefia. Through her efforts, countless lives had been touched.
"Well, it was nice speaking to you, Lady Medeya," Celistine said curtly. "If you need anything, inform Barron. I shall take my leave."
With that, she withdrew from Medeya's presence, her steps carrying her away from the bustling hall. Quietly, she turned to her next task — gathering information for the letter from her father in the Northern Kingdom.
The Empress's Garden — a place reserved only for the Empress's servants. No other palace workers were permitted, not even Barron.
Celistine sat among the blooms with Grace, her trusted handmaid, discussing the latest letter and news from the Northern Kingdom.
It had been a week since Harold returned from the Southern Kingdom, but only now had her father's letter arrived. The words were vague as always, carrying no significant news. For over three years, the Northern Kingdom's replies were empty reassurances, as if nothing had changed.
"Grace, did you try sending a letter through the town's usual post?" Celistine asked, her voice soft but curious.
"Yes, Your Grace. But whether official letters under your name or ordinary notes, the replies are the same. It's clear the Emperor's men intercept and read your correspondence."
"Have you heard of any Northerners moving here?" Celistine's brow furrowed. The Western Empire welcomed outsiders with new residency papers, yet she couldn't recall a single Northern native settling here.
"No, Your Grace," Grace replied quietly.
"You must find out. If none have come, investigate why no one from the North has settled here."
Celistine's tone was firm. Grace was more than a servant; she was a trained knight, daughter of the right-hand knight to Celistine's father — a man loyal to the Northern Kingdom.
After their talk, Grace quietly excused herself from the garden and began her investigation.
------
Two bells past nightfall, Grace stepped into a smoke-filled tavern, disguised as a common harlot. Her hair dyed a striking crimson, a small mole painted beneath her left eye, and thick lashes heavy with kohl — all to blend in with the usual crowd.
This was no ordinary tavern. It was a haunt for veterans and restless merchants, whose routes spanned the realm. Harold's spies avoided this place, knowing its patrons hailed mostly from the Southern, Eastern, and Western kingdoms. Few, if any, from the North ever entered — precisely why Grace had come.
"Shit! I want more!" barked a balding, heavyset man beside her, already swaying with ale.
"Shh… you can have as much as you wish, love," Grace purred, pouring another drink, her voice light with feigned enjoyment — though her mind was fixed on gathering whispers.
Nearby, two merchants spoke freely over supper.
"By the gods, my trip to the Eastern Kingdom was worth it. Their grain sells quick here, and their flour and sugar fetch twice the price," one boasted.
"Aye," the other replied, "and I've done well in the South — sold charcoal by the cartload."
Grace's eyes flicked between them, listening closely. Hours passed as she entertained drunken traders, waiting for a valuable word. Then the tavern door swung open, and a new figure joined the group.
"Oh? What's happened to our friend?" one asked.
The newcomer dropped heavily onto the bench, voice low but urgent.
"Have you ever travelled to the Northern Kingdom?"
Grace's heart skipped. At last. She shifted closer, masking her intent with a coy smile, ready to learn all she could.
Five bells past nightfall, Grace returned to the mansion, dressed simply as a household maid. She slipped in unnoticed, the tavern's whispers heavy in her mind. Fortune favoured her — no one had caught her return.
As she neared the maids' quarters, a deep voice broke the silence.
"Where have you been?"
Startled but composed, she turned to see Barron in shadow.
"Greetings, Sir Barron," Grace said smoothly, bowing slightly. "Just returned from the bar shop — why do you ask?"
"I did not know," he said, voice sharp with derision, "that you served as maid by day… and whore by night."
The words stung, but she showed no fear. Barron had been tipped off about her late return, and assumed her work was not espionage, but to pay a heavy debt to the tavern owner — a debt swollen with interest.
Grace smiled faintly, feigning calm. "Yes, Sir. I wasn't aware you patrolled the maids' house. What an honour."
She stepped closer, voice deliberately sultry. "Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?"
A calculated risk — to disarm suspicion with charm. But if Barron pressed for more, she'd be trapped. Always careful, she slipped a draught into the cups of men who sought her bed, sending them to harmless sleep. Barron was no easy mark.
He studied her a moment — then, dismissive, turned away. He had no taste for a woman he believed already passed through many hands.
Relief washed over Grace as she slipped into her chamber, the weight of the night settling upon her as she prepared to rest.
The heavy oaken door creaked behind Barron as he entered the Emperor's private chambers. Candlelight flickered against dark wood, illuminating Harold's stern face as he sat behind his grand desk.
"Report," Harold demanded.
Barron bowed. "My lord, I have updates on the Empress's handmaid, Grace."
Harold's eyes narrowed. "Speak plainly."
"I followed her to a tavern in the Western District, known for rough clientele — merchants, veterans, and society's fringe. She wore a disguise: dyed hair, heavy makeup, blending perfectly."
"Why was she there?" Harold frowned.
"I investigated. The tavern owner says Grace owes a large debt — interest growing beyond her means. She's not a spy, but a prostitute paying off her debts."
Harold leaned back, relief flickering. "So she's no threat?"
"Not from what I observed, my lord. She's trapped by circumstance, desperate to repay."
Harold nodded slowly. "Very well. Keep watch, but treat this as personal — not treason."
Barron bowed. "At once, my lord."
As he left, Harold's mind lingered on the tangled loyalties in the Empress's household. Even the simplest truths can hide deep shadows.