Celistine sat quietly at her modest tea table in her chamber, beside a large window that offered a sweeping view of the garden below, where guards patrolled dutifully. The soft light of midday streamed through the glass, catching the delicate embroidery of her gown and setting her pale Emerald dress aglow like morning light on fresh blossoms. The faint rustle of leaves stirred by the breeze created a fragile peace. She sipped her tea in contemplative silence, her fingers tracing the smooth rim of the cup, while the distant sounds of the castle hum gently filled the background.
The garden below was a familiar sight—lush greenery punctuated by the sharp glint of armour as guards paced with solemn purpose. Each step seemed measured, each glance watchful. For Celistine, it was a stark reminder that even here, within the castle's protective walls, shadows lurked and secrets waited to be unearthed.
Her thoughts drifted like the steam rising from her cup, clouded by recent anxieties. Yet, in that quiet moment, she allowed herself a brief respite, a pause from the burdens of empire and intrigue.
The door to her chamber opened softly, and Grace slipped inside, her presence drawing Celistine's attention like a sudden gust of wind.
"Report?" Celistine's voice was low but urgent, ensuring the walls themselves might not overhear. There was a flicker of tension in her eyes, a sharpness born of countless years spent weaving through webs of deception.
Grace's expression was calm, almost cold, but beneath it lay a fire—determination hardened by years of subterfuge.
"I discovered that Barron has been tailing me," she said with quiet confidence. The revelation startled Celistine, twisting her heart with unease. Barron—Harold's ever-watchful shadow—was close, perhaps closer than they had feared. Maybe Harold himself was beginning to suspect the closeness between Grace and the Empress.
Celistine steadied herself, masking her turmoil behind a calm facade. "Have you been caught?"
"No. Barron learned only that I wasn't seeking intelligence, but trying to settle a debt I owe." Grace's voice was steady, betraying no hint of the danger.
The Empress nodded slowly, weighing this piece of information. Grace had taken the risk of placing herself in danger deliberately, slipping into the role of tavern girl, gambler, and reckless prostitute as Celistine had commanded. To Harold and his court, Grace was nothing but a careless woman, unaware of the subtle espionage she conducted beneath their noses. For three long years, she had worn this mask, a spider weaving her own web of secrets and lies to protect her queen.
Celistine's gaze narrowed. "Are you certain?"
Grace's eyes met hers without hesitation. "Yes."
There was a pause heavy with meaning before Grace spoke again,
"Your Grace, I confronted a merchant last night. He arrived from the North just a month ago."
The news stirred a flicker of hope within Celistine, fragile and bright. Perhaps here was a thread she could pull to unravel the truth she so desperately sought. The North—her homeland—was shrouded in mystery and despair, yet still held the key to everything.
She gestured silently for Grace to continue.
"I coaxed the merchant with a drink, to loosen his tongue," Grace explained. "He's from Hilton."
The name sparked a wave of memories and questions. Hilton was a town in the northeast, distant yet intertwined with the fates of the kingdoms. Why did this merchant carry news from such a remote place? What had he seen?
Grace continued. "He was bound for the West, to sell flour, but changed his mind and stayed in the North, hoping to find fortune."
Celistine's heart quickened. Could this be the turning point she had long awaited?
"But when he arrived…" Grace faltered, sensing the weight of what she must say.
Celistine leaned forward, her breath caught in her throat, eyes wide and expectant.
Grace's voice grew softer, tinged with reluctant sorrow. "When he reached the North, the people were nearly destitute. Where once there was joy, now there was mourning in poverty. The merchant asked about aid for the North, but a commoner told him there had been no support from the Empire."
The words struck Celistine like a blow. The empire had turned its back on the North—her home—leaving it to wither and decay. The betrayal was so deep it threatened to shatter her very spirit.
No aid sent? she whispered to herself, disbelief crashing through her mind like a tempest. Her heart thundered fiercely within her chest. She rose, trembling, but her legs gave way beneath her. Grace was at her side in an instant, steadying the Empress with gentle hands.
"The merchant?" Celistine asked, voice barely audible.
"He stopped trading in the North and fled West," Grace said, "but the border was heavily guarded. He never revealed where he came from, fearing the Emperor's wrath and the ruin of his business."
A cold dread settled over Celistine. Had Harold ignored her urgent pleas six months ago? Had he turned a blind eye to the storm brewing in the North, dooming her people to ruin and starvation? The thought clawed at her insides.
Could the North recover? Could its people escape this fate?
Her fear for her kingdom deepened.
The harsh treatment of the three kingdoms was no accident. Poverty and lack of resources had condemned the North, while the other realms whispered of a rift between her father and the late Emperor Philippe—Harold's father. Celistine knew little of the reasons behind this bitterness, only that once there had been friendship and alliance.
The North had been stable once, prospering through fur trade and fine dressmaking, until the Emperor remarried the late Empress Zerafina. Since then, the North's fortunes waned as the West, with its newfound fashion and trappings, overshadowed it.
Celistine met Grace's gaze, her own eyes shining with a mix of fear and fierce resolve.
"We must find a way to send a letter to my father," she said firmly.
The weight of that decision pressed on her shoulders like a mantle.
-----
As the sun sank low, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose, Celistine's maids rushed to prepare her for the evening's celebration. They bathed her in warm water scented with lavender and rosemary, their hands gentle and skilled as they applied her makeup—soft shades that enhanced her natural beauty without drawing undue attention.
Her golden-yellow hair, shining like the sun's own light, was carefully woven into an intricate braided bun, delicate tendrils framing her face like whispers of light. The maids wished to adorn her hair with sparkling diamonds, but Celistine refused with a quiet shake of her head. Though she was Empress, she desired only to blend into the shadows, to be unseen rather than the centre of every gaze.
Her gown was simple yet elegant—a soft yellow fabric dusted with glimmering threads, accented with a belt of white pearls that circled her waist, tied with a ribbon of the palest gold.
She had no wish for extravagance tonight—not out of false modesty, but because she knew this gathering was not truly a celebration of The Moon's Bounty. Instead, it was a ceremony of union: the marriage of Medeya and Harold. They were the true stars of the evening, and she the shadow that lingered on the edges.
Time slipped past like a slow-moving river.
Celistine walked deliberately, slow and measured, down the long corridor leading to the grand hall where the ball was held. She heard the strains of music float down the hall—an elegant melody that signaled the beginning of the festivities. Her heart knew that Harold and Medeya had arrived; no grand event began without its hosts.
She paused near the entrance, a place where the Empress would customarily greet guests. But instead of stepping forward, she peered inside, unseen, watching.
What she saw tore at her heart. Medeya and Harold moved with graceful ease on the polished dance floor, their every movement drawing every eye. No one dared to join them—their presence alone commanded attention and respect. Their matching robes, a regal shade of sky blue, marked them as one.
Celistine's eyes stung with tears, but she blinked them back, determined to maintain her composure. Pain gnawed at her from within, yet she could not show it—not now, not ever.
Whispers drifted from the crowd, reaching her ears like sharp arrows:
Where is the Empress?
How will she react to this?
The Emperor truly loves this woman.
They are made for each other.
She remained in the shadows, where the light was dimmest, feeling lost, isolated, broken.
"Are you alright, my lady?" came a sudden voice behind her, soft yet clear.
Startled, Celistine turned swiftly to see who had spoken. Before her stood a towering figure—a man easily six feet four inches tall, whose head cast a shadow over her own. His golden eyes gleamed like molten sunfire, his skin sun-kissed and radiant, dressed simply in servant's garb. His beauty was rare, a striking contrast to the rigid austerity of the court.
Where could he have come from? Celistine wondered.
Gathering herself, she replied, attempting nonchalance despite the flutter in her chest, "Ah… nothing."
Why her voice trembled she could not say, though his warm smile was oddly comforting—a dangerous comfort, for she knew the risks of growing close to strangers, especially in her position.
"Why are you here? Why don't you join the others?" the young servant asked, curiosity bright in his gaze.
Celistine smiled faintly, a secret amusement flickering within. She guessed he did not know her rank. "I… have social anxiety," she answered, half in jest.
The man scratched his head, puzzled, then smiled wider. Perhaps he found her answer charming, or perhaps he was simply intrigued.
"Madam," he said earnestly, "not all fears are meant to last forever. Do not let them bind you. Your beauty is magnificent. Let your walls fall, and let the world see who you truly are."
His words stirred something deep inside her—a spark of courage and hope she hadn't felt in months. She stared, intrigued and confused. Who was this man who spoke as though he knew her soul?
Unable to quell her curiosity, she asked, "Who are you?"
Without a word, the man turned, his figure retreating slowly into the shadows. Before vanishing completely, he spoke once more, his voice low and filled with meaning:
"Soon, Your Majesty, the Empress—you will know."
And then he was gone.
The night deepened, and the castle grew silent under the moon's watchful eye.
Far from the court, aboard a ship rocking gently on the dark sea, two men spoke in hushed tones.
"My lord, where have you been? It is nearly time to set sail," the man with dark brown hair and sun-kissed skin said anxiously to his companion newly returned to the ship.
With a slow, knowing smile, the other man peeled back his black cloak. His eyes shone like molten gold, fierce and unreadable. His hair was black as midnight, his tan skin glowing faintly in the moonlight. He was a striking figure, handsome and mysterious.
"Relax, Havan. I have found her—the one we've been hunting for so long. The white-haired girl," he said, victory curling his lips.
Havan's eyes widened, disbelief etched into his features. "A girl with hair like snow? Could it really be...?"
The golden-eyed man's voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with portent. "Yes. Minerva."
The night air thickened with silence, broken only by the creaking of the ship's timbers and the soft slap of waves.
"Soon," the man murmured, eyes glinting darkly, "all will be revealed. Nothing will ever be the same."
The ship surged forward, swallowed by the night, carrying them toward a fate yet unwritten.