The garden lay steeped in silver light, the moon's reflection trembling upon the broad pond that spread before Celistine. Lilies floated upon its surface, their pale petals glowing like fragile stars adrift in dark water. She stood at the edge, her right hand resting thoughtfully beneath her chin, her mind still circling the stranger she had encountered earlier—a man dressed like a servant, yet whose bearing spoke of lands far beyond the Southern Empire. A cool breeze brushed her face, carrying whispers of distant places, as if the night itself urged her to unravel this new mystery.
Should she add this puzzle to her burdens, or press on with her plans regarding the letter? Her heart was heavy with unspoken doubts, a silent storm swirling beneath her calm exterior.
The revels in the palace had not yet ended, but Celistine had withdrawn early. She had no appetite for the endless gossip, nor for the staged provocations in which Lady Medeya paraded herself on Harold's arm. Here, in the stillness, she could breathe without the stench of false smiles and whispered lies. The cool night air was a balm to her weary spirit, a quiet sanctuary from the gilded cage of courtly expectations.
The moon's light shifted, and a tall shadow—well over six feet—fell across her path. She did not need to turn to know who it was. Her breath caught slightly, but she maintained her composure.
"Why are you here?" came the voice, deep and touched with unease, the slight tremor betraying the concern beneath the stoic words.
Harold.
She did not look at him. Her gaze remained fixed upon the water and the drifting lilies. The words she had heard from the Northern Kingdom still echoed too sharply within her for her to face him. The silence between them stretched taut, like a fragile thread pulled to breaking.
Harold came to stand beside her. Why did Father agree to this match? he wondered, his eyes sweeping over her yellow gown, plain save for a scatter of pearls, her hair drawn into a modest braided bun. The absence of lavish adornment, the simplicity of her dress—it was as if she wished to vanish among the court ladies rather than shine as their Empress. Was her absence from the party deliberate? This was not the woman who once greeted him with warmth, attended every ball in gowns that proclaimed her station. Now she could almost pass for any court lady, her imperial dignity hidden behind simplicity.
He shifted, restless, and cleared his throat in feigned nonchalance, the faintest crease of worry shadowing his brow.
"Are you not coming back to the party? It was prepared in my honour," he said, hands thrust deep into his pockets, chin lifted to the moon as if drawing strength from its cold light.
Celistine did not answer, her eyes still upon the pond. The silence prickled at Harold until he could bear it no longer.
"Are you planning to defy me forever?"
At that, she turned and met his gaze—coldly, without flinch. He was caught off guard. Once, those eyes had shone with warmth for him; now they held the chill of shattered glass, cutting and unyielding.
"Your Majesty," she said with composed precision, "are you not yet satisfied with Lady Medeya's presence? And yet you come here, as though the Empress herself required your concern."
Harold bristled, his jaw tightening.
"Ha! You should be grateful your husband is looking for you." His arms folded across his chest, pride stiffening his frame like armor.
Celistine refused to rise to the bait. Her attention shifted instead to a figure approaching through the moonlight—a young woman with hair like snow, every step calculated grace, a silent challenge in her poised posture. Even here, Medeya followed like a shadow.
"Thank you," Celistine murmured, her voice soft but edged with steel. "I believe Lady Medeya seeks you. I shall leave you to your guests."
Harold glanced over his shoulder and saw Medeya's angelic face, her eyes wide in feigned worry. She reached them swiftly, her voice soft with concern.
"Lady Celistine? Harold was worried about you."
Before Celistine could reply, Medeya's hand—slender, cool—closed about her arm just above the elbow. The grip was light, refined, yet beneath its gentility was a quiet claim, a subtle test of boundaries. Celistine felt the message in the pressure: you may be Empress, but he stands beside me. She did not flinch but met Medeya's eyes briefly, unyielding.
"She is right, Celistine," Harold added, his voice low, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.
With unhurried grace, Celistine disengaged her arm. The movement was smooth enough to deny insult, yet final enough to make her point. She bowed to them both, a faint, sardonic smile playing at her lips.
"Your concern honours me. May the gods bless you, Your Majesty—and may you continue your… love."
Without awaiting a response, she turned and left them in the garden. Her gown whispered across the stone path, each step measured, her back unbent, carrying the weight of a queen who bore her burdens alone.
Upon passing through the grand entrance of the hall, the herald proclaimed the arrival of Empress Celistine. All eyes turned to her—some surprised by her late arrival, others taken aback by the plainness of her gown. Whispers stirred among the gathered nobles; half the rumours were false, the rest, perhaps, borne of truth.
The nobles bowed their heads in deference, yet Celistine chose silence, her gaze fixed ahead as she made her way to the wine corner, forgoing the Empress's seat. Ladies from distant cities approached, one by one, to pay their respects.
"I hear His Majesty the Emperor has triumphed in his venture to the Southern Kingdom," spoke Baroness Chantal, a fair-haired lady draped in crimson, lifting her wine to sip. Celistine listened quietly, a flicker of pride hidden beneath her calm, for she knew it was her counsel that had led to Harold's success—yet the Emperor claimed the glory as his own.
"With all due respect, Your Grace," ventured Viscountess Nessa boldly, unaware of the murmurs her words would stir—"I hear His Majesty's consort was once far from noble birth. Was she not a commoner?" Her voice rang clear, the orange curls at her temples fluttering with the floral hand fan she wielded.
Celistine drew a slow breath, the tension thick as she broke the growing discord. "His Majesty is rightly rewarded, adorned by beauty as a blessing for his triumphs—blessings bestowed by the gods themselves." She spoke with grace, wishing to quell the whispers that threatened to mar the Emperor's reputation.
"Let us hope such talk does not invite misfortune," Baroness Chantal said with a sharp smile, her words laced with quiet scorn.
"Misfortune, pray, what misfortune?"
The ladies startled as Harold's voice cut through the air. Baroness Chantal's smile faltered, dread flickering in her eyes—if the Emperor caught wind of their gossip, it could be deemed treason. To curse the Empire, especially in the presence of its royal blood, was a grave offense indeed.
Celistine saw the flicker of jealousy and anger cross Harold's features at the words he'd overheard. Swiftly, she stepped to his side, keen to divert the mood. She would not let this glittering gathering fall into shame.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," Celistine said warmly, bowing with practiced grace.
"We were merely discussing your triumph in the Southern Kingdom, sire. No ill intent was meant," she added, smoothing the air between them and the assembled noblewomen.
Harold's gaze lingered on her, doubt clouding his eyes, yet he chose to dismiss the matter. Offering his hand, he beckoned her to join the final dance—an ancient custom that marked the close of the festivities.
This last dance was not merely a dance, but a solemn gesture of gratitude from host to guest, a ritual that bound nobles and royalty alike in shared celebration. Though Celistine wished to refuse, out of respect she accepted—for he was the Emperor, and she, the Empress.
Together, they stepped onto the floor, the grand party nearing its close beneath the glittering chandeliers.
As the music's gentle notes began to fill the grand hall, Celistine and Harold moved onto the polished floor. His left hand rested firmly yet tenderly upon her waist, while his right hand lifted hers with graceful care, guiding her through the dance.
Yet beneath the elegance of their steps, a quiet tension lingered. Since the day her maid Grace had whispered troubling news, Celistine found herself unable to meet Harold's eyes. Once, dancing with him had brought her joy—a warmth that blossomed in heart and soul, a smile she wished could last forever. But everything changed when Medeya arrived.
They danced with measured patience, Harold leading each step with steady rhythm. Still, he noticed the distance between them—her gaze fixed on the floor, her movements hesitant. It felt less like a dance between equals and more like an old man coaxing a reluctant youth, though Harold was no older than Celistine.
Without warning, Harold drew Celistine closer—her delicate profile now pressed softly against his broad chest. The sudden closeness startled her; she instinctively shifted, attempting to step back, but Harold's strong hand gripped her waist firmly, holding her in place. His fingers pressed gently yet with an unyielding strength, as if refusing to let her slip away. Celistine's breath caught; she wondered what strange vigor possessed Harold that night, for never before had his grasp felt so intense. Unease fluttered within her as the music's rhythm carried them forward.
With a smooth, practiced motion, Harold spun Celistine gracefully, his hand still guiding hers. As she turned, her gown swirled softly around her ankles. When she faced him again, the last notes of the music lingered in the air, and Harold drew her near once more. Their faces hovered inches apart, breaths mingling, the moonlight casting a silver glow that danced alongside the flickering candle flames. Celistine's eyes widened slightly, heart hammering beneath the delicate silk of her dress. The noble crowd watched, captivated by the radiant beauty before them.
"KISS!"
"KISS!"
The chorus of voices rose in eager anticipation. Celistine's pulse raced; Harold's dark eyes locked with her royal purple gaze, flames of warmth and longing dancing within them—where once had dwelled a chill, now bloomed a fierce and tender fire. Slowly, he tilted his head, lips parting, inching closer, breath warm against her cheek.
Yet just as his lips neared, Celistine bent forward slightly, a soft cough escaping her—a gentle yet deliberate interruption. Harold's expression softened into a quiet smile as he drew back, his gaze lingering on her with a playful peace.
Not a chance, Celistine thought firmly, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders as they parted ways, offering a polite nod of thanks to the guests before slipping away from the night's revelry.
In the shadows, Medeya's gaze lingered upon the scene—a fiery dance shared between Empress Celistine and her beloved Harold, stirring a quiet storm within her breast. Her fingers curled into tight fists, the bitter taste of jealousy simmering beneath her calm.
"Jealous, are you?" whispered a voice behind her—a pale youth, his dark violet hair a shadow against moonlight, a sly smile touching his lips.
Medeya turned, voice sharp as winter's frost. "And what brings you here? This is no place for wandering souls."
With a careless shrug, he answered, "Boredom drove me from the barracks; I thought perhaps you might require aid."
Her tone dripped with sarcasm. "Aid? Pray, what help could you offer?"
His smile faded, eyes darkening. Then, his voice dropped, heavy with dread: "The Blackthread is here."
The name struck Medeya like a thunderclap—her breath caught, chest tightening painfully as a cold shiver ran down her spine. Her eyes widened in terror, shimmering with a sudden, raw fear she could barely conceal. For a moment, her trembling fingers gripped his tunic so tightly her knuckles whitened.
"Have they found us?" she whispered, voice barely steady, trembling like a leaf in a storm.
He shook his head slowly. "Not yet. But their soldiers move among us, disguised—skin darkened like foreign tribes, yet not quite of this land."
She released him slowly, still shaken, and pointed toward a figure bathed in gold. "See that girl?"
He nodded, shadows flickering in his gaze. "I want her dead."