While Celistine and the others had set their sights on returning home to the Northern Kingdom, Grace found herself taking a different path that morning — visiting her lover, Barron, in his cell.
The soft morning light slipped through the narrow windows of the corridor, casting pale gold across the cold stone floor. Grace walked quietly, her steps echoing softly against the walls. She wore a long green dress with a laced bodice over a white blouse, a brown sash tied neatly around her waist. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her bright green eyes gleamed warmly beneath the light.
In her hands, she carried a woven basket filled with food — bread, fruit, and a small flask of tea — a simple meal she had prepared for Barron herself.
Grace had been excused from duty for the week. Celistine, her closest friend and commander, had ordered her to rest after days of heavy training. But instead of sleeping, Grace chose to spend the morning with Barron — the man who made the fortress walls feel a little less cold.
When she entered the Northern cell, she saw him sitting quietly on his bed, reading the book she had given him.
"Barron, how are you?" she greeted softly, her voice gentle as her smile.
He looked up and smirked. "Here? Much better than in the Western Empire — at least I'm no longer serving that Big spender of an empress."
He rubbed the back of his neck with a faint chuckle, while Grace let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head.
"Still as bitter as ever," she teased, setting the basket down on the small wooden table. But before she could open it, Barron stood and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly from behind.
"I missed you…" he murmured, his breath brushing against her shoulder.
Grace startled slightly, then smiled, warmth rising to her cheeks. It had been three days since she last came — three days spent training with Sir Criston and mastering her new weapon: a spear with a dark blade etched in crimson patterns. Its handle bore twisted gold designs, adorned with black gems that shimmered faintly with her mana.
"I missed you too, Barron," she whispered, turning her head to meet his gaze. "I wish we could spend more time outside — under the sun, not behind these walls."
Her voice carried both longing and sorrow as she placed her hands over his, which were still wrapped around her waist. For a while, they stayed that way, silent but content. Then Grace gently drew away and began unpacking the basket.
They sat together, sharing the meal she had brought. The morning light glowed softly through the cell's small window, bathing them in quiet warmth — a rare, peaceful moment for two souls caught between duty and love.
While the Northern Kingdom fretted beneath the gathering shadow of the Blackthreads, the Western Empire prepared for a different storm. Harold wanted war — blunt and immediate. He would not endure those "bastards" any longer. Maxon, meanwhile, had manoeuvred quietly behind the scenes: the old commander was out, and Harold now sat at the head of the table as the Western forces' chosen commander.
The council chamber smelled faintly of smoke and old parchment. Around the long oak table the nobles and generals sat with their cloaks drawn tight against the chill. The Emperor himself was present, his expression heavy beneath the crown, and at his right hand Maxon wore a thin, knowing smile — the sort that implied more had been considered than he cared to say.
"So what's the plan, Your Majesty?" Baron Magnom asked, voice clipped, impatience threaded through every word.
General Morgan shifted in his seat, fingers absently tracing the rim of his goblet as the hall fell still. "We march the Western knights into Baron Magnom's territory," he said, voice steady but edged with urgency. "There we will position our forces to meet the Blackthreads head-on — whether they strike at once or wait, we must be ready."
A ripple of murmurs moved through the chamber. Arms folded; heads inclined; someone drew breath as if to argue. Harold's jaw tightened. He leant forward, the map of the four kingdoms spread before him like an accusation, the ache behind his eyes the weariness of a man hardened by counsel and conflict.
"What if we set an ambush?" one of the Emperor's companions asked, low and wary.
"How can we plan an ambush when we do not even know where the Blackthreads' stronghold lies?" another retorted. Voices overlapped and fragmented into competing theories; debate threatened to drown the room. Harold pressed his palm to his temple as if to still the throbbing in his head.
Maxon watched them until, finally, he cut through the din. "Listen, my lords," he said, and the room stilled at his tone. The nobles turned; all eyes fell upon him.
"What if — rather than marching straight into their lands — we establish ourselves at Portekwero?" he proposed, deliberate and calm. "We garrison troops there and build a proper base. From that vantage we can learn whether the Blackthreads intend to use the north as a staging ground. Controlling the crossroads and river fords secures our supply lines and gives us options."
A shocked murmur swept the council. Portekwero sat on the northern boundary and had long been under Northern control — bold, some thought reckless. Baron Magnom's face creased. "But it is far from defensible if the Blackthreads strike us there," he protested, fingers worrying the edge of the table in small, anxious movements.
Maxon's hands lay flat on the wood, palms open as though sketching the plan in the air. "Precisely why we should be the first to move in," he said. "If I were the Blackthreads seeking to expand, I would take the north first: sparse, poorly fortified, a place to shelter and gather supplies. If we hold Portekwero, we force their hand — they will reveal themselves."
He leaned in, eyes bright with purpose. "We do not throw all our men into open country to play into their hands. We make Portekwero our linchpin: fortify the crossroads, hold the river fords, station a substantial garrison, and patrol the surrounding passes. Let them fix their attention on the north. Once we learn their dispositions and timing, we sever their retreat, cut their supplies by intercepting wagons and blocking mountain routes, and then bring the full might of the Western — and Southern — forces to bear."
Maxon spoke of feints and decoys, of using the north as bait while the Empire conserved its strength. He outlined the practicalities — timber for palisades, concealed earthworks, reliable wagon trains for provisioning, rotating patrols to prevent fatigue — all described with the cool certainty of a man who had pictured each step.
Across the table the Emperor's face gave nothing away. Harold, who had longed for strategy that matched his anger, felt resolve settle into him like armour. He straightened, shoulders squared, and his voice cut through the lingering doubt.
"Then I agree to Maxon," he said, with quiet determination. His fingers tightened on the map until the paper creased. "We will make Portekwero both bait and test. If the Blackthreads aim to colonise the north, they will expose themselves. If they do not, we will have secured a strategic foothold and denied them the choice of ground."
Maxon's grin widened — satisfaction and calculation braided together. "And if war comes," he added softly, almost indulgently, "we shall make the north our battlefield. We will compel their best to fight on ground we have prepared. We will wear them down there, and finish them."
The picture he painted was stark and exacting. Some nobles shifted uneasily; others returned his grim smile. Harold's knuckles whitened as if he could impress his will upon the parchment itself. Across the hall ministers and captains began to sketch the work ahead — where to fell timber for palisades, which wagon masters could be trusted to run the supply routes, how to plant false camps to mislead scouts.
Beneath the bravado, however, lingered unanswerable doubts: would the Blackthreads take the bait? Could the northern folk endure occupation, even if temporary? Maxon's plan hinged on a gamble — that the enemy's expectations could be manipulated and their movements anticipated.
In the north, Celistine sat quietly in her garden, the gentle song of birds the only sound accompanying her. Sunlight streamed through the branches, casting soft patterns across the stone path. Beside her were Lady Rehena and Grace, sharing the morning's calm. Celistine wore an off-the-shoulder gown in soft shades of blue, a jeweled brooch resting at her waist, and a delicate necklace catching the light. Her golden hair was styled in an elegant updo, loose curls softening her face, while her violet eyes, fringed with long lashes, flickered like candlelight as she sipped her tea.
Rehena's light green gown fluttered slightly in the breeze, long sleeves embroidered with gold along the bodice and hem. Her chestnut hair fell in gentle waves, small braids framing her face, and her brown eyes glimmered with joy as she tasted a piece of chocolate cake. Grace, in contrast, wore her training outfit — a white, long-sleeved blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, a wide belt cinching her waist, brown gloves and boots completing the ensemble. Loose strands of her hair framed her face, a long braid resting over her shoulder, giving her a look of composed readiness despite the leisure of the moment.
For Celistine, these moments were a rare reprieve. The constant demands of politics, the endless councils and decisions, had left her weary; yet here, among friends, laughter came easily. She leaned back against the wooden bench, inhaling the scent of flowers and warm tea, and allowed herself a quiet smile.
"Anyway… so, what happened between you and Carlo, Lady Rehena?" Grace teased, a playful lilt in her voice. She had heard the whispers of that night at Seawatch Port, though Rehena's face betrayed her discomfort.
"Nothing… special," Rehena murmured, pressing her hands to her lap. "I'm… shy. And honestly, it's a bit too personal." Her eyes lowered, cheeks warming as she avoided Grace's gaze.
Celistine turned her attention to Grace, her violet eyes thoughtful. "And how is Barron?" she asked gently. Grace's lips curved in a faint, bittersweet smile. Her eyes rested on her tea, hiding the tug of longing inside her heart. She wished to plead for Barron's release, yet knew the timing was not right; Celistine's trust had yet to be fully earned.
"Do you truly love him?" Celistine asked, her tone steady, serious, eyes piercing as though reading Grace's very soul.
"Yes," Grace replied softly, pride and determination threading through her words, "but I will not force Your Majesty to release him."
"And why is that?" Celistine's voice remained calm but firm, a mirror of the question weighing on her heart.
"Because Barron asked me not to beg," Grace said, her smile gentle though tinged with sadness. "Even though I wish I could kneel before Your Majesty, he wants to atone for his sins himself. He is willing to wait — until you can trust him fully."
Celistine studied her friend for a long moment, and then quietly, with a small smile, reached out to hold Grace's hands. "One day, Grace… I promise. I will trust Barron completely."
A wave of warmth spread between them, the simple gesture speaking louder than words. The three friends returned to their tea and cake, the garden echoing with soft laughter and the occasional chirp of a bird. For Celistine, it was a rare slice of normality, a reprieve from the weight of her duties, and the joy of friendship was all the sweeter for it.
But the peace did not last. Johanes appeared at the edge of the garden, bowing low with a courteous air. "Good morning, ladies… and to Your Majesty," he greeted.
"What brings you here?" Celistine asked, a hint of curiosity knitting her brow.
"We have received a letter," Johanes said, pausing, his expression grave.
"From whom?" Celistine asked, frowning. Johanes took a deep breath before continuing.
"It… it was from the Blackthreads."
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, the gentle hum of the garden felt distant. Celistine's eyes narrowed slightly, Rehena's hand went to her chest, and Grace stiffened, her fingers tightening around her tea cup. Even amidst friendship and laughter, the shadow of danger had returned — a reminder that peace was fragile, and the world outside their garden waited for no one.