Early that morning, while the servants hurried about, preparing for the departure of Celistine and her party — now divided into two groups, one bound to negotiate peace with the Blackthreads, and the other to confront the approaching western soldiers at Portekwero — the world inside Carlo's chamber was calm and still.
There, in the warmth of his room, Carlo and Rehena shared a quiet moment in the bathtub. The water steamed gently, filled with soft bubbles that clung to their skin and drifted in delicate shapes. They were both bare, unashamed, and wrapped in the quiet comfort of each other's presence — not out of desire, but out of love, wanting only to stay close before duty pulled them apart.
"Ugh… I don't want to go," Carlo murmured, holding Rehena from behind, his chin resting upon her shoulder. His arms encircled her as though refusing to let the world take him away.
Rehena gave a faint smile, though her eyes glistened with sadness. "You don't have to worry about me, my love," she said softly, tracing circles in the water. "I'll still be here… waiting for you."
He tightened his embrace, his voice low but full of warmth. "I promise you, when all this is over, I'll return. I'll marry you— and make you my queen."
Rehena leaned her head against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, wishing time could pause just a little longer before the world outside demanded his goodbye.
Hours had passed when Celistine finally stepped out of the mansion. At the front doorstep, the carriage awaited her, patiently poised like a sentinel ready to carry her forward. She wore a flowing red gown embroidered in delicate gold, paired with a cream-coloured cape that trailed elegantly behind her. Her long, golden-yellow hair fell in loose curls, entwined with gentle braids, and the ensemble was lighter than usual — designed for comfort during her journey.
Sir Criston, clad in his knightly attire, exuded authority and readiness. His uniform was a striking black, intricately patterned, with shoulder armour and a long coat lined in deep red. Gloves covered his hands, boots rose firmly to his knees, and a black cape fluttered behind him. He escorted Celistine to the carriage, accompanied by Grace, her closest friend. Grace's uniform mirrored Criston's, a black military-style design with sharp red trim, complete with a long coat, fitted trousers, gloves, and high boots. Her hair, as black as midnight, was tied back in a low ponytail, framing her green eyes with soft bangs.
With careful reverence, Celistine bid farewell to her family, her voice light yet tinged with solemnity. The carriage began to roll forward, and beyond the gates, Criston and Barron rode their warhorses ahead, leading nearly a hundred knights — a precaution against any potential ambush from the Blackthreads.
As Celistine's group gradually vanished into the horizon, Carlo prepared himself. He donned a sleek suit of black armour, adorned with the emblem of the North on his chest, layered over a crimson garment. A red cape fell from his shoulders, fluttering slightly as he moved.
"Be careful, my son," King Henry said, his eyes heavy with worry and sorrow. There was an unspoken fear there, a tension in his gaze, for he knew the dangers Carlo might face in Portekwero, where conflict could erupt at any moment.
"I will, Father. Please do not worry," Carlo replied, bowing respectfully. By his side, Rehena watched with eyes full of concern, a subtle shadow of sadness lingering in their depths. Her hands clutched lightly at her chest as she tried to steady herself, knowing the Crown Prince of the North was about to face uncertain peril.
Noticing her unease, Carlo offered a reassuring smile, gentle yet bright, attempting to ease the tension etched on her face. He reached for her arm, lifting it delicately, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of her right hand, letting the warmth of the gesture speak words his lips could not.
"Do not worry, my lady. I shall return safely," he whispered, his voice steady and filled with promise. Rehena felt the heat of his lips linger on her skin, and her other hand instinctively moved to her heart, as if to anchor herself in that fleeting closeness.
"Please… be safe, my prince," Rehena murmured, her voice a gentle echo of her emotions. With a final squeeze of her hand, Carlo released her, mounted his warhorse, and rode forward. Beside him, Johanes, clad in black and red light armour, took his position. Together, they led nearly a thousand knights to station at Portekwero, prepared to face the encroaching armies of the Western Empire under the North's banner.
It was a bright, sunny day when Celistien and Grace had already taken their seats in the carriage, waiting to arrive at the place where they would meet the Blackthreads. Grace, however, had been staring at Barron for some time; his horse was stationed beside Celistien's carriage. Barron rode calmly, almost serene, yet every movement betrayed a constant alertness, as was his habit in the Western Empire. His posture was impeccable, every angle of his body disciplined and precise, even as he kept his position beside them. Grace could not help but smile, captivated by the sight of her lover, and Celistien, ever observant, noticed immediately.
"You really can't stop staring at Barron, can you?" Celistien finally broke the silence.
Startled, Grace turned her gaze away, lowering her eyes to the floor of the carriage, a deep blush spreading across her cheeks.
"I… I'm sorry, Your Grace," she murmured, her voice soft, almost sheepish.
"You don't need to apologise. I know you still find it hard to imagine that Barron is truly on our side… and that he is here, for you. It must feel like a dream." Celistien said, her eyes calmly following Barron as he guided his horse with measured composure.
"Actually… yes, Your Majesty," Grace replied, her lips curving into a smile of quiet relief and happiness. "And I am truly glad… that he has been freed."
As the carriage drew closer to the meeting place of the Blackthreads, Leonare, the leader of the tribe, was preparing himself. They would meet in a secluded area, surrounded by towering trees, hidden from any wandering eyes. The forest was dense, a natural fortress of privacy. The Blackthreads were arranging tents, preparing the site for the negotiations. Leon's excitement was evident; he had longed to speak with Celistine again, not just for the peace talks, but for the brief moments of connection he had once shared with her.
He did not desire war with the North—it would waste precious time, and the King of the Blackthreads had granted only ten thousand soldiers to complete the mission to eliminate the new Empress of the Western Empire. The Empress, once known in Blackthreads lands as the "Sinful Mistress," had hidden her true name, Minerva, behind the alias Medeya.
"All set, Sha'ren," said Havan the assistant of Leon, assisting Leon with his attire. In Vareshi, Sha'ren means My Lord. Leon wore a black open desert jacket adorned with gold, steampunk-inspired embellishments, a matching belt cinching it at his waist. The jacket left his torso bare, emphasizing the lean strength of his frame. Black trousers completed the ensemble, and gold bands wrapped around his arms, symbols of the Vareshi tribe. Leon's black hair contrasted sharply with his gold eyes and tanned skin, a striking figure of authority and elegance.
After several minutes of preparation, news arrived at Leon's tent.
"Sha'ren Kha'rev, dumyat na'ka el Northern Veyra, el serik ra'th an'ka, el khar ven'ka a'ka."
~My Lord Commander, the people of the Northern Kingdom have arrived, bringing nearly one hundred men among them.~
One of Leon's captains delivered the message. A smile of restrained excitement curved Leon's lips; finally, the long-awaited moment had come. With a subtle gesture, he signaled to allow the Northern Kingdom's envoys into the tent, where the preparations for the negotiations were already underway.
"We meet again," Leon whispered to himself, a mixture of anticipation and resolve flashing in his eyes as he stepped from the private tent, Havan close at his side.
The carriage came to a sudden halt, its wheels crunching softly against the gravelled path. Celistine and Grace exchanged wary glances before Grace stepped down first, her hand instinctively brushing the hilt of her dagger. The forest around them was eerily silent—its towering trees rising like ancient sentinels, their shadows swallowing the light that filtered through the leaves.
Grace scanned their surroundings. Not far ahead, Barron and Criston had already dismounted from their horses. Her eyes caught the figures emerging from between the trees—men of the Blackthreads, their tan skin glistening faintly under the sunlight, their golden eyes like molten metal. They wore black and nude desert armour trimmed with light fabrics that fluttered in the wind, each bearing the mark of the Vareshi tribe.
From among them approached a man—tall, lean, and draped in a golden shawl that gleamed with desert dust. His brown hair shimmered faintly beneath the sun, his wrists and neck adorned with gold chains and bracelets that clinked softly with every step. Grace's hand tightened around her dagger as her gaze locked on him.
Barron and Criston both tensed, their stances shifting subtly, hands close to their weapons. The man noticed, and with measured grace, he stopped several paces away. Then, in a calm and soothing voice, he bowed deeply.
"Greetings, my Lords," he said, his tone respectful but firm. "We come not to harm, but in peace. I am sent to escort your master to where the talks shall be held."
Grace frowned, confusion flickering across her features. So they can speak our tongue too? she thought, unease settling in her chest. Still, she turned and knocked gently on the carriage door.
Knock, knock.
"Your Grace," she called softly, "they request that we enter their private tent to begin the peace talks."
Celistine, seated inside the carriage, froze for a moment. A strange tightness filled her chest—unease mixed with an emotion she could not name. Perhaps fear. Perhaps something deeper. The thought of meeting the Blackthreads—those who had long been enemies of the North—sent a cold shiver down her spine. And worse still… she could not shake the feeling that she already knew their leader.
Could it be him?
Her hand rested over her heart as anxiety swelled. If the Blackthreads meant harm, they would have attacked by now. Yet the silence outside was deafening.
Grace's voice broke through her thoughts. "Your Grace, they're waiting. What shall we tell them?"
Celistine's eyes fluttered shut, gathering courage. "Tell them…" she hesitated, then continued with quiet resolve, "tell them I am unwell from the long travel. Request that their leader come to me instead—in this carriage. I wish for our conversation to remain private."
Grace blinked, startled. "Your Grace, you wish to meet him alone?"
Before she could protest further, Criston overheard their conversation and he decided to stepped closer, his brow furrowed with concern. "Your Majesty, that is far too risky. What if he strikes without warning?"
Celistine's tone hardened. "Then you will check him first. Search him thoroughly. If he carries no weapon, then allow him inside. If their leader truly seeks peace, he will not refuse my request. We must remind them that the North does not bow easily."
Criston exchanged a brief, uneasy glance with Barron but nodded. "As you command, Your Highness."
Grace straightened and stepped forward to relay the message. Her boots sank slightly into the soft earth as she approached the golden-shawled man once more. She bowed gracefully.
"Greetings, my Lord," she began, her voice steady. "The eldest daughter of the King of the North is weary from travel. She requests that your master join her inside the carriage for the peace discussion."
Havan's expression shifted—first surprise, then mild discomfort. He shook his head slowly. "That will not do, my lady. As you protect your master, we too must protect ours. My Lord's safety cannot be compromised. We assure you, the place we prepared is safe and fitting for her comfort."
Grace lifted her chin slightly, her tone unyielding. "Then perhaps you should remember—it was you who sought this meeting, not us. If your master truly desires peace, he must show respect to our customs and to our Lady's wish."
Havan's eyes narrowed, a faint edge of irritation breaking through his polished composure. "My lady, we Blackthreads do not bow to commands from foreign tongues. If we are to avoid bloodshed, you would be wise to heed our arrangement."
A smirk played upon Grace's lips. "And we, the people of the North, do not yield to strangers trespassing upon our land—especially those who will attempt to raised arms against us. You wish peace? Then prove it."
The air grew thick. Men from both sides gripped the hilts of their swords, their breaths heavy with tension. One wrong move would shatter the fragile calm.
But before blades could be drawn, a commanding voice sliced through the chaos.
"Na'ven sha'reth, en'dra ta'va el serin — na'ka veir tal'ren, kha'ra veir tal'za."My companions, we are here to make peace, not to fight.
Everyone turned.
From the line of Blackthread warriors stepped a tall figure—broad-shouldered, his presence instantly arresting. His golden eyes gleamed beneath a fall of black hair. He wore an open black desert jacket lined with golden steampunk embellishments and a wide belt that hugged his toned waist. His bare chest caught the light, marked with faint scars—proof of battles fought under a merciless sun.
Grace's breath hitched. He was unlike any of the others—more regal, more dangerous.
Havan turned to him quickly, speaking in their ancient tongue.
"Veir sha'ren, seren el Master el Veyra na'ka — dra'ven kha'ta veir ta'ren el carriage, sha'ren ven'ka ra."But, my Lord, the master from the North wishes to speak with you inside the carriage—just the two of you.
Leonare Wiegn Driftmoor—the leader of the Blackthreads—only smiled, slow and deliberate.
"If that is her wish, then so be it," he replied in a voice rich and deep, his accent curling faintly around the edges. "The lady speaks truth—we came into their land, not the other way around. We shall obey."
Havan's brows creased in frustration. "If anything happens to you, my Lord—"
Leon's grin widened, almost teasing. "You forget, Havan. I'm not that easy to kill."
With that, he strode forward—each step deliberate, almost predatory. Grace and Criston stiffened, exchanging a silent signal.
"Before you enter," Grace said, her voice clipped but polite, "we must check you for weapons. My Lady insists."
Leon arched a brow, clearly amused. "Do as you must."
Barron and Criston moved to inspect him—searching every pocket, every fold of his jacket. The air around them pulsed with tension as Leon met Grace's gaze, unflinching, a faint smirk curving his lips.
When they found no blade, Grace gave a firm nod and approached the carriage. She knocked once.
"Your Grace," she said softly, "he's coming in."
Inside, Celistine straightened her back, trying to steady her breathing. Her pulse raced—each thud loud in her ears. The door creaked open.
Leon entered slowly, ducking slightly beneath the carriage frame. The scent of dust and desert clung to him, mingled with something faintly metallic—like forged steel. He sat across from her, their eyes locking.
Time seemed to stop.
Celistine's breath caught as recognition dawned. The sharp jawline. The golden eyes that once stared into hers across a war-torn hall.
Her heart sank.
Leon's lips curved into that same knowing smile.
"Long time no see, Empress," he murmured, his voice low and velvet-smooth.
And just like that—the air between them burned.