The young men bowed their heads at once. "Your Grace, we are terribly sorry," they stammered, their voices trembling. Max caught the ball with ease and tossed it back to them, his movements relaxed.
"Be careful next time, alright?" he said, his deep, gentle tone softening the boys' nerves. Relief washed over their faces, their eyes brightening as they realized the Second Prince of the Eastern Empire—known for his cold composure—was not angry with them at all.
The boys, now breathing easier, hurried towards Rehena and dipped their heads again, seeking her forgiveness.
"We are sorry, Ma'am," they said in unison.
Rehena offered them a small, kind smile. "It's alright. You may continue playing," she said softly, her warm voice lifting their spirits. They grinned and rushed back to their game, the sound of their footsteps fading across the courtyard.
Rehena then bent down, gathering the books she had dropped when the ball almost struck her earlier. She held each one carefully, brushing off the dust. Max stepped closer without a word, lowering himself beside her, his long fingers lifting the remaining books with quiet ease.
"Here," he murmured, his tone cool yet not unkind, offering her the book she had been carrying before.
"Oh… thank you. For saving me earlier—and for helping me pick these up," Rehena replied, her gentle voice carrying a shy tremble. She kept her eyes lowered for a heartbeat, cheeks warming. It wasn't affection she felt—only a strange awkwardness. Max had rejected her help many times before, and now this sudden glimpse of generosity left her uncertain.
They straightened up together and began walking along the open corridor of the old, small mansion. Rehena clutched her books tightly against her chest, her fingers pressing into the covers as if they could anchor her unease whenever she stood too close to Max.
"Are you already doing the task Mother asked of you?" Max asked, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was calm—not concerned, simply stating a question.
"Yes… this is the only thing I can manage for now," Rehena said, shrugging lightly.
Max shot her a sidelong glance. "Why bother studying herbs so seriously? All just to help the North?"
"Because the North is dear to me. A place I wish to protect," she replied. A faint smile touched her lips—soft, fleeting, and sincere.
Max noticed. His crimson eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity stirring. What is it about the North that makes her so determined? he wondered.
"Oh, really?" he said at last, his voice cool. Rehena lifted a brow at him—a silent, almost teasing expression—before returning her gaze to the path ahead.
They walked a little farther until their routes split. Rehena paused near the corner leading to her chambers. She turned to Max, her eyes steady and bold, something in her look pressing quietly against the walls he kept around himself.
"My lord?" she called softly.
Max stopped. He lifted his head towards her. For a brief moment, the world around them felt still—the breeze drifting past like a whispered hymn. Rehena's long brown hair swayed behind her, the half-braided updo tied neatly with a ribbon that fluttered in the wind. Light danced along her features. Max's red eyes rose a fraction, catching that fleeting beauty, though his expression remained cold and unwavering.
"What?" he replied, his voice as frosty as ever.
Rehena smiled gently, offering not a lecture but a quiet reminder—something for him to carry with him.
"My lord… the world hides it's truths from those who refuse to look within. Change only comes to the soul brave enough to face itself."
She spoke softly, her words heavy with meaning, then turned and walked toward her chamber in a light purple gown with sheer sleeves and gold embroidery.
Max stood there for a moment, unmoving. He made no reply, simply turned away and continued down his own path, refusing to dwell on Rehena's words—even as they lingered faintly, echoing after her.
*********
In the peaceful training grounds of the North, Grace and Carlo had spent the entire day honing their sword skills simply to quiet their restless thoughts. Dressed in their worn training suits, they moved with steady determination, losing themselves in every strike and parry. Yet beneath each motion lingered a quiet ache—both of them longing for the ones they loved, their hearts heavy even as their blades kept moving.
"You're slipping, Carlo. Your sword talent is beginning to rust," Grace teased, her tone light and mocking as she swung her wooden blade towards him. Carlo dodged at once, the movement swift and precise.
Ttak!—Clack!—Whssh!—Pak!
"I'm only trying to be gentle to a lady who's starting to grow old," Carlo retorted, releasing a dramatic groan as he pushed Grace's blade away. Breathless, the two stepped back, chests rising and falling as they wiped the sweat gathering on their brows. They sat at the side of the field and reached for their water, drinking deeply as fatigue settled over their limbs. Night was drawing near, and only now had they finally ended their training.
"You know… I miss her," Carlo murmured, his voice low and rough with exhaustion—not only from the training, but from the empty ache of longing. "Don't you miss Barron, Grace?" he asked softly, turning to glance at her with curious eyes.
"I miss him far more than you miss your lover, Carlo," Grace admitted. Her green eyes lowered, shadowed with worry; it had been nearly a week since she'd heard anything from Barron.
"Do you regret not joining them on their adventure? If you'd had the chance, that is. I'm certain Lord Johannes is already recovering in Portekwero," Carlo said with a shrug. The wind should have been gentle and refreshing, yet a strange chill crept into the air—quiet, heavy, unsettling. Neither of them noticed the presence lingering behind them.
"That's only what you think, Carlo."
Both Grace and Carlo stiffened. They turned sharply, eyes widening in surprise.
Cilist stood behind them, wearing a simple white dress. Her golden hair was tangled and loose, swaying in the cold breeze. Her eyes, once bright, were dim and distant—almost hollow—as the wind tugged her hair across her pale face.
By midday, in the Western wing of Zerefia's Imperial Palace, Medeya swept through the corridor in yet another lavish gown. The dress was a deep shade of purple, draping off her shoulders, its sheer puffed sleeves glimmering with gold embellishments that traced the bodice and skirt. A matching necklace rested elegantly at her throat. Her snow‑white hair fell in long, wavy strands, parted neatly at the centre, crowned with a beaded headband and a ribbon that caught the afternoon light. Her extravagant makeup sharpened her blue eyes, making her expression even more striking as irritation simmered beneath her calm façade.
She marched straight towards her brother's chamber—the chamber that had doubled in size since he claimed it—her heels echoing sharply against the marble floor.
BANG!
"MAX!"
Medeya shoved the door open with enough force to rattle the hinges. Her anger surged at once. There was Max—completely naked—lounging lazily among four dark‑haired, green‑eyed harlots, every one of them resembling the very woman he desired. The same woman was already in the hands of the ever-loyal servant, a man who had betrayed the emperor.
The moment Medeya appeared, the women gasped and scrambled to cover themselves, clutching their discarded clothes against their bodies. Heads bowed in shame, they hurried out of the room after giving Medeya a formal bow befitting the Empress of the Western Empire. Once the door shut behind them, Max remained sprawled across his bed, utterly unbothered, as if Medeya were nothing more than a bothersome fly.
Medeya's face tightened with disbelief and fury. She strode closer to her brother, who seemed perfectly content to ignore her, lost in his obsession over a woman he could not have.
"Max," she snapped, placing both hands on her hips, "are you still clinging to that girl?"
"Oh, shut up! Why did you let her go?" Max snapped, rolling onto his side. He grabbed a pillow and pressed it over his face, hiding his features. He reeked faintly of wine, the result of a night spent drinking away exhaustion and frustration.
"Which one of them this time?" Medeya hissed. "Max, stop gathering women who look exactly like that wretch—and exactly like her master!" Though her irritation burned, she forced her voice steady; she needed Max's cooperation. With a deep breath, she sat on the edge of his bed, watching him sulk like an indolent child refusing to face his own behaviour.
"Max…" She released a slow, heavy sigh. "If you want a woman, I can give you one. Just stop obsessing over that wretch."
Medeya assumed her words would finally break through his stubbornness—yet she froze when Max suddenly shot upright.
"Absolutely not!" he barked, voice rising as he stood and snatched his robe. "The only reason I followed your ridiculous plan was to get her away from that bastard!" His frustration rolled off him in waves as he tied the robe at his waist, glaring at Medeya.
Fury flared in Medeya's chest. She pushed herself to her feet and marched straight to him.
"Hey! you!" she snapped, seizing Max by the shoulder and forcing him to face her. "You should be grateful I put you where you are! If not for me, who knows where you would've ended up? So you will obey what I say!" Her voice sharpened, her finger thrust accusingly at his face as she laid everything bare, every favour, every sacrifice.
"Ha!" Max stepped closer, eyes burning with anger. "Have you forgotten? I'm the one who saved you when your Husband started interrogating you during your dull, pathetic wedding!" His words landed like a slap.
Medeya's mouth fell open. "Ha!?" She stared at him, stunned, unable to believe what she had just heard.
Max did not stop. He stepped forward again, pointing his finger straight at her with a mocking sneer.
"I'm the one who placed you where you stand now! You—who were the one truly responsible for killing the Blackthreads' Queen out of jealousy!" His voice hit like another blow, cold and unforgiving. "How fortunate Celistine was to survive your schemes. And don't you dare forget— I never even wanted the position!"
"How dare you!" Medeya exploded. "Do not throw everything in my face!"
"Oh, truly?" Max mocked, voice dripping with venom. "Don't worry, my beloved ambitious sister. Once the war ends and I finally take her away from that bastard, you can finish off your own mess. Now—OUT!" He swung his arm in a harsh, dismissive gesture, ordering her away as if she were nothing.
"YOU—ARE—A—FOOL!" Medeya shouted, unable to contain her rage any longer. She stormed out of the chamber, slamming the door behind her. She could no longer control Max—not with obsession clouding his mind and rage twisting his loyalty. He was no longer a boy she could control; that siren had poisoned his mind.
But Medeya knew better than to provoke him further. At this time, she needed allies— even if those allies were unpredictable and unstable.
I will use him, she thought darkly as she walked away, her eyes narrowing with malice. And once the war is over… I will kill him myself.
Meanwhile, Max, having already taken his bath, sat in the tub, steam curling around him like a shroud. Before him knelt a woman with black hair and green eyes, waiting patiently to attend to him.
"Massage my head!" Max barked irritably. The woman, barely covered as he had instructed, obeyed immediately, kneeling behind him. Her hands moved over his hair with tentative care, a faint blush colouring her pale cheeks, yet she dared not refuse his command.
"Ugh!" Max growled, slamming his hand down into the water, sending droplets scattering. His temper was foul, a storm barely restrained. "If I don't get what I want, I'll destroy that wretch myself!" he muttered, voice low and threatening.
He had amassed countless women who shared the same appearance as the girl he could not forget—black hair, pale skin, and piercing green eyes. But the one who had captured his heart and obsession all along was none other than Grace Braiden Drusus.