FLASHBACK
In the southern reaches of the realm lay the Kingdom of Casinova — a land of grandeur and might, famed across the Four Kingdoms for its mastery in the forging of weapons. Here, blades were hewn from silver and gold, heavy with purpose and impossible to shatter. Every implement of war was crafted with precision and pride, their origins traced to the skilled hands of Casinovan smiths.
It was to this kingdom that Harold had journeyed — not for battle, but for a purpose most strategic. A small, unclaimed province known as Betersary, situated beyond the southern frontier, had caught the attention of the imperial court. Like many forgotten corners scattered across the borders, Betersary bore no banner and bent the knee to no crown. Yet it held promise.
By Harold's command, it was to be surveyed — not merely for conquest, but for potential. If war should come, or should the empire seek to expand its coffers, such places might one day prove invaluable.
The province of Betersary rested beside a vast ocean lake, its waters shimmering with fish and humble sea life. Yet it offered little in the way of abundance — scarcely enough to sustain a kingdom. What intrigued Harold, however, were the rugged mountains that stood solemn over the land. It was Celistine, ever wise and cunning, who first laid forth the strategy — who urged him to ride out and judge its worth with his own eyes.
Upon his great white steed, Harold rode — the survey complete, the first mines already begun. Beneath the rocky soil, they had discovered what he had hoped for: pearls. Not common ones, but rare and lustrous — worthy of royal crafting.
He was not alone on this venture. Twenty knights rode with him, loyal to the last, among them Barron — a man of honour and strength. The path was rough, a trail worn by time, hemmed in by plain mountains and the occasional tree clinging to rocky soil. On one side, a cliff dropped steeply into a forested hollow, and far below, the full splendour of Betersary stretched out — its glimmering waters calm and blue as the heavens.
It was as he gazed across this view that he saw her.
She stood at the edge of a clearing — a young woman clad in garments humble and worn, her dress mended in places where it had torn, the thread visible against sun-faded fabric. Yet she bore herself with quiet dignity. Her hair was white as cloud, loose upon her shoulders, catching the wind like the wings of a dove. And when she turned, and her gaze met his, Harold felt the earth slow.
Her eyes were the colour of the ocean.
It was in that moment — brief, wordless — that Harold's heart first stirred.
Her name was Medeya.
End of Flashback
It was already late in the afternoon when Harold and Medeya found rest after six arduous hours of travel from the Southern Kingdom. Now they resided within the guest chamber of a royal villa — a place often used by the nobility to acquire fine garments or precious trinkets. Without delay, orders were sent for the finest dressmakers and jewellers to present their wares. Medeya, garbed humbly upon arrival, was soon to be adorned with treasures rivaling those of an empress.
Harold, eager to see her smile, had only one goal — to enshroud her in luxury, in affection, in every semblance of majesty.
"Ahmm... Harold?" Medeya's voice pierced the lavish quiet. "When shall you divorce the Empress?"
The question fell without warning, bold and unflinching — as though Medeya seized the moment to pull him further away from his lawful wife. Her beauty was near divine, like a goddess descending from marble halls — and yet, within her rested a cunning grace, serpent-like, cloaked beneath soft smiles and lowered lashes.
"Worry not, my love," Harold replied with ease, his tone almost playful. "I shall see it done. And do not call her 'Empress' — she no longer deserves the title." A laugh escaped him then, warm and unbothered, before he pressed a kiss to Medeya's brow.
And so the room filled with quiet joy — a false sort of bliss, perhaps, yet joy all the same.
Meanwhile, within the Western wing of the palace, Celistine sat alone in her study. Her thoughts tangled like vines. Harold had spoken of her father — of an agreement concerning his mistress. The word struck her like cold iron. How long has it been since Father last visited? she wondered. Years, surely. The silence between them was no longer passive — it reeked of secrecy.
With resolute breath, Celistine turned to the old letters. Harold had mentioned the Northern Kingdom, and so she began there.
She examined every message sent and received — seeking hidden meanings, overlooked truths.
Letter
Dated: Year 871 of the Crowned Age
Dearest Father,
How fares the Northern lands? I pray my siblings are well. Are the food supplies sufficient? I've sent another shipment, knowing a storm is due to arrive. Take care of them, and of yourself.
— With all my love,
Celistine
Response
Dearest Daughter,
We are well. Your generosity is received and appreciated. All is in order.
Take care.
— Your Father
The same words. Again and again. Identical responses over the passing years — it was unnatural.
Celistine's suspicion swelled. This cannot be mere coincidence. She devised a plan — a quiet, calculated approach to uncover the truth. She summoned Grace — her handmaid, who, though now veiled as a Westerner, was in truth born of the North.
Sent years ago under her father's orders, Grace was the unseen thread between the Kingdoms. Her identity, buried and re-written, would now serve a greater purpose: protection and information. For if danger came — and Celistine was sure it would — someone had to remain loyal.
But even with Grace in her service, a question lingered:
Just how tight is Harold's grip on the flow of letters... and how many eyes watch Celistine's every move?
"Your Grace?"
Grace inquired softly, her posture perfect and her smile sweetly composed as she greeted Lady Celistine with a practiced curtsy.
"How fares the work?"
Celistine asked in a quiet, serious tone—a question that, to the unknowing ear, seemed ordinary, yet was in truth a coded inquiry regarding the state of the Northern Kingdom and any recent developments. Grace offered a delicate smile before replying.
"Thank you, Your Grace. I press on, though pain plagues my arms daily. Still, I endure."
The words, simple as they seemed, bore a deeper meaning. To Celistine, it was clear—there truly were spies watching their every move, and Grace had not yet found a way to slip through unnoticed.
"Glad to hear it," Celistine responded with a measured nod. Then, with sudden lightness and an intentional smile, she added,
"Have you ever seen a shooting star? I've read of them in books lately—fascinating things, don't you think?"
Her expression betrayed nothing, but the subtle shift in tone served its purpose. It was a veiled warning: someone was listening. The question wasn't about stars, but about suspicion. Had Grace's identity been compromised? Were others beginning to suspect their alliance?
Grace caught the message at once.
"Not yet, madam—ehehe, so… I shall take my leave."
She curtseyed again and promptly exited the chamber, her departure swift but composed. They could not risk lingering, not in that place, not with so many eyes and ears lurking behind fine curtains and polished walls. The mansion had become a nest of shadows—its spies unknown, even among the maids and butlers who served within.
Though the night had only just begun, Celistine made her way early to the imperial dining hall — the place where she and the Emperor were to share their evening meal. Upon her arrival, she found the long table empty of guests. Only a single dish had been laid, and it was clearly intended for her alone.
She turned to the maids with a slight frown, her voice composed yet expectant.
"The Emperor?" she asked, already assuming he had chosen to spend the evening in his drawing room, as he often did lately — likely in the company of that woman.
Yet nothing could have prepared her for the reply.
"Your Majesty," one maid answered softly, "His Majesty is in his chambers. He has requested his supper to be taken there — with Lady Medeya."
A chill ran through Celistine. Though she showed little outward reaction, something within her stirred — part dismay, part quiet fury. In the three years they had been wed, not once had they shared a proper wedding night. The former Emperor had taken ill on the night of their union and remained bedridden until his death. Since then, not a single moment of closeness had passed between her and Harold.
And yet for Medeya, it seemed he could not wait.
She said nothing more. With as much grace as she could summon, Celistine sat and ate alone, each bite harder to swallow than the last.
Hours passed.
The palace had quieted as she walked the dimly lit corridor toward her private chambers. Just before reaching her door, she passed the Emperor's bedchamber — and there, she paused. From within, a sound escaped. A cry. Then another. Intimate. Undeniable.
And she was not the only one who heard it. Whispers had already begun among the night servants, their hushed voices feeding the growing gossip.
Curiosity — or perhaps wounded pride — took hold of Celistine. She stepped closer to the door, which stood slightly ajar.
And there, through that narrow opening, she saw it.
The Emperor, lost in passion. Lady Medeya beneath him, her face twisted in pleasure. Their bodies moved in rhythm, heedless of shame. Then, as if sensing her presence, Medeya turned her head — and saw Celistine watching.
She smiled.
It was not a kind smile. It was a victor's grin — the kind that says, "I have won."
Celistine stood frozen, her skin cold, her thoughts scattered. Harold did not stop. He did not even turn.
Quietly, she closed the door.
And in that moment, she understood: her crown was no longer safe. For if Medeya were to bear him an heir… the Empress would become irrelevant.
After seeing what she saw in the Emperor's chamber, Celistine didn't say a word. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just turned around and walked away.
She headed straight to the library.
Not because she wanted to read — but because it was the only quiet place in the palace where no one usually went at this hour.
When she arrived, she opened the door, stepped in, and slowly closed it behind her. She waited until the lock clicked.
Then she stood silently in front of the tall window. The moonlight streamed in, casting a soft glow across the room. It should've been peaceful. But there was no peace inside her.
She placed her hand over her chest. Her breathing was heavy. It felt like something was crushing her from the inside — like a heavy stone sitting on her heart. She didn't show this pain to anyone else, but here… in the silence of the library, it all came out.
She slowly walked toward one of the long shelves, dragging her fingers along the books. Her vision was still cloudy from what she saw earlier — the sounds, the faces, the betrayal. It replayed in her head like a curse she couldn't turn off.
Then she sat down on one of the velvet chairs, tucked in the corner of the library. Alone.
Her hand trembled as she held the side of her face. She closed her eyes, trying to calm the storm inside her.
Am I still his wife? she whispered to herself.
Or just a title… waiting to be replaced?
She knew what she saw tonight changed everything. And for the first time, the thought entered her mind:
If Medeya gives him a son... what happens to me?
A soft click came from the door.
Celistine didn't move. She already knew who it was.
Barron.
He entered silently, steps measured and careful. He was thirty years old — five years older than Celistine — but carried himself like a shadow — quiet, cold, watchful.
He stopped a few feet away, eyes steady.
"You should be more careful, Your Majesty," Barron said, voice low and sharp. "The Emperor notices everything. Especially when you wander off."
She looked at him, guarded.
"I saw what you did," Barron said.
Her breath caught.
"You're not as invisible as you think. But neither is he."
She whispered, "What now?"
Barron's gaze was unreadable. "You survive. You watch. You wait. And you play the game — because this palace doesn't forgive those who don't."
Without another word, he turned and left.
Celistine was left alone with the cold weight of the night.