Grace trembled, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she sat on the cold ground, cradling the unconscious Empress Celistine. Blood streamed from a wound on the Empress's head, pooling onto the floor beneath them. Panic consumed Grace as she cried out in desperation, her voice breaking with anguish.
"This... this can't be the end of the Empress's life!" she screamed, tears flooding her face as she begged anyone nearby to help. The Empress's guards rushed in haste, bringing another carriage to swiftly carry Celistine back to the main palace.
Suddenly, a firm hand touched Grace's shoulder. She whipped around, eyes wide with fear, only to meet the shocked gaze of Barron. His expression was filled with disbelief — this was not something he had orchestrated.
Before this terrible accident, Harold had commanded Barron to fetch his wife, the Empress, as she was late returning to the mansion. Harold's mind swirled with fear and suspicion—had Celistine already turned back from the North? Was she plotting something against him? Each day the Empress stayed away, Harold felt his anxiety grow, dreading the day she would uncover the secrets of the North.
Determined, Barron had ridden out with five knights, arriving at the third border where the Empress was last seen. Upon arrival, he was met with chaos but knew nothing of what had happened.
"Si-sir... the Empress!" Grace stammered through tears, overwhelmed with fear that Celistine might never wake. Without hesitation, Barron lifted the limp body of the Empress into his arms, mounted his horse, and spurred forward, racing to the mansion. The blood pouring from Celistine's head showed no signs of stopping, and her pale face told the story of her grave condition.
"I didn't send my spies to do this. ," Barron thought fiercely, his mind racing to find the culprit.
Minutes later, Barron thundered through the main gates of the mansion, the guards and servants parting before him. His charge—the bleeding Empress—was carried swiftly to her chamber.
"God heavens! What happened to the Empress?" Christopher, the head butler, exclaimed.
"She was struck by one of the wild horses from her carriage! Call the physician immediately!" Barron shouted, his voice sharp as he rushed through the doors, a sight none had ever seen before—Celistine in such a vulnerable and broken state.
Inside Harold's chamber, a soft floral scent lingered in the air. He and Medeya, his mistress, lay bare and spent, Harold reading a book while Medeya gazed lovingly at him.
"Harold, I need to tell you something," Medeya said softly, her eyes sparkling with something deeper.
Harold leaned closer. "What is it, my love?"
"My brother sent me a letter. He wishes to visit, but I fear you won't agree. We were born commoners—I don't want him to tarnish your image. But I miss him," Medeya confessed, her voice tinged with sadness and longing for her brother's presence.
"Is that what's troubling you, my love?" Harold asked, not wanting to see her upset.
"Ah, yes," Medeya admitted without hesitation, knowing Harold would understand.
"You may come, my love. You may," Harold whispered, pressing a passionate kiss to her forehead.
Their moment was tender and full of harmony, until chaos erupted outside—the maids rushing toward the Empress's chamber in alarm.
"Ugh, what scene has Celistine created now to draw my attention?" Harold muttered irritably, assuming the Empress was behind the disturbance. Annoyed, he dressed quickly in his kimono, leaving Medeya behind as he rubbed his temples, already feeling a headache coming on.
But when Harold opened the door, his eyes went wide with shock.
There was Barron, carrying the Empress—his bleeding wife—unconscious and pale, blood still trickling from her head. Drops fell onto the floor, painting a grim picture of the violence she had suffered.
A maid holding warm water and a towel caught sight of Harold, greeting him nervously, but her words were cut short by Barron's sharp shout.
"TOWEL!"
The maid flinched at Barron's command, terror evident in her eyes.
After Harold saw his wife, the Empress, drenched in blood, he immediately rushed to the Empress's chamber where Barron carried Celistine's cold, unconscious body.
"My love!" Medeya shouted, trying to stop Harold from leaving the room. But Harold didn't hesitate—he stormed out, rushing straight to the Empress's chamber. Left alone, Medeya smiled triumphantly, her eyes gleaming with victory as she watched the chaos unfold and witnessed the Empress's grievous condition.
"At last!" Medeya laughed softly, savoring her triumph.
"How is the Empress's condition?" Grace asked the royal physician with a cold, steady voice. Harold and Barron remained silent, their faces still etched with shock.
"The Empress is, by the grace of the heavens, alive," the physician answered carefully. "There is no severe injury to her head, but the blow was strong. It will take at least three days for her to awaken—if she wakes at all. There is a risk she could slip into a coma."
Harold, Barron, and Grace absorbed the gravity of the news in stunned silence. The physician, sensing the tension, asked permission to leave the chamber. The Empress lay unconscious, her forehead wrapped tightly with a bloodied bandage. Grace had not yet changed her dress, which bore fresh stains of the Empress's blood.
"Grace, you may leave now," Harold ordered softly.
But Grace suddenly knelt before His Majesty, her voice trembling with desperation.
"Please, Your Majesty, let me stay and care for the Empress until she wakes. Let me bear the guilt of failing her—I am foolish for not protecting her properly," Grace pleaded earnestly. She feared something sinister was behind the carriage accident, a rare suspicion stirring deep within her. She was determined to guard the Empress through the night, unwilling to let harm come to her while she lay vulnerable.
Harold looked at Grace, the closest and most trusted maid of the Empress, and could only nod silently, unable to refuse her earnest plea. His heart ached as he stared at his wife's pale, unconscious form. Perhaps this was the first time he truly saw Celistine's fragility.
"Barron, prepare yourself. We need to speak," Harold said, his cold gaze locking onto Barron's eyes. Without another word, Harold left the chamber.
Barron, stained with the Empress's blood, turned to Grace, concern etching his face.
"Grace, go wash yourself. Don't worry—I will assign guards to keep watch over the Empress in case anyone attempts another attack," Barron said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
But suddenly, Grace snapped her hand away from his touch and turned to face him. Her eyes, cold and dark as night, held a terrifying emptiness—an aura of deadly resolve that made Barron instinctively lower his guard.
"Are you alright, Grace?" Barron asked, unsure.
"Yes. Don't worry about me. Leave now, Sir. And do not send anyone else. The Empress dislikes too many people in her chamber. Goodbye," Grace said icily, turning back to the sleeping Empress.
Barron said nothing further. He left quietly, closing the door behind him. As he walked away, he stole a glance back at Grace—alone, fierce, and guarding the Empress with a resolve that chilled him.
Left alone in the chamber, Grace gently touched the Empress's cold hand and whispered,
"Do not worry, my Lady. I will find the one behind this—and I will kill them."
With that vow burning in her heart, Grace hurried to clean herself in the Empress's private bathroom, steeling herself for the long, heavy night ahead.
As the late hours of the night settled over the castle, Harold sat in his chamber, his gaze sharp and voice edged with anger as he faced Barron.
"Is this all your doing, Barron?" Harold demanded, suspicion heavy in his tone, convinced Barron was behind the attack on the Empress.
But Barron denied it firmly.
"No, Your Grace. My duty was only to guard the Empress. Whatever happened is beyond my control."
Harold frowned, still puzzled. "Then what exactly happened? I cannot understand how such a thing could befall the Empress during her patrol of the town. It is impossible that anyone else would dare to harm her—only I could do such a thing, and even then..." His thoughts trailed off. And Medeya? She is a fragile woman, more angel than schemer. I cannot believe she would order the Empress's death.
Barron replied, "From what I heard from the guards assigned to the Empress's carriage, one of the horses suddenly grew wild and charged toward Her Majesty."
Though Barron seemed satisfied with this explanation, doubts gnawed at him. All horses kept at the main estate were well-trained and calm. It was not natural for a horse to suddenly bolt without reason—unless someone deliberately provoked the steed pulling the Empress's carriage.
"So you say this was merely an accident? That the horse was startled by the heat of the sun or some other cause?" Harold asked, confusion plain in his voice.
"Yes, Your Grace," Barron answered, uncertainty lingering in his tone.
Harold's eyes darkened with resolve. "Investigate this thoroughly, Barron. Leave no stone unturned."
Barron bowed and withdrew to his chambers, while Harold remained by the window, staring into the night, unable to fully believe the accident that had befallen the Empress.
Night draped the mansion in silence. Every servant and guard lay deep in slumber, their breathing lost beneath the steady hum of crickets beyond the walls. Grace slipped from her chamber, the black folds of her cloak swallowing her shape as she crept into the courtyard. She knew Barron would not follow—exhaustion had claimed him after the chaos of the day. This was her chance.
Beneath the cloak, she had dressed as she once did in her old life—like the women who worked the taverns at the harbour, all painted lips and shameless curves. A bodice of tight crimson cotton pressed against her chest, its neckline scandalously low, a lure no sober man could resist. Her hair, dyed a deep and wanton red, was pinned loosely, allowing rebellious curls to fall and frame her face. It was a disguise she had worn before, back when she haunted the smoky halls of the Third Border's rowdiest bar.
But tonight, her path first led elsewhere. She journeyed towards the site of the day's tragedy, her boots whispering over the cobblestones. She recalled, with the clarity of suspicion, the man she had glimpsed earlier—a stranger in a brown-gold cloak, lurking near the Greenery Bakehouse. Only a narrow alley had separated him from the carriage of the Empress herself. At first, Grace had dismissed him as one of the Emperor's spies. But then the horses had bolted, wild-eyed and screaming, in the very direction he had stood.
Now she picked her way to that same spot. The air still carried the faint scent of scorched leather and iron. She searched every inch until her gaze caught upon a loose stone where the carriage had once stood. Caught between the cracks was a single strand of hair—short, dark, yet glinting with a peculiar violet sheen under the moonlight. A man's hair.
Grace pocketed the damning clue and turned towards the one place her instincts led her: the bar. If the man was what she thought he was, she would find him there.
The tavern was thick with the stench of ale and sweat. Grace leaned against the counter, her back to the barkeep as mugs clattered and coins exchanged hands. She scanned every shadowed face.
"Oi, what are you standin' about for? Customers are waitin'!" Madam Aly barked from across the room.
Grace ignored her, eyes trained on the door—until he appeared. Not just any stranger, but the very shade of hair she carried in her pocket. Her lips curled in a slow, calculated smile. Got you.
She fetched two tankards of beer and drifted towards him, swaying her hips just enough to draw the eye.
"Good evening, sir. New in town?" she asked, voice like honey dripped over a blade.
He looked her over, tempted already by the curve of her dress and the heat in her gaze. "Aye. Care to join me?"
She settled beside him, pouring ale into his glass, pretending to listen to the rumours of the day while her focus never wavered.
"And where might you hail from, my lord?" she pressed.
His eyes narrowed, suspicion pricking. "Why do you ask?"
Her lips brushed a sly smile. "So I know which corner of the realm my customer belongs to."
He leaned closer, breath heavy with drink, as though to kiss her. She lifted a finger, pressing it against his lips, halting him with a teasing glance. The alcohol had softened his edges—she could see it in his eyes.
Then she rose, striding to the centre of the room. "To all our fine patrons—this day has been long, and I know weariness rests upon you. Allow me to gift you a dance."
A roar of approval swept the crowd. It was rare for Grace to dance, and men pressed forward, eager for the sight. Music struck, and she moved—hips swaying like the tide, arms weaving with the grace of a goddess. The dark-violet-haired man's gaze never left her, caught as if bewitched.
When the music ended, he approached, sliding an arm around her waist until their faces nearly touched. "I want you," he murmured.
Grace led him upstairs, his arm draped heavily over her shoulder. Once inside the chamber, she closed the door—but before she could take a step back, he seized her and kissed her fiercely.
Shock jolted through her—her first kiss, stolen. Her hands twitched to push him away, but revealing her reluctance now could shatter the illusion. So she endured it, matching his fervour until she had him where she needed him.
When they fell upon the bed, she straddled him. In one swift motion, her hand slid beneath her skirt and returned with a dagger, pressing it hard to his thigh.
"Speak," she hissed, voice cold as steel, "or I'll cut your throat."
The man's smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with mockery. "What are you babbling about, my lady?"
"I saw you," she snapped. "In the street. Watching the Empress's carriage before the horses went wild. This—" she brandished the violet hair "—is yours."
He laughed, loud and deranged. "So what? The Empress deserved her fate. Ah… you're her little pet, aren't you?"
Before she could strike, a sudden knock thundered at the door. She flinched, and in that instant, he shoved her aside. She hit the floor hard as he fled through the window.
Grace didn't hesitate—she followed, leaping from the second storey into the alley. The chase tore through the darkened streets until she caught him in a narrow lane, blocking his path.
They fought—blades flashing, feet skidding on wet stone. He was quick, skilled, his knife darting towards her left eye. She twisted away and scored his neck with her blade, blood welling crimson against his skin.
But then—
"kyaaaa!" a voice cried.
She turned instinctively. Melody, from the Greenery Bakehouse, stood at the alley's mouth. In that heartbeat of distraction, pain ripped through Grace's side—the man's blade finding flesh. She gasped, clutching the wound, but he was already gone, disappearing into the night with blood on his collar.
Melody rushed to her, pale with fear. "Come, I will help you."
Grace allowed herself to be led away, the throbbing pain a sharp reminder: the hunt was not over. The violet-haired man would bleed again—and next time, it would be his last.