In the grand hall, Emperor Harold sat solemnly upon his elevated seat, a pillar of quiet authority that commanded the attention of all who entered. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and polished wood, shadows flickering softly in the torchlight that lined the towering walls. By his side, Medeya rested gracefully, her presence both comforting and fierce, a striking contrast to the Emperor's stoic demeanor.
Suddenly, the heavy oak doors creaked open with a solemn groan, revealing a man whose presence immediately filled the space. His hair was the same brilliant white as Medeya's, cascading in soft waves that caught the light, and his eyes were a piercing sky blue that seemed to see through to the very soul. He was dressed immaculately in formal attire of the purest white, a perfect match to his hair, exuding both elegance and understated power.
With a deep, respectful bow, he stepped forward and addressed the Emperor with reverence. "Greetings, Emperor of the Four Kingdoms. May the gods bless your reign and guide your hand in these trying times. I am Maxon Sallazar, younger brother to Lady Medeya."
At the sound of his name, Medeya's face lit up like a beacon, her eyes sparkling with joy and relief. "My brother!" she exclaimed, rising from her seat and rushing to embrace him. Their arms wrapped tightly around each other, a long-awaited reunion filled with silent stories of hardship and hope. Both had emerged from humble origins in the province of Betersary, nestled deep within the Southern Kingdom, and now fate had brought them together within these opulent walls. Emperor Harold watched the reunion with a flicker of pity in his eyes, sensing the deep bond and unspoken longing between the siblings.
Harold's lips curved into a polite smile as he addressed Maxon. "Pleased to meet you, Lord Sallazar."
Maxon shook his head, a modest flush coloring his cheeks. "Your Grace, please, call me Maxon. I am unworthy of the title 'Lord,' for I am but a commoner at heart," he said softly, voice tinged with humility.
Harold opened his mouth to respond, curiosity piqued by the bandage wrapped tightly around Maxon's neck. Yet before he could speak, the grand doors opened once more, and Barron strode in briskly, bowing low before the Emperor.
"Forgive the interruption, Your Grace, but Lord Herbet of Renia has arrived. He brings urgent matters that require your attention."
With a curt nod, Harold dismissed Barron, turning his focus back to the two siblings. Drawing Medeya close, he spoke with quiet resolve. "Forgive me, my love, but duty calls. I must attend to the visitor from Renia."
Medeya smiled softly, her eyes filled with understanding as she rose. "Of course, my Emperor. I shall see to my brother."
She led Maxon away toward her chambers, leaving Harold to prepare for the next encounter.
Barron then appeared again, escorting Lord Herbet Reniad into the grand hall. Harold's gaze flicked to the tall figure beside the lord—a young woman with chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders, her skin pale and delicate. Though she was the daughter of Lord Renia, Harold's eyes remained indifferent, unmoved by conventional beauty. He already suspected the nature of their visit.
"So, what brings you to my court, Lord of Renia?" Harold's voice was cold, his posture rigid atop his throne.
In his mind, Renia was a modest city perched precariously on the border between the Northern and Western Kingdoms—a place known more for its fields of wheat and humble meats than for wealth or power. To Harold, it was a land of common folk, offering little of value to the grandeur of his empire.
The lord's voice trembled with urgency as he spoke. "Your Grace, the city of Renia is besieged. Thieves plague our streets, their numbers swelling daily. If we do not act swiftly, I fear the city will fall entirely into their grasp."
Harold's gaze hardened, his interest waning. To aid Renia was to aid the common people alone, and that held no promise of profit or prestige.
"And what benefit do you offer in return for my aid?" Harold asked sharply, his tone laced with skepticism.
Lord Renia swallowed hard, struggling to mask his desperation. "We can provide wheat for your common folk, free of charge, each month. Additionally, my daughter Rehena stands ready to unite with your house in marriage."
A dismissive smirk curled on Harold's lips. To him, the wheat of Renia was mere chaff, insignificant and unworthy of his attention. He thought of the Eastern Empire, with its bountiful stores and endless coffers, and scoffed at the meager offerings of Renia.
"Are you jesting?" he sneered. "You would have me accept your daughter as a concubine for such paltry gains? The Western Empire does not need your wheat when we can purchase far superior grain from the East."
Lord Renia's face fell, hope draining like sand through fingers.
"But Your Majesty—" he began, pleading.
Barron stepped forward swiftly, his voice sharp and final. "Forgive me, Lord Renia, but the Emperor's decision is made. We ask you to respect it."
With heavy hearts, Lord Renia and his daughter bowed deeply before departing, their footsteps echoing softly down the grand hall.
"I know not what to do now, my daughter," the lord sighed deeply, his voice filled with despair.
"Do not lose heart, Father," Rehena said softly, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "Let us return to the inn and rest. Perhaps another time, we may yet win the Emperor's favor."
Together, they mounted their carriages, minds swirling with plans to sway the cold heart of the throne.
In the quiet sanctuary of the Empress's chamber, Grace moved with gentle purpose, assisting Celistine to the side of her bed. She offered a delicate cup of water, her hands steady despite the tension that lingered in the air. Celistine leaned back slowly, fingers brushing the cool bandage that wrapped her aching head. Her eyes fluttered open, blurred and uncertain, as fragments of memory flickered and faded.
"What happened?" Celistine's voice was soft, trembling with confusion.
"All I remember is we were at the Greenery Bakehouse," she murmured, "and then… I was struck by a carriage."
Grace's tone held relief as she answered, "You were hit by a carriage, Your Majesty. Thank the gods you are safe."
As Grace tidied the room and tended to the Empress's needs, Celistine's curiosity gnawed at her.
"Who could be behind this?" she asked, brows furrowing with concern.
Grace hesitated, then replied carefully, "Your Majesty, I have investigated the incident. It seems someone wished to end your life."
Shock crossed Celistine's face, her mind racing with possibilities—was it Harold, or Medeya? Yet her suspicion fell heaviest on Harold, wondering if he had uncovered her secret plans, or if he remained oblivious.
"Have you found the culprit?" Celistine pressed.
"I have," Grace answered, her voice thick with anger and disappointment. "But, sadly, I allowed him to escape."
Her hands clenched tightly as she sat beside the Empress, the weight of failure heavy upon her. Celistine caught the pain etched on Grace's face and gently grasped both her hands, offering a small, comforting smile.
"Thank you, Grace. Thank you for always standing by me. Now, we must focus on delivering the letter from the Northern Kingdom."
They embraced quietly, the bond between them a fragile thread of hope. Grace's eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Their moment was interrupted by a knock. Harold entered, Barron close behind. His eyes widened at the sight of Celistine resting against the bed, and Grace swiftly stepped aside. Harold took a seat beside the Empress, who regarded him with puzzled eyes.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," Celistine bowed her head respectfully.
"How are you feeling?" Harold asked, concern softening his usually cold tone.
"Thank you for your concern. I am well now," Celistine replied simply.
"Do not worry. Barron has already begun investigating this matter," Harold assured her, eyes steady as he observed her fragile state.
In a modest chamber, Medeya guided her brother Max to his new quarters, the room a quiet refuge from the harshness he had endured. Max had known little comfort before — no proper bed, scant food, and no respect. But now, servants attended his every need, and the room was fit for one of his status.
Max collapsed indulgently onto the huge, soft mattress, a rare smile of satisfaction spreading across his face. "Damn, I really like this bed, sis," he said with a lazy chuckle.
Medeya stood nearby, arms crossed, watching him with a mixture of irritation and concern. Though glad he was comfortable, she was wary of the ease with which he accepted his newfound life.
"Are you satisfied now?" she asked, voice tinged with impatience.
"Absolutely, sister. Thanks to this, I can finally rest properly," Max said, teasing her lightly.
Medeya shook her head, her eyes narrowing. "Next time you slack off on your duties, I won't hesitate to throw you out."
Max sat up suddenly, a strange, almost sinister smile curling his lips. "Don't worry — now that I'm inside the mansion, it's easier to get my work done," he said, voice low and confident, hinting at plans darker than mere comfort.
Medeya narrowed her gaze but chose to shift the conversation. "Have you heard anything of the Black Threads?"
Max shrugged, scratching his head. "Nothing concrete yet. Just watching."
Medeya smirked before turning sharply and leaving the room.
Max lay back again, eyes fixed on the ceiling, thoughts tangled with memories of a woman—a red-haired prostitute with emerald eyes—he had met the previous night. She had caught him off guard with her sharp wit and unexpected threats, and he couldn't decide whether to be irritated or intrigued.
He remembered the awkwardness of their kiss—her hesitation, as if it was her first. Yet the danger she posed afterward had unsettled him deeply.
"Ha! She's fascinating. I like her," Max whispered, a gleam of excitement lighting his eyes.
Rising from the bed, he moved to the window and stared out at the clear, starry sky.
"I'm going to find her," he vowed silently, determination burning bright within him.