As Zerefia's Western Empire began to summon it's council for yet another deliberation over the affair in the North, Emperor Harold could scarcely believe what he had heard: the North was said to be sponsoring the late veterans. The news had settled over the hall like a chill. All of Harold's closest counsellors were present — among them Maxon, his ever-trusted commander and aide — each one taking their place around the long, carved table where the meeting would be held.
The Emperor took his seat once more at the head of that great table, fingers drumming a quiet, impatient rhythm on the wood. The hall hummed with low conversation until Harold stilled it with a single, measured glance.
"Maxon — begin your report." Harold commanded. His voice was even, but it carried the weight of the crown.
Maxon rose and spoke without hesitation, perching at Harold's side as he had done a hundred times before. "I have news, Your Majesty. The North has been quietly sponsoring the late veterans." He said it plainly; the words landed like stones.
A sharp gasp went round the council. Faces tightened; noblemen exchanged glances. The idea that the North would bankroll those veterans — men who, in Harold's opinion, ought to have remained loyal to their duty — was intolerable. Pride and fear warred in the Emperor's expression.
"Is this true, Your Highness?" Lord Unos demanded, leaning forward, knuckles white on the table.
"Indeed." Viscount Waren answered, his teacup poised to his lips as though the cup itself steadied him. He allowed his gaze to flick to Harold and, with the faintest curl of the lip, let mockery colour his tone. "Rumours say many merchants are preparing to invest in the North."
Harold's jaw tightened. He folded his hands on the table and spoke through a cold hush. "Is there nothing we can do to dissuade them? Are we to stand by while the North lines its coffers and emboldens those veterans?" His words were clipped; the nobles beside him shifted under their lord's scrutiny. Maxon's mouth softened into a small, calming smile — the kind that tried to soothe the Emperor's temper, not inflame it.
"My lords," Maxon interposed gently, lifting one hand as if to quiet the rising tide of argument, "we are here to discuss Portekwero. Since the North allows its forces to linger beyond the Portekwero border, I propose we take the opportunity to plant a spy among them." He inclined his head; the council fell to considering whether such a plan might be effective.
"And more than that," Maxon continued, warming to his counsel, "we should declare a meeting of the four nations — summon each kingdom to a convocation. If we seat the Blackthreads as our ally, the North will have to answer for itself and attend the meeting, whether it wishes to or not."
Harold's eyebrow rose; scepticism tugged at his voice. "You think that will work?" He sounded sarcastic — not unkindly, but skeptical all the same, as if testing the steel of Maxon's proposal.
Viscount Waren set down his cup with a soft clink and spoke up, eyes glittering with conviction.
"The commander is right, Your Majesty. Call the meetings between the four nations. The North will be compelled to attend to discuss the Blackthreads. They will have to show their hand."
"If the North refuses to side with the Blackthreads," murmured Duke Jonas of Debucher, his tone cautious, "what then? Wouldn't their people rise against us if we push too hard?"
Maxon glanced at him, the faintest grin forming at one corner of his mouth. "If the North aligns itself with the Blackthreads, it will stir unrest among its populace. For the North, attendance will be the safer choice. They must either explain themselves or risk being seen as conspirators." He tapped the table once, a small, decisive gesture.
Another voice — quieter, edged with concern — asked plainly, "What of the late veterans? What will we do about them?"
Harold's expression hardened; his voice fell to an icy whisper. "We shall seize those veterans by force if we must. I did not grant them authority to take what is mine." The words were final, cold as a blade. Around the table, a few were startled by the Emperor's resolve; others merely nodded, calculating.
"Very well." Maxon said, folding his hands. "Let us see how the meetings fare. There is yet no clear evidence that the North has openly sided with the Blackthreads, but we will press the matter."
When the council drew to a close, Maxon wasted no time. He dismissed himself and delivered orders without ceremony to Captain David, who commanded the armies stationed at Portekwero. He also dispatched spies northward — men tasked to discover at once what was truly unfolding there.
While the Western Empire discussed their schemes, the Bright Day of the Northern Kingdom was no different — they debated whether to accept the Royal Treaty Exchange with the Blackthreads.
"If peace is what they desire, perhaps a royal exchange is no longer necessary, is it? As we said, we have no concern for the Blackthreads or the Western Empire," Mandawe remarked, Keeper of the Northern Kingdom and secretary to King Henry.
"Perhaps they fear that, in an instant, we might side with the Western Empire," King Henry added, curling his fingers thoughtfully against his chin, pondering a possible way to avoid this matter.
Celistine, meanwhile, hesitated, uncertain whether to agree or not. If the North consented to the Blackthreads' treaty through the Royal Exchange, others — or the Western Empire — might assume that the North had sided with the Blackthreads, which was not the case. Yet, if the North refused the Blackthreads' proposal, they risked being drawn into conflict. Should the Blackthreads demand further action, and the Western Empire refuse to surrender Medeya's life, the Blackthreads would be forced to wage war on the Empire and forcibly colonize foreign lands — a far more dangerous scenario for the North.
"Any plans, Your Highness?" Sir Criston asked, looking to Celistine.
"I know rumours have already reached the ears of the Western Empire that we possess enough forces to face them," Celistine said, her voice cold, calculating. "I also know that at any moment they will send a summoning request — a meeting for all kingdoms, including the North."
"Well, speaking of the devil," Mandawe said, adjusting his eyeglasses, "the Western Empire has declared a conference between the Four Kingdoms." Indeed, the letter had reached Northern hands weeks ago, yet they were still uncertain how to proceed.
"The best course is to confront Harold again before agreeing to a peace treaty with the Blackthreads," King Henry suggested calmly.
"But who will face the Emperor?" Lord Herbert inquired.
"Me," Celistine said, her eyes cold and determined. It had been many years since she last saw Harold, and she longed to confront him. He was the main reason the Northern Kingdom had held Grace captive in their prison — an act Celistine could never forgive. The council members' eyes widened in surprise.
"Are you certain?" King Henry asked.
"Yes, Father. I also know that rumours have reached their ears about the late veterans, and I am aware that the Western Empire will attempt to seize the late Emperor's soldiers once more," Celistine replied with a faint smile, already anticipating the North's next move.
"Then I shall accompany you, Your Highness," Criston said, bowing respectfully.
Before they could proceed with their plan, a servant named Danise suddenly appeared.
"Greetings, my lords," she said, bowing.
"The leader of the Blackthreads is here and wishes to speak with you," she announced.
"What?" King Henry's eyes widened, and the same went for the others. Even Celistine herself was shocked, unaware of Leon's intentions. Everyone's gaze fell on her, curious whether she knew of the sudden visit by the Blackthreads' leader.
"I know nothing of this," Celistine said, frowning in bewilderment.
"How many are there?" the King asked.
"Only four, Your Majesty, each riding a single horse," the maid replied. Celistine thought to herself how bold they were — arriving in the North without permission or request, completely unaware that this might spark further rumours.
"Then let them enter," the King commanded, glancing at Celistine, who remained puzzled, uncertain of what the Blackthreads now intended.
When the maid finally escorted the guests inside, the air in the Northern hall shifted. All eyes turned as the ever-bold leader of the Blackthreads stepped into view — Leonare Wiegne Driftmoor, draped in a long black tunic embroidered with golden patterns and trimmed cuffs. A rich gold shawl rested across his shoulders, and a dark sash circled his waist. His cloak swayed lightly behind him as he walked, his every step carrying that casual confidence of a man who clearly had no sense of boundaries.
Behind him followed three of his men — dressed plainly in traditional desert garb, dust still clinging to their cloaks from travel. Yet even with their simplicity, it was Leon who drew every stare the moment he entered the hall.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," Leon said, bowing low, his tone dripping with charm. "I am Leonare Wiegne Driftmoor — Leader of the Blackthreads."
When he rose from his bow, his gaze landed directly on Celistine. His lips curved into a sly grin before he winked with his left eye, as if they shared some private secret.
Celistine froze for a heartbeat — eyes widening slightly — before she swiftly looked away, pretending to be deeply interested in a glass of wine.
"Oh, what a… surprise visit, my lord," King Henry said, offering a cautious smile. His voice was steady, though his brow creased in slight confusion. "Is there something we must discuss?"
Leon placed a hand over his chest, feigning humility. "Ah, forgive my sudden intrusion," he said brightly. "Let's just say I was dreadfully bored and thought I might pay the North a little secret visit. After all, we both know I'm not exactly welcome in the other kingdoms."
A few council members exchanged uneasy glances.
Leon chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, don't look so tense, my lords! I'm not here to attack the North — heavens, no. Silly!" He laughed, the sound echoing in the chamber. He was the only one laughing, of course.
Celistine folded her arms, watching him with an arched brow. 'What on earth is he playing at?' she thought, lips tightening.
King Henry cleared his throat. "Well, I beg your pardon, my lord. It is not what we assume. If there is a reason for this visit, you may speak of it. But please, be seated."
Leon gave a small, exaggerated bow before taking the seat across from the King — and directly facing Celistine. That teasing smile never left his lips.
'Is he mad?' Celistine muttered inwardly, narrowing her eyes. The corner of Leon's mouth twitched — he must have noticed her glare.
"Well," Leon began, resting his chin in one hand, "how goes our peace treaty? It's been, what — weeks now? I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me."
King Henry hesitated, but Celistine leaned forward, her voice calm yet sharp. "We have not decided yet, my lord. Would you mind giving us a little more time?"
Leon grinned wider. "For you, my lady, I can be patient."
The words lingered in the air. Several nobles glanced at Celistine — and she could feel her jaw tightening.
"Is there anything else before we end this discussion?" she said curtly, clearly done with his antics.
"Ah yes!" Leon exclaimed suddenly, sitting up straight. "Since I'm quite bored waiting for your decision at my base, perhaps you'd let me stay here as a guest?" His tone was light, cheerful — far too cheerful for a man standing in a room full of cautious nobles.
"This is ridiculous, my lord," Celistine said sharply, irritation flashing across her face.
Leon tilted his head, feigning confusion. "Ridiculous? How could it be ridiculous? I'm simply asking to be your guest — no politics, no schemes. Just… hospitality." He spread his hands innocently, his grin widening.
Celistine rubbed her forehead with one hand, exhaling heavily. "No. This cannot be accepted."
"Oh? Then perhaps the King's word might sway you?" Leon turned toward King Henry, that same teasing smile playing on his lips.
The King blinked — caught completely off guard. For a moment, he looked between Celistine and Leon, unsure whether to laugh, refuse, or run.
Leon leaned back, crossing his legs casually, his cloak slipping slightly from one shoulder. "Well, Your Majesty?" he said softly, smirking. "Surely you wouldn't deny a lonely traveller a place to rest… would you?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a blade — and Celistine could almost hear her father's heartbeat from across the table.