Upon dismounting his horse before the mansion's grand entrance, Carlo barely took a breath before striding straight inside. His steps were brisk—not quite running, but nearly there—as excitement fluttered in his chest. He was desperate to see his beloved, Lady Rehena.
Through the long corridor lined with chambers, he finally reached her door.
Knock. Knock.
No answer.
He frowned, tapping his foot impatiently. The young prince crossed his arms, muttering under his breath before deciding he'd simply open the door himself. But just as his hand touched the handle, someone tapped his shoulder. He turned quickly, startled.
"Oh, Grace! What are you doing here?" Carlo raised a brow, his surprise turning into a playful smirk. Standing beside Grace was Barron, both of them in their knight uniforms, looking as if they'd just returned from patrol.
"Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" Grace shot back, narrowing her eyes.
"Well," Carlo said, clearing his throat and looking away from her teasing gaze, "I requested Father to let me return home for a little while to rest."
Grace crossed her arms, tilting her head with suspicion. "huh? Or are you really here because of Lady Rehena again?"
Carlo's jaw dropped slightly, then he quickly countered, "Is that any of your business? And you—why are you with Barron?"
His words made Barron blink in confusion while Grace's cheeks instantly flushed pink.
"Obviously! We're the guards assigned to Her Highness Celistine!" Grace huffed, trying to hide her embarrassment. But that only made Carlo laugh, his grin widening as their bickering grew louder.
Barron let out a deep sigh and rubbed his temple. Their voices echoed down the hall, neither of them willing to back down. Finally, he stepped in between them, his voice calm but commanding.
"Your Highness," Barron interrupted, "if you're looking for Lady Rehena, I'm afraid she's not in her chamber."
"What?" Carlo blinked, his amusement vanishing. "Where could she be?"
"I believe she's in the royal library, studying herbs, Your Highness."
"Thanks, Barron." Carlo nodded before flashing a grin at Grace. "See you later, monkey!" he teased, sticking out his tongue.
Grace's jaw dropped. "Why you—!" She was ready to smack him, but Barron gently caught her wrist.
"Grace, enough," he said coolly, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"You're always ruining my fun," Grace pouted, crossing her arms like a sulking child.
Barron couldn't help the faint smile tugging at his lips. Her pout was simply too adorable. With a quiet chuckle, he leaned closer and—before she could react—he kissed her on the cheek.
Grace froze, her eyes wide in disbelief. "H-Hey! What do you think you're doing?" she stammered, pressing her hand to her cheek.
"That's your punishment," Barron said with a sly smile, turning to walk away as if nothing had happened.
Grace stood there, utterly stunned, her face burning red. For a moment she just stared after him, speechless.
"A kiss is my punishment? I might just have to misbehave more often," she muttered to herself, still dazed.
"Grace, let's go," Barron called over his shoulder.
She blinked, straightened her posture at once, and hurried after him—though her cheeks were still rosy. The pair made their way to the grand hall, where another royal meeting was soon to be held, for on the morrow, Her Highness Celistine was to depart for the Western Kingdom.
And though Grace tried to compose herself, she couldn't quite wipe away the foolish little smile still dancing on her lips.
******
In the Eastern Empire, where King Malvorn Orryn Casinova reigned over the Casinova Kingdom, prosperity flowed like an endless river. The East was rich in harvest, blessed with fertile lands, and vast in territory—though not as immense as the Western Empire or the North. Five thousand soldiers stood under its command, a force both proud and disciplined.
"Father, did the Western Empire summon you for the council?" asked Meldric Caelthorn Casinova, the eldest son and crown prince of the East. His hair burned like crimson silk, his eyes gleamed red beneath pale skin—marks of pure royal blood. He sat beside his mother upon the velvet couch in the king's study, where the air smelled faintly of parchment and incense.
"Indeed," King Malvorn replied, stroking his white beard that glistened under the candlelight. "I suspect it concerns the Blackthreads and the troubles brewing in the North."
"Those northerners never learn," said Josepina Anatsia Casinova, fanning herself lazily, her brown eyes reflecting faint irritation. Her red hair was tied neatly in a bun, and she wore a maroon gown embroidered in gold, its layered sleeves flowing like autumn leaves. "Always stirring storms where there should be calm."
"The North should be erased from the map entirely," Meldric said coldly, lifting his teacup with delicate precision. "It would spare the Empire endless headaches." He leaned back, the gold trim of his black coat glinting in the firelight.
The King chuckled faintly. "Ever so ruthless, my son."
"Anyway, Father," Meldric continued, a spark of curiosity flickering in his eyes, "how goes your experiment in the laboratory?"
"Nearly complete, my son," Malvorn said, a sly grin curling his lips as he turned his gaze to the window. Beyond the glass stretched the royal garden, serene and glittering under the morning sun. "Soon, it will bring us wealth beyond imagination."
"Truly, my husband?" Josepina asked, excitement glimmering in her gaze.
"Wasn't that the command of the late Empress Victoria—the mother of Emperor Harold?" Meldric asked, recalling the name like a scholar testing his knowledge.
"Indeed," the King murmured, his grin widening. "Your memory serves you well, my son."
"And where is she now?" Meldric pressed.
"She is—" The King's words were cut short by a sharp knock upon the door. Annoyance flickered briefly in his expression before he straightened himself.
"Enter," he commanded.
The door opened to reveal a man with red hair and royal eyes of deep scarlet, dressed in a white open-collared shirt beneath a black vest trimmed with silver.
"Max," the King muttered, irritation seeping into his tone. "Why are you here again?" He sank into his chair with an audible sigh, already foreseeing what this intrusion meant.
Maxsimirian Callistro Casinova, the second prince of the Eastern Empire, stepped forward with a respectful bow.
"Father," he began, "a landslide has struck the lands of Gaspare. The town is in ruins—they need your aid, Your Majesty." Malvorn's eyes narrowed.
The room grew colder. "Another problem, Max? I thought I appointed you to handle such matters. You're the leader of State Affairs, are you not? Must you run to me every time the people cry?" His mocking tone cut deep, drawing a faint twitch from Max's jaw.
Max swallowed his anger. "Father, the budget for such relief does not fall under my authority. Please—the people are suffering." His voice trembled with restrained desperation.
Before the King could speak, Meldric interjected smoothly, a false sweetness in his tone. "Father, why not grant Max's request? For the sake of the people, perhaps?"
Both Malvorn and Max turned to him, startled. Max's heart tightened—he knew too well that his brother's kindness always hid a knife.
"Help this sluggish boy?" the King sneered. "You jest, Meldric."
"Not at all," Meldric replied, flashing a grin sharp as glass. "Give him what he wants—for the people's sake, of course. Isn't that right, dear brother Max?" His smirk dripped with venom.
The King barked a laugh. "Ha! What a waste of coin."
"Who said you must pay for it, Father?" Meldric's smile deepened.
Malvorn raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what do you mean by that?"
"Grant Max the funds he asks for," Meldric said, his voice steady but taunting. "Then deduct it from his allowance—as repayment for helping poor Gaspare."
The King's expression shifted, intrigued by the cruel simplicity of the idea. Beside him, Josepina's lips curved into an approving smile.
"What? You can't be serious!" Max protested, his voice cracking in disbelief.
The King leaned forward, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Since Gaspare is but a small town under my rule, if you insist on aiding them, then you shall bear the cost. I, the King, have no interest in wasting the Empire's wealth."
Max's heart sank. His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. His mother—the former Empress—lay sick, and his allowance was all that kept her cared for. Yet how could he turn his back on the innocent lives of Gaspare?
Meldric smirked. "So, brother—are you in, or out?"
Max drew a slow, painful breath. "Yes, Father… I accept."
"Good," Malvorn said with a low chuckle. "Now leave us."
Max bowed stiffly, his face pale with anger and humiliation. Behind him, the King, Meldric, and Josepina exchanged wicked smiles, their laughter echoing faintly as he left the room.
Down the corridor, Max walked alone—his heart heavy, his jaw tight, and his spirit burning with quiet fury. Someday, he thought, they would see that mercy was not weakness.
But for now, he would go to Gaspare. And do what his family never would.
*****
While in the Northern Kingdom, the grand dining hall shimmered with candlelight. Night had fallen, and a gentle breeze drifted through the open windows, carrying the soft scent of pine and blooming flowers. The King himself had called for a small celebration in honour of their distinguished guest — none other than Leon, the leader of the Blackthreads.
It was rare for the King to host such a gathering, so every noble in the manor had been invited.
Celistine was the first to arrive, seated gracefully beside her father at the long oaken table. Across from her sat Carlo, the young prince, with Rehena to his right, and beside them were Mandawe and Sir Criston. To Celistine's left sat Grace, and next to Grace, the ever-composed Barron.
The air was filled with quiet conversation as they waited for Ana, the wife of Gilbert and the royal chef, to bring forth the evening meal.
Carlo, unable to contain his curiosity, leaned slightly forward. "Ahem… Father, Sister—if I may ask—who is he?" He gestured subtly toward the unfamiliar man seated across from the King.
The King's lips curved faintly. "He is the leader of the Blackthreads, my son."
Carlo's eyes widened. He had not been informed of such an important visit, especially since he had only just returned from the lands of Portekwero. It was, in fact, Leon's first night at the Northern manor.
"Really?" Carlo said, furrowing his brows. "And may I ask… why he's here?"
Leon smiled faintly, sensing no hostility, only innocent curiosity. "Forgive my unannounced visit,
Your Highness," he said smoothly. "I have come merely to spend some time in the North — no political motive, I assure you."
Carlo relaxed, his expression softening. "Ah, I see. That's a relief to hear. If you don't mind, perhaps I could show you around the town myself?"
Leon's smile grew warmer. "Oh no, my prince, I couldn't trouble you with that. His Majesty has already assigned someone to escort me — and I'm most content with the arrangement."
As he spoke, his gaze drifted to Celistine, who sat quietly, eyes fixed on her plate. Leon's words slowed slightly, as though testing her reaction. She did not look up, but he caught the faintest tension in her shoulders — a silent effort to avoid his eyes.
Carlo, oblivious to the current running between them, asked curiously, "And who might that lucky person be?"
Leon smiled, his tone light but playful. "Oh, she—"
"Anyway," Celistine cut in sharply, her tone cool but controlled, "how are you, Lady Rehena? How fares the school we've established — particularly the infirmary, the supplies, and everything under your care?"
Carlo blinked, startled by his sister's sudden interruption. Rehena, too, looked surprised, her fingers tightening around the edge of her gown. Leon, however, only smirked, resting his chin lightly on his knuckles as he watched Celistine with quiet amusement.
When their eyes finally met, Celistine gave a faint smirk of her own — sharp and fleeting — before turning to Rehena again, expectant.
Rehena cleared her throat, composing herself. "The children and those eager to learn are doing well, Your Majesty. Nothing unusual of late. We've even added a few lessons on political science. However…" she hesitated, her fingers curling nervously against her navy-blue evening dress, "…we're still searching for a skilled instructor."
Celistine nodded, her tone softening. "That's good to hear. And what of the other subjects — particularly the study of medicine?"
The room grew quieter. All eyes turned to Rehena. She hesitated again, biting her lip before speaking.
"Well… I believe we may have a problem, Your Majesty." Her words hung in the air like a whisper of storm clouds — quiet, uncertain, yet heavy with meaning.