Before those days had passed—before Celistine ever set foot within the Duchy of Valendrige—quiet schemes were already unfolding behind palace walls, bathed in the steady glow of daylight as the sun lingered high above the Western Empire.
Within the Western Empire's grand palace, a discreet gathering had taken place. Emperor Harold, alongside Max, had summoned the Duke of Valendrige under the guise of a private transaction. Yet beneath the formal invitation lay something far more calculated. Max had presented another strategy, one born of instinct rather than chance. He was certain the North would soon turn its attention toward Valendrige. The duchy stood between Portekwero and Lagandorf, positioned as the most efficient route for northern forces. The lands under the North's control lay too far apart; sending troops in the event of conflict would be costly and slow. Valendrige, however, offered access, leverage—and opportunity.
Still, Max's design did not end there. He understood the Duke's ambition well. Valendrige hungered for expansion, and such hunger could be exploited.
"It is an honour to be invited, Your Majesty the Emperor," the Duke of Valendrige said, pressing a gloved hand firmly to his chest as he lowered his head in a respectful bow. He wore a deep blue coat edged with gold, layered over a matching vest, a white ruffled shirt beneath, paired with immaculate white trousers and gloves. His brown hair was neatly kept, his light green eyes sharp yet guarded—eyes that missed very little.
"Come, take a seat, my lord," Harold said smoothly, lifting a hand and gesturing toward the couch opposite him.
The Duke obeyed, settling into the seat with careful composure. Harold took his place across from him, while Max remained standing at the Emperor's side, silent yet observant. The air shifted the moment they settled—heavy, deliberate—as the conversation began.
"Do you know why I summoned you here, my lord?" Harold asked. His voice was cold, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the Duke.
A flicker of unease crossed the Duke's face. He masked it quickly, though he already suspected the answer.
"I believe you seek an alliance with the Duchy of Valendrige," he replied, forcing a polite smile. "Correct me if I am mistaken, Your Majesty."
"Indeed," Harold said quietly, lifting his teacup. He took an unhurried sip before continuing. "We are aware that the North's next target would be your lands, my lord. A passage treaty—secured through alliance—once war breaks out. Is that not so?"
His eyes never left the Duke's face, watching carefully, ensuring that Max's suspicions were not misplaced.
The Duke stiffened. His eyes widened briefly, blinking as realization settled in.
'So the Emperor has been watching me all along,' he thought.
Still, he composed himself. In truth, he held the advantage. Both sides needed him—and he knew it.
"As you can see, my lord," Harold continued, setting his cup aside, "we wish for your duchy to stand with us when war inevitably comes."
"You know well, Your Majesty," the Duke replied, a thin grin tugging at his lips, "that my lands have remained neutral for many years. I have no desire to see my people suffer from wars born of rival empires."
His tone carried a subtle provocation, deliberate and daring.
"Get to the point," Harold snapped, his glare sharp enough to silence the room.
"The North has already sent me a message," the Duke said calmly.
Harold's eyes widened—only slightly.
"They have offered me an alliance," the Duke continued, lifting his teacup. "With their support, they promise expansion of my territory. In return, they seek a passage treaty—allowing northern armies to cross through my lands."
He drank slowly, his gaze never leaving the Emperor. He was certain Harold would not allow himself to be outmatched.
"Our forces are already stationed near Portekwero," Max interjected, speaking on the Emperor's behalf. "One of the North's allied lands. Should you side with us and strike Portekwero first—" he paused deliberately, "—that land will be yours."
The Duke's lips curved upward.
"So you intend to use us as bait," he said, amusement lacing his voice. "Whether we succeed or fall."
His smile was mocking, yet behind it lay careful calculation. Every decision he made would shape the path of his political ambition.
"Who said you would be bait?" Max replied, lifting a hand in reassurance. "Our forces will handle Lagandorf simultaneously. Both attacks will be swift, aimed at their weakest defenses."
What the Duke did not realize was this: Max and Harold intended to use Valendrige precisely to test the North. If the plan succeeded, they would move against the North without hesitation. If it failed, another strategy would follow. To them, Valendrige was not an ally—it was a tool. A perfectly placed one.
"I want both lands under my rule," the Duke said boldly, greed flashing in his eyes. "If you wish for my cooperation, Your Majesty."
'Such a greedy fool,' Max thought, though his expression remained composed. He turned his head away slightly, choosing silence.
Harold, however, spoke at once.
"Very well," the Emperor said evenly. "You shall have both."
The Duke's smile deepened.
"But under one condition," Harold continued, locking eyes with him. "Once those lands are claimed, your duchy will fall under our dominion."
The Duke did not hesitate.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he said, pressing his hand to his chest once more as he bowed deeply before Emperor Harold.
And thus, the negotiation began—sealed not by trust, but by ambition and deceit.
As Harold revelled in his triumph alongside the Duke of Valendrige—both of them united in having outmaneuvered Celistine—her brows drew together sharply, fury tightening her expression. Once again, she had been played. The realisation burned deep, especially as Harold stood there wearing victory as though it were a crown.
Nearby, Leon remained seated, unnervingly composed. His arms were crossed with deliberate ease, his posture relaxed yet guarded.
Harold wore a green imperial-style coat adorned with gold detailing, a black cape trimmed in gold draped over his shoulders, secured by a black belt. Black gloves covered his hands, matching his trousers, and resting at his side was a sword set with a green jewel that caught the light. His dark hair was pulled neatly into a formal style, and his fierce black eyes remained steady, unshaken by the tension filling the chamber.
Beside Harold stood Max, equally composed yet far more amused. He was dressed in a blue coat lined with gold, layered over a light blue and gold vest. Beneath it, a white ruffled shirt bore a blue jewel at the collar. Blue trousers and white gloves completed his attire. His white hair was styled with precision, and his blue eyes gleamed with mockery as they lingered on Celistine, his grin sharp and unashamed.
"Do you truly believe, Celistine," Harold said, his voice dripping with derision, "that with your power alone you can claim everything you desire?"
Celistine did not answer at once. Instead, she rose to her feet, smoothing the fabric of her dress with measured calm. Leon stood as well, moving in step with her as she walked forward, placing herself directly before Harold, with Leon positioned just behind her like a silent shield.
"And you even brought that bastard with you," Harold added, lifting a finger to point toward Leon at her back.
Leon's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk. "The only bastard here is you, Your Majesty the Emperor," he replied coolly, returning the insult without hesitation.
"Oh, really?" Harold scoffed. "At least I am not foolish enough to ally myself with the weak."
"Well…" Celistine interjected, releasing a long, deliberately sarcastic sigh. She lifted her chin, turning her gaze toward the Duke of Valendrige, her eyes cold and unyielding. "I believe you have made a grave mistake, Lord Valendrige, in choosing against us."
The Duke laughed sharply. "Do you truly think I would ever side with you and your childish ambitions, young lady?" he sneered, pointing at her with open disdain. "Do you believe a simple passage treaty would be enough to sway me? You know very well I have long desired greater territory—and the Emperor has offered me exactly that. I will not bend my knee to someone who suddenly allies herself with a stranger from a desolate island."
His words were aimed like blades at both Celistine and Leon.
Celistine merely smirked. Without sparing the Duke another glance, she turned and walked past him. Leon and Criston followed at once, falling into step behind her as they made for the exit.
Just before crossing the threshold, Celistine halted.
She turned back slowly, fixing Harold with a fierce, unblinking stare.
"Remember this, Harold."
"What?" Harold replied sarcastically, lifting an eyebrow in mock curiosity.
Celistine lowered her gaze slightly, her eyes burning with restrained fury as she pointed toward him. "Watch me burn this duchy of yours."
With that, she stormed out, her steps heavy with anger as Leon and Criston followed close behind. Inside her chest, disbelief and rage churned together—she had been outplayed once more, and the truth of it cut deeper than she cared to admit.
Celistine and Leon hurried back toward the carriage, their steps brisk, the tension of the duke's a-palace still burning hot in Celistine's chest. She still carried the sting of anger from being outsmarted by the Duke and Harold—an humiliation she could hardly bear. Failure was intolerable to her, especially now that the North relied on foreign allies, and she could not afford to falter.
As they moved through the hallway, their hurried footsteps echoed softly against the marble. Criston lagged slightly behind, his brow furrowed with worry at Celistine's evident frustration. Leon, ever perceptive, noticed the subtle tremor in her movements. Without warning, he reached out and grasped her hand. Celistine startled, her momentum faltering, and she turned sharply to face him. Stray strands of her hair caught in the motion, brushing across her cheeks, and for a moment, her eyes met Leon's—warm, steady, and strangely concerned. The intensity of his gaze made her pause, surprise flickering in her features, as if she had not expected to find comfort amidst her storm of anger. Their steps halted, the corridor around them fading into a tense silence.
"What!?" Celistine snapped, yanking her hand free. Her voice was sharp, edged with exasperation. "I'm not in the mood right now!"
Leon's voice softened, warm and grounding. "I know… but please, calm down. You sound like you want to strangle someone."
Criston, sensing the moment was theirs, quietly stepped back, leaving the two alone in the narrow hallway.
"Calm down?" Celistine's hands flailed at her sides, frustration radiating from every movement. "How can I calm down, Leon? That fool tricked me again!" Her voice cracked with anger, but beneath it, a faint tremor betrayed her embarrassment at her own helplessness.
Leon stepped closer, arms open in quiet patience, his presence reassuring without a word. "I know… I know," he murmured. Despite himself, he found the sight of her anger endearingly captivating—the flare of her emotions, the determined set of her jaw—and yet he focused only on calming her, letting nothing of his admiration show. Slowly, he placed his hands over her shoulders, guiding her to meet his steady gaze.
"Just breathe, okay?" he said gently.
"Oh, stop tha—" Celistine began, but Leon's quiet authority interrupted her, firm but not unkind.
"I know… just trust me," he said, his voice carrying a subtle insistence that left her no choice but to comply. With a reluctant sigh, she closed her eyes, letting each word of his instruction settle over her, grounding her like an anchor in a storm.
Minutes passed, though they felt like hours, until Celistine finally opened her eyes. The anger had ebbed, leaving her with a lingering heat, a flutter of something unfamiliar in her chest. She adjusted herself, smoothing her dress, and allowed herself a small, controlled breath. Together, they continued toward the carriage, side by side, the unspoken tension between them simmering beneath each measured step.
"Thank you, Leon," Celistine said softly, her voice calm now, though a glimmer of a smile tugged at her lips. Leon's shoulders relaxed, the ease of her composure a reward in itself.
"Sometimes, Celistine," Leon said, his own smile gentle, "plans don't go as we intend. We must always prepare for that." He looked at her then, a spark of warmth in his eyes, and Celistine felt her heart skip—a subtle but undeniable connection, a thread of understanding woven silently between them. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she had been too confident in her schemes, too blind to the unpredictable nature of those she sought to manipulate.
As they reached the carriage, Leon opened the door, stepping aside to guide her inside. But then, a voice—familiar and cold—cut through the quiet. Celistine froze, her eyes widening.
"Celistine."
She turned slowly, heart tightening as her gaze met Harold's, his presence commanding and deliberate. Her hand instinctively rested on the carriage, ready to retreat if needed.
"What is it now, Your Majesty the Emperor?" she asked, her voice icy, eyes flashing a warning she barely bothered to conceal.
"Let's speak privately," Harold replied smoothly, his calm tone deliberate in the most infuriating way.
Before Celistine could step forward, Leon subtly moved to her side, placing himself just enough to shield her, his presence a quiet command: she should not go alone. Celistine, however, met his glance with bold, unwavering eyes and gently tapped his shoulder, silently telling him she could handle this herself.
"Alright… but only for a few minutes," Celistine conceded, her voice measured yet defiant. Leon's blue eyes widened slightly in surprise; he had not expected her to agree so readily.
As the sun sank toward the horizon, bathing the courtyard in a soft, amber glow, Celistine and Harold stepped a few paces away from the carriage. Max and Criston remained behind, preserving the illusion of privacy. Leon lingered just a few meters away, his attention torn yet fixed on her. Every subtle movement he made spoke of quiet vigilance, every glance a silent vow of protection.