In the hidden port where Leon's men, the Blackthreads, waited, the war had not yet begun—only when their leader gave the word. Leon returned once more to their base, as a message had arrived from the Pharaoh, delivered by Havan, Leon's assistant. The sky was bright, the sun hot over their tents.
"Sar, velan thrae vi esh'ar… Kha'phar en velir—sha ven tal'ra naeth vora esh missiona."~Sir, we are honoured that you are here… The Pharaoh asks—how fares our mission here?~
Havan spoke as he followed his master. Leon sat in his chair, preparing for their discussion with his sister, Leanya, who wore a white, off-the-shoulder top with a high neckline and embroidered details, paired with light blue embroidered pants. A sash of the same shade cinched her waist, her look completed with strappy sandals and delicate bangles. Her black hair was tied in a ponytail. Leon remained dressed as usual, accompanied by Celistine.
"Velan esh'kai thren vael."
~We are still doing it fine.~
Leon's words were calm, but Havan frowned, displeased with the reply.
"Sereth, Leon? Vaen thal'kor esh na? Kha'phar velir shae ven—velan naeth var'kai en shor. Esh missiona… thren kael var'eth—tor naesh vel!"
~Seriously, Leon? What kind of answer is that? The Pharaoh is waiting—we should not delay him any longer. This mission… ends only with that woman's head!~
Havan spoke with irritation, sitting beside Leon, who busied himself with maps, planning their next steps.
"Vael en shira… velan thren esh missiona raeth var?"
~Is there a way… we can finish this mission at once?~
He pressed Leon, frustrated that months had passed in a foreign land with nothing accomplished.
"Sael, Havan… velan thren vaesh rae'kai—norath velir naeth esh'kai velan. Vael'eth… shor ven tal'ra norath, velan thren vael'kor."
~Chill, Havan… if we act in haste, the North—who could be our ally—may instead turn into our enemy.~
Leanya interjected, waving a hand at Havan, while Leon remained calm, focused on the maps. Fortunately, the Pharaoh trusted Leon, and Leon knew the King of the Deserted Island was not in a hurry to have Minerva's head. Havan wanted to end the war quickly, missing his wife and children. Leon knew Havan was using the Pharaoh to push the mission forward—but deep down, Leon could have finished it swiftly. The Blackthreads could strike the Western Empire, remove Minerva, and retreat without needing the North's approval. Yet Leon held his composure, secretly amused at the thought of seeing Celistine again each day, even as he knew that amusement would not last.
"Oh, Havan… vel'kai na Kha'phar esh var'eth shae—sha velan naeth ven tal'ra, thren kael'eth shira vael."
~Oh, Havan… do not use the Pharaoh as your excuse—just because you miss your wife so much.~
Leon smirked, shrugging, while Havan crossed his arms and rolled his eyes sarcastically.
"En… vel'kai na velir thrae esh vaen—sha ven tal'ra esh missiona rae'kai… tor Kha'nor valeth dira."
~And… do not make me hear the reason why you keep delaying this mission… because of the North King's eldest daughter.~
Havan snapped at Leon, but Leon only smirked, utterly unfazed. Taking a deep breath, Leanya mustered her courage and turned to her brother, asking about the North King's eldest daughter and her brother, and what Leon and Celistine had discussed last month concerning the peace treaty and the royal exchange.
"Bren, vel'kai na esh ven… sha ven tal'ra esh thal'kor shira… thren Kha'nor velir vael'eth?"
~Brother, have you ever asked… when will the royal exchange for the peace treaty you arranged with the North take place?~
Her question broke the conversation between Havan and Leon. Havan glanced at Leon, who massaged his chin thoughtfully. Leon knew the North had not officially agreed to the royal exchange with the Blackthreads—it was meant to secure the peace treaty, not an alliance. Even the Pharaoh could not colonize the North if war broke out again between the Blackthreads and the three kingdoms of the foreign land.
"Vael… shira en thren."~Sooner or later.~
Leon answered simply, his voice cold and composed, already focusing on their next move.
******
While the Northern Kingdom bore its own grief, the Eastern Empire was no less consumed by sorrow. King Malvorn mourned deeply for the loss of his queen—Josepina, the mother of Crown Prince Meldric.
After forcing himself to stand amidst the wreckage of the explosion, Meldric staggered through the dust-filled kitchen where he and Max had clashed moments before. His breath came unevenly, chest rising and falling as pain coursed through his body, yet he did not stop. With urgency in his stride, he and his guards rushed towards his mother.
The moment they reached it—everything fell still.
Meldric froze.
His eyes widened in sheer horror as the sight before him sank in. The body of Queen Josepina lay there… burned. Her once graceful form reduced to something unrecognizable, charred by flames that showed no mercy.
For a moment, no sound left him.
Then—
his fingers curled tightly into fists, trembling.
When word reached King Malvorn, grief twisted into something far more dangerous. Rage ignited within him, fierce and unrelenting. His entire body shook with fury, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed it might crack.
He wanted war.
He wanted blood.
He wanted the North to burn.
Especially when he learned that Max—the very man he had branded a traitor—had begun siding with them.
Within the Imperial Meeting Hall of the Eastern Empire, a tense gathering had formed.
Seated at the forefront was Emperor Harold, his posture composed yet commanding. He had come under the guise of offering condolences, but his presence carried far more weight than mere sympathy.
Beside him stood Maxon, brother of Medeya, and the Empress herself—Medeya—dressed in mourning black that mirrored the Emperor's own attire. Their expressions were solemn, yet beneath that stillness lay something far sharper… calculation.
They had not gathered for grief alone.
They had gathered for war.
"You Majesty, as planned, Valendridge has successfully attacked the lands of Portekwero," Maxon reported, his voice steady as he stood beside the Emperor. He wore his usual attire—a black military-style coat trimmed in white over a crisp vest, a ruffled jabot at his throat, cream trousers, and pristine white gloves.
"The assault caused the fall of hundreds of Northern soldiers… and I have heard that one of their most trusted knights, Johanes, has been killed."
A faint shift crossed Harold's expression—subtle, but present.
"Indeed… our plan is working," he murmured, fingers steepled as his elbows rested lightly against the arm of his chair. His gaze sharpened. "Have they begun to move?"
"Not yet, Your Majesty," Maxon replied. "I suspect they are still grieving the loss of their comrade." He paused briefly before continuing, his tone growing firmer. "Due to the North's swift reinforcements, Valendridge could not seize Portkwero entirely. However… if we lay siege soon, we can secure the land and establish a military base to confront the Blackthreads."
Harold's eyes darkened with thought.
"Then in a few days," the Emperor declared, his voice cold with authority, "we will lay siege to Portekwero and claim it as our own. Celistine is not one to act rashly or spill blood without cause… so we shall move before she does."
"But Your Majesty—!"
King Malvorn's voice cut sharply through the hall.
"I demand justice for what the North has done to my wife!"
His fists slammed against the table, breath ragged, grief spilling through every word. His eyes burned—not with sorrow alone, but vengeance.
Medeya's gaze narrowed slightly, irritation flickering across her composed face.
"I understand your desire for justice," she said coolly, her voice firm, "but we require a proper strategy if we are to defeat the North—before we even consider facing the Blackthreads."
Malvorn's chest rose sharply, yet he did not yield.
"After we secure Portkwero," Maxon continued, lifting a hand as if to steady the room, "we will devise a plan to dismantle the Northern military bases stationed across the cities near our borders. We cannot advance unless those bases are removed."
"We have already done what the Empress Dowager instructed," Malvorn snapped impatiently, his voice edged with urgency. "So what are we waiting for?"
At the mention of his mother—
Harold stilled.
His eyes widened ever so slightly.
"What… exactly did my mother instruct you to do?" he asked, his voice lower now, laced with quiet suspicion.
Malvorn opened his mouth.
"The Black—"
"Your Majesty! The Emperor! My King!"
The sudden interruption shattered the moment.
A knight burst into the hall, breathless, urgency written across his face. Every gaze turned sharply towards him.
Meldric, already on edge, clicked his tongue in irritation. "What is it now?" he demanded, his patience worn thin.
The knight swallowed hard.
Then spoke—
"The storage has been burned!"
Silence.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Malvorn's expression twisted in shock, his fury reigniting instantly, far more volatile than before. Even Harold and Maxon exchanged brief glances—uncertain, calculating—realizing they did not yet fully understand what the Empress Dowager had set into motion within the Eastern Empire.
And judging by the sheer panic and rage now consuming King Malvorn…
whatever had just been lost in those flames—
was never meant to be destroyed.
As the companions of the King of the Eastern Empire made their way to the storage under the cloak of night, Rehena, Rowena, and the rest of their group—freshly rescued from Gaspare Land—found themselves taking a brief respite in a secluded forest, letting the darkness cradle them for a single night. All the while, other members of Barron's retinue kept watch, their eyes sharp and restless amidst the shadows.
Moments later, Max, Barron, and one of his men arrived in a flurry, urgency written in every movement.
"Goodness gracious, where have you been, Sir Barron?" Rehena asked, her voice laced with worry, eyes darting between the men as they swiftly mounted their horses.
"We don't have much time. Move—now!" Barron's command cut through the quiet night. His voice, sharp and unyielding, instantly roused the others. Rehena and Rowena exchanged puzzled glances, a storm of questions forming silently in their minds.
"What's happened, Max?" Rowena's voice was soft, tinged with concern, as she approached her nephew, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.
"We'll explain later. We must move now… or they'll catch up with us." Max's tone was firm, yet there was a tension that made Rehena feel the weight of urgency pressing down on them all. He assisted the others hastily into the wagon, each movement hurried and tense, for their pace was slowed by the rescued souls crowded within. Adding to their troubles, the horses pulling the wagon were no match for the swift steeds Barron had prepared for their journey. Every second wasted was a chance lost, a peril creeping closer.
"If we reach the land of Anatol, we'll be safe there," one of the knights, Harith, called to Barron, his voice steady but edged with hope.
Barron, absorbed in guiding Rehena to mount her own horse, scarcely nodded in response. The moment she was secure, they were off again, the forest swallowing their retreating figures as they pressed toward the northern kingdom. Their path was fraught with uncertainty, and yet every heartbeat carried them closer to safety—and to the revelation of the Eastern Empire's looming fate.
But as the night deepened and the shadows grew longer, a chilling echo of hooves sounded from the distance—faster than their own. Max's eyes widened, and Barron's jaw tightened. A sense of dread clawed at their hearts.
"They're coming… much closer than I feared," Barron muttered, voice low, almost a growl.
Rehena gripped the reins of her horse tighter, her knuckles white. Rowena's hand instinctively found hers, a silent plea and shared fear in one.
And in that moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting, watching, as the night itself whispered a warning: whatever was chasing them was not far behind.