In the quiet hush of the afternoon breeze where the sun still slow descent into dusk, Celistine and Leon remained within the palace grounds, alone in each other's company, sharing a rare and unguarded moment. No attendants lingered nearby, no duties called their names—only the soft whisper of the wind and the fading light bore witness to their presence.
Celistine had once more settled herself upon the grass, resting her head gently upon Leon's lap. There was a quiet ease in the way she lay there, as though, for a fleeting moment, the weight of her burdens had lessened. Leon, seated behind her, absentmindedly twirled a strand of her hair around his finger, his touch light, almost playful, as though he feared disturbing the fragile peace between them.
"What kind of land do you come from, Leon?" Celistine asked softly, her voice laced with curiosity as she tilted her gaze upward to meet his. "How do people live in such a deserted island?"
"We eat desert," Leon replied without pause, his tone laced with mischief.
At once, Celistine's brows furrowed. She lifted herself from his lap, turning slightly as she folded her arms across her chest. Her lips formed a small, petulant pout, her eyes closing as she turned her face away from him in quiet protest—so very much like a sulking child.
The sight drew an amused smile from Leon, one he did not bother to conceal. It was unfamiliar—this side of her. He had grown accustomed to seeing Celistine as composed, distant, ever serious in matters of politics and duty. Never, not once, had he been granted a glimpse of the woman beneath that rigid exterior.
"I never imagined you could be so childish at times," Leon remarked, shifting slightly closer to her where they sat upon the grass, the lake stretching out before them like a mirror of fading gold. "It does not quite suit you, you know."
At those words—childish—Celistine turned back towards him, her expression faltering. Though Leon's face bore no malice, no trace of ridicule, the word struck something buried deep within her.
Unbidden, memories rose.
There had been a time, long ago, when she had acted in such a manner before Harold—when he had still been her husband. Each attempt to draw his attention, each small, childish gesture, had only earned his irritation. She had not meant to be foolish—only to be seen. Only to be noticed. Yet, in time, she had learned to suppress that part of herself, to become modest, restrained… agreeable.
And now, as she remained seated beside Leon, a quiet fear took root within her chest.
What if he thinks the same?
"I… I am sorry," Celistine murmured, her brows lowering as she averted her gaze, bracing herself for a reaction she had come to expect.
Leon blinked, taken aback. "Why are you apologizing?" he asked, a note of genuine confusion in his voice. Then, a soft chuckle escaped him, light and unguarded. "It is rather endearing, you know. The serious and brilliant eldest daughter of the North, so fond of propriety, yet capable of behaving like a child… especially before a certain man such as myself."
He laughed gently, his head tilting back slightly as a stray lock of hair fell across his forehead. His eyes closed briefly, the sound warm, unrestrained—so unlike anything she had ever known.
Celistine stared at him, astonishment flickering across her features.
Of all men… he was the only one who had ever laughed at her in such a way.
Why is he laughing? she wondered, her thoughts uncertain.
Yet, somewhere deep within her heart, a quiet sense of relief stirred—soft, unfamiliar, but undeniably present. It was the first time… the very first time… that someone had seen her, truly seen her, and had not turned away.
"You do not understand…" Celistine said at last, her voice softer now as she turned her gaze towards the lake. "How exhausting it is to pretend to be modest all the time. In truth, I only wish to be free… no burdens, no war… nothing at all."
Her eyes drifted across the water, where, all at once, a pair of swans glided into view—side by side, their movements graceful, undisturbed. She watched them in silence, her expression distant, as though she were gazing not at the present, but at a life she had never known.
She wondered, quietly, what it might be like.
When the war had ended… when the conflicts between the three kingdoms had finally ceased… could she, too, live such a life? Somewhere far away, untouched by duty, untouched by expectation—somewhere peaceful.
"Why?" Leon asked, his tone now serious, his golden gaze fixed upon her. "Were you forced into this duty?"
"To be honest… yes," Celistine replied, releasing a slow, weary sigh. "I wish to bring this to an end. I want Carlo to ascend the throne. I wish to find the lost prince of the four kingdoms… to end the war. And most importantly—"
Her voice faltered.
She shifted her posture, drawing her knees closer as she wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin upon her hands. Though she continued to look upon the lake, her eyes carried a longing that had long since taken root.
"I simply wish to be free of these burdens," she continued quietly. "To go somewhere new… somewhere peaceful… I only wish to rest."
There was a pause—brief, yet heavy with unspoken thought.
Then—
"Why not come with me to my land?"
Celistine froze.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, she turned towards Leon. His expression had changed; there was no trace of jest within it now. His golden eyes held hers with a quiet intensity, unwavering. The wind stirred around them, lifting strands of her hair as though urging her forward, while he remained still, steadfast in his gaze.
For a moment, she could not speak.
Her heart skipped, unsteady within her chest. She knew how distant his homeland was—how uncertain such a path would be. And yet… something within her stirred, a whisper echoing through the depths of her soul.
Go… be free…
But doubt lingered still.
Can I truly trust this man? her thoughts whispered in return.
"I will—"
"Your Highness! I bear urgent news!"
The moment shattered.
A knight rushed towards them, his voice cutting through the fragile stillness. Celistine and Leon exchanged a single glance—one brief, unspoken understanding passing between them—before they rose from where they had been seated.
Whatever answer she had meant to give was left hanging, unspoken.
And once more, they turned to face the trials that awaited them.
*********
In a distant land, far removed from the order of civilized realms, lay the barbaric territory—its people feared for their brutality, their lives untouched by law. It was a place where chaos ruled, and where the Empress Dowager herself resided.
"Has my son already made his move?" the Empress Dowager asked, her voice low and edged with impatience.
She reclined upon her bed, a thin blanket carelessly draped over her body. A glass of wine rested loosely in her hand as she leaned back against the Headboard of the bed, exhaling a slow stream of smoke from the cigarette between her fingers. Beside her lingered a man—her companion in secrecy, bound to her through an illicit affair.
"From what I have gathered, they are still proceeding in their own way… securing the portekwero first," the man replied. His tone was calm, almost indifferent, as he moved closer. Lowering himself beside her, he rested his head upon her lap, his gaze flickering upward. Without hesitation, he reached for her cigarette, bringing it to his lips and drawing in its smoke.
"Don't take that… it's mine," she snapped, irritation flashing across her features as she swiftly snatched it back from him.
A tense silence followed before she spoke again, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What about the potion? Any news?"
"The East is still in the process," the man answered simply.
"Damn that process!" she burst out, her composure shattering. "Such a simple task, and yet they have failed to complete it. I want the North seized as soon as possible."
Her frustration surged. With a sharp motion, she slammed the wine glass down, the sound echoing faintly within the chamber. Rising abruptly, the blanket slipped from her form and fell away, leaving her bare as she pressed her fingers against her temple, attempting to steady the storm within her mind. Her breathing grew uneven, her expression twisted with mounting fury.
The man rose at once, stepping behind her. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close in an attempt to soothe her agitation.
"I'm not in the mood, Mandel," the Empress Dowager muttered, her voice laced with exhaustion and irritation.
"Margarette… just calm yourself," Mandel murmured gently. Turning her to face him, he placed his hands upon her shoulders, his gaze steady as he sought to quiet her unrest.
"Everything will fall into place," he continued, his tone reassuring. "We need only wait and see what our two sons will do next."
At his words, the tension within Margarette began to ease, her rigid posture softening ever so slightly. The fire in her eyes dimmed, though it did not fully disappear. Slowly, she allowed herself to be drawn closer, their foreheads nearly touching as they lingered in the quiet that followed.
Yet beneath that fleeting calm, their minds remained restless—already weaving plans for what was to come. For the North would soon face a new trial, one far greater than before. Though the barbarians had once been crushed under the might of the late Emperor, this time, they would rise stronger—unyielding, relentless—and the world would have no choice but to prepare for the storm that awaited.
Within the midst of careful plans, the King of the North lay resting in his chamber. At his side remained Cilist, his younger daughter, tending to him with quiet diligence. Though she was often colder in nature than her siblings, Carlo and Celistine, King Henry knew well that no one was more fiercely protective of him than she.
With steady hands, Cilist guided her father upright, allowing him to lean against the headboard of his bed. She then reached for the medicine placed upon the table beside him, lifting the wooden cup filled with water. Without a word, she brought it to his lips, watching closely as he drank.
"Thank you, my beloved daughter…" the King murmured, his voice gentle with affection.
Cilist's expression did not soften. "Celistine is your beloved. Don't call me that—it's… unpleasant," she replied flatly, taking the wooden cup from his grasp and returning it to the table. Her loose hair fell lightly over her shoulders, framing the pale simplicity of the white dress she always wore.
"How are you feeling, Father?" she asked, lowering herself to sit beside him.
The King only smiled, clad in his night attire, and reached out to gently brush a strand of her hair aside. Outside, the evening had deepened; The night had already deepened, well past dusk.
"I am well, so long as I am under your care, Cilist," he said warmly.
"Good to hear," she answered. Rising to her feet, her tone shifted—firm, almost commanding. "Stay here, Father. I will bring your dinner, and I shall inform my sister and brother that you cannot join them this evening."
The King gave a small nod, having no strength to argue. Cilist turned and walked towards the door, her steps quiet against the floor. Yet before she left, her gaze fell upon the knight stationed outside.
She halted.
Her eyes narrowed into a cold, unyielding stare—one that carried the weight of a silent threat. The knight stiffened at once, his breath catching as fear gripped him.
"Take care of my father," Cilist said, her voice low and chilling. "If anything happens to him… you will be the first I kill before I deal with whoever dares to harm him."
Her words struck like ice. The knight swallowed hard, his hands trembling at his sides.
"Y-yes, M-my Princess," he stammered, barely managing to speak.
In the next instant, her expression shifted.
A soft, almost angelic smile curved upon her lips—so sudden, so unnatural, that it unsettled him even more.
"Good," she said lightly.
As she walked away, the knight could only stare after her, confusion clouding his thoughts.
~'She is impossible to understand…'~
Cilist moved through the halls in silence, her face returning to its usual calm, unreadable state. Yet as she passed the tall windows lining the corridor, she slowed.
Her gaze lifted to the night sky.
No stars shone above.
Only a quiet, suffocating darkness stretched across the heavens.
"Peace lay still, yet the sky grew grim,A whisper warned from the silent wind.Sensing the storm that soon would rise,I fled the desert before its cries."
She spoke the poem softly, her voice almost lost to the stillness. Yet beneath those words lingered something far deeper—something unseen, something she alone could feel, yet could not escape.
"You saw another future… didn't you, Cilist?"
A voice emerged from the shadows—cold, yet touched with an odd warmth.
Cilist turned her head slowly, without urgency, as though she had already known who stood behind her.
"Why are you here, my Crown Prince?" she asked, her tone as distant as ever.
Before her stood a man of noble bearing—his golden hair catching what little light remained, his blue eyes sharp and unwavering. There was no mistaking the blood that ran through him—the blood of one destined to rule four kingdoms.
For a moment, neither spoke.
They simply stared at one another.
The wind slipped through the open window, stirring their hair and brushing against their garments. It carried a chill—subtle, yet foreboding.
And though the night remained still…
Cilist was not at ease.