It was mid-morning when Barron and the others—Rehena and Max among them—continued their journey. Harith, one of Barron's most trusted men, rode at the front, guiding their path, while Barron and his knights remained at the rear, their senses sharpened, ever watchful for any sign of an ambush from the Eastern Empire. The air itself seemed tense, as though danger lingered just beyond sight.
Seizing a quiet moment, Barron explained once more the reason the Eastern forces were so desperate to hunt them down. It was not merely because of Max, but because of what had already been done—Max had set fire to a hidden storage site the Eastern Empire had secretly constructed. Within it, they had been producing a mysterious black potion, the very substance that Max's aunt, Rowena, had intended to investigate. Now, that truth had turned them all into targets.
"We will reach Anatol's Gate soon… and there, we will be safe," Harith called from the front, his voice firm yet reassuring.
At those words, a wave of relief passed through the rescued people from Gaspare. There were more than a hundred of them—families, children, the weary and frightened—all saved by Barron's knights. The journey had not been easy. Their pace had slowed greatly because of the sheer number they escorted, and many among them were followers of Roselia, Max's mother. It had taken them nearly half a week to approach Anatol, their strength tested with every passing mile.
Max rode steadily, his posture upright, though his attention drifted to the figure beside him. Rheena sat upon her horse, her grip on the reins tightening and loosening as she fought against the pull of exhaustion. Her eyelids fluttered, her breathing uneven, as if sleep threatened to claim her at any moment. Still, she forced herself to remain awake, determined not to falter so close to their destination.
Yet, as time passed, her vision blurred. The world before her seemed to waver, shapes losing clarity. She tried to focus on Harith's figure ahead, but even that began to fade into indistinct shadows.
Max, watching her closely, frowned. There was something wrong—something in the way she swayed ever so slightly, in the unnatural stillness of her posture.
Then, in a fleeting instant, his eyes widened.
Rheena's body suddenly went limp.
"My Lady!"
Max's voice broke, sharp and urgent, echoing across the group as he leapt from his horse without hesitation. In one swift motion, he caught her just as she fell from the saddle, gathering her into his arms before she could hit the ground. His heart pounded violently in his chest, though he could not understand why such panic seized him whenever she was in danger.
"What's wrong!?" Barron demanded, his voice edged with alarm as he urged his horse forward, closing the distance in hurried strides. His grip tightened on the reins, unease settling heavily within him. As he came to a halt before them, his gaze fell upon the sight—Max holding Rehena's unconscious form, her head resting weakly against his shoulder, her face pale and unmoving.
"What happened to the lady?" Barron asked, worry evident in his tone, his brows drawn tightly together.
"She just collapsed," Max replied, his voice low yet strained.
"Goodness! What happened to her?" Rowena's voice cut in sharply as she climbed down from the wagon, her expression filled with concern. Without delay, she reached out, placing a hand against Rehena's forehead. The moment her fingers made contact, her face shifted, realization striking her.
"She has a fever… and we must treat her at once," Rowena said, her voice firm, though urgency laced every word.
Barron's expression darkened further, worry deepening within his chest.
"So… how can we carry the lady, sir?" Harith asked, glancing between them, aware of the danger that still surrounded their journey.
Barron hesitated, his gaze briefly shifting towards the wagon already filled to its limit. He exhaled slowly, then turned his eyes to Max.
Max stiffened.
He already knew.
"My lord… you will carry the young lady. My men cannot assist if the Eastern assassins strike again," Barron said, his voice steady, though the weight of the decision was clear.
Max tightened his hold around Rehena, determination settling across his features.
"I will," he answered without hesitation.
Carefully, he mounted his horse once more, still cradling Rehena securely in his arms. As the group resumed their journey towards Anatol, Max adjusted his coat, wrapping it gently around her frail body. He drew her closer, one arm supporting her while the other steadied the reins. Her head rested against his chest, her breathing faint but steady.
She remained unaware of everything, lost in a fragile state between consciousness and exhaustion, her body trembling slightly from the cold.
"I—I feel cold… C-Carlo…" Rheena murmured softly, her eyes still closed, her voice weak as though she were speaking from within a dream.
Max stilled.
"Shhh… I am here," he whispered near her ear, his tone soft, almost instinctive.
At his voice, her trembling eased just a little, her body relaxing faintly against him.
Yet confusion flickered across Max's expression.
Carlo.
The name echoed in his mind, unfamiliar yet repeated too often.
Is he… her brother? he wondered silently, his brows knitting together.
But he pushed the thought aside, lifting his gaze forward once more, focusing on the road ahead as he continued to carry her.
Behind them, Barron watched in silence, his grip tightening slightly around the reins as his expression shifted into something uneasy. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he let out a quiet breath, glancing away as though the air had suddenly become far too interesting. For a brief moment, he looked like a man carrying guilt… though he seemed far more determined to pretend everything was perfectly fine.
I only hope His Highness will forgive me… he thought, his chest tightening.
It was not the threat of assassins that troubled him most.
It was something far more uncertain.
The man named Max—the one destined to ascend the throne of the Eastern Empire—might one day fall, not by blade nor by war… but by the quiet, fragile presence of a young woman named Rehena.
And somehow, that thought unsettled him more than anything else.
*******
At that very moment, Celistine had only just received the news that within a matter of days, Barron had already reached Anatol together with those they had rescued, including Max. It was the very thing she had long been waiting for—yet for Carlo, the moment he heard that Barron had arrived from Anatol alongside Rehena, he could no longer keep still.
Restlessness seized him without mercy. With hurried breaths and a mind in turmoil, he donned his armour at once, fastening each piece with firm, impatient movements. Without hesitation, he summoned a handful of knights to accompany him, already preparing to depart for Anatol that very night.
"Carlo, you don't have to go there…" Celistine spoke, her voice gentle yet strained as she stepped forward, her brows drawn with concern. The night had already settled, its silence wrapping around the halls. "Barron said they are safe. We only need to wait a few days—they will be here."
Yet Carlo scarcely listened. His hands tightened around the straps of his armour, jaw set, eyes burning with urgency. Though he said nothing of it aloud, the truth lay bare in his chest—he was desperate to see his beloved fiancée, Rehena. It had been nearly a month since he had last seen her. Not a single letter had reached him, no word of her journey with Barron in the East, no reassurance of her safety.
"How am I supposed to stay here, Sister?" Carlo's voice rose, edged with frustration as he turned sharply towards her, his gaze intense. "How can I be at ease when Barron and Rehena have just saved others—from what, we do not even know? I must go there at once!"
His words fell heavily into the room, leaving no space for argument. He no longer waited for Celistine's reply, brushing past her with determined strides. Celistine reached out slightly, as though to stop him, yet her hand faltered mid-air. She understood all too well—this was not mere stubbornness, but the weight of his feelings, pressing against him until he could no longer endure stillness.
And yet, even within her own thoughts, doubt lingered.
What in the world had truly happened?
Barron's message had been brief, almost too vague—he had claimed they had rescued several people from the Eastern Empire… most notably, the disciples of the late Queen. It sounded impossible, like nothing more than a rumour whispered in dark corners. And yet… it was real.
As Carlo finished securing his armour within his chamber, the faint clink of metal echoed in the quiet. He paused at the doorway, glancing back at his sister one last time. His expression softened, though the urgency within him did not fade.
"I shall go…" he said once more, quieter this time, yet no less resolute.
Celistine exhaled slowly, her shoulders sinking as she gave a small, reluctant nod. There was nothing she could do to stop him.
With that, Carlo turned and strode out, his steps firm as he made his way through the corridors, exiting the mansion without delay. The night air greeted him sharply as he mounted his horse, his knights already waiting. Without another word, they rode off into the darkness, bound for Anatol.
Celistine remained behind, unable to stop her younger brother—so deeply in love, so utterly driven by it. She closed her eyes briefly, lifting a hand to her temple, gently massaging it as a dull ache began to form.
"Having a headache?"
The voice came suddenly.
Celistine's eyes opened at once, turning towards the window where Leon had appeared, leaning casually against the frame. His shoulder rested against the edge, arms loosely crossed, a faint, knowing smile playing upon his lips.
"My brother is terribly stubborn," Celistine muttered, rolling her eyes as she stepped closer, though a hint of fondness lingered beneath her frustration.
Leon let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "I understand the feeling. I have a sister myself—about the same age as His Highness," he said lightly, the amusement clear in his tone.
Celistine merely gave a small shrug, her expression easing ever so slightly. Without another word, she turned away, and Leon followed beside her as they left Carlo's chamber, their footsteps quiet as they wandered through the dimly lit halls.
As Celistine and Leon walked along the hallways, their footsteps echoed faintly against the stone as they reached the point where the corridor split in two. There, they slowed, exchanging a brief glance before parting ways. It was already late into the night. Leon lifted a hand in a small, casual wave, offering a faint smile before turning on his heel to return to his chamber.
Celistine watched him go for a moment, her expression soft yet weary. She had every intention of retiring to her room and seeking rest, yet just as she began to turn away, something stirred in her mind—an unsettling reminder she could not ignore.
Grace.
Her dearest friend had remained shut inside her chamber for nearly a week, refusing to step outside, unable to move forward from the loss of her father. The thought alone tightened Celistine's chest. Without another moment of hesitation, she made her way through the dim corridor, her steps quieter now, until she reached Grace's door.
She paused.
For a brief second, her hand hovered before the wood, as though uncertain. Then, gently—
Knock. Knock.
"Grace? It's me—Celistine. Are you awake?" she called softly, her voice careful, almost fragile, as if afraid it might break the silence too harshly.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, from within, a trembling voice answered.
"Sorry, Your Highness… I am still mourning for my father… I can't— I—" Her words faltered, breaking apart into quiet sobs.
Celistine's breath caught.
Hearing Grace like that—so weak, so shattered—caused a sharp ache to bloom in her chest. Her fingers curled slightly at her side, her lips pressing into a thin line as worry deepened within her.
"Just… letting you know that I am here," Celistine said softly, her voice laced with quiet sorrow. She lowered her gaze, her shoulders dipping ever so slightly. "Good night, Grace."
Inside the room, Grace struggled to steady her voice.
"Thank you… Your Highness," she replied faintly.
Celistine remained by the door for a moment longer, her expression clouded with helplessness. She longed to step inside, to sit beside her friend, to offer comfort in some way—but she did not know how. The weight of uncertainty held her still.
Slowly, she drew in a breath, then turned away.
With reluctant steps, she forced herself to leave, her figure disappearing down the corridor as she made her way back to her chamber, her thoughts heavy and restless.
Meanwhile, within the dim confines of her room, Grace lay upon her bed, her body unmoving, her expression hollow and drained of life. She clutched a pillow tightly against her chest, as though it were the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely. Tears continued to fall without pause, soaking into the fabric as quiet sobs escaped her lips.
Her gaze remained unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the walls that confined her.
"Where the hell are you, Barron…" she whispered hoarsely, her voice breaking between each word.
"I need you…" she murmured again, barely audible, as another wave of tears slipped down her cheeks.
And through the long, silent hours of the night, Grace did nothing but cry.