Cough! Cough! Rehena gasped, struggling to draw in breath after the explosion. When she finally opened her eyes, she found herself cradled in Barron's arms, held bridal-style. Dust coated their clothes, mingling with the grime of the aftermath. Barron himself bore a small wound on his head, bleeding only lightly, while—thankfully—Rehena had emerged unscathed despite the ferocity of the blast.
Barron's mind raced with worry, heart hammering at the thought of what might have happened to her. Without a moment's hesitation, he carried the unconscious Rehena toward safety. As they emerged from the passageway onto firmer ground, Barron gently set her down, and Rehena's gaze fell upon a few survivors—companions of her own—already gathering, shaken but alive.
"Where's His Highness?" she asked, turning toward Barron. Her eyes searched anxiously as they both glanced to the side. There, she saw Max, smeared with ash, nursing a wound on his arm from the explosion, a graze on his chest from his earlier skirmish with Meldric.
"My lord!" Rehena cried, rushing forward as Max faltered, weakened from his ordeal. Rowena, untiringly loyal, supported him as he stumbled toward them, his exhausted expression betraying the depths of his sorrow.
"My lord… are—?"
BOOM!
Rehena's words died on her lips as another, more distant explosion tore through the night. From where they stood, they could see the destruction wrought upon Max's mansion. Flames devoured it, consuming everything his mother had cherished. Smoke darkened the night sky, curling into the heavens, and the lands surrounding Roselia—his family's home—were ravaged, the fields and cottages reduced to smouldering ruins.
Max's face contorted with grief and rage, and Rehena instinctively pressed a hand to her mouth, unable to comprehend the scale of devastation. She watched him bow his head, clenched fists shaking, trembling under the weight of his anguish.
"My lord…" she whispered, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. The despair in his eyes was a physical force, and she felt her own chest tighten in sympathy.
Then, as if drawn by an irresistible pull, Max grabbed her in a fierce embrace.
"WHY?!" he cried, his voice hoarse, thick with sorrow and fury. The hug was so tight that Rehena was nearly crushed into his chest, their bodies collapsing slowly to the ground beneath the weight of his pain. Rehena had no choice but to let him weep, her fingers threading gently through his hair, murmuring soft, comforting words. Tears streamed down her own cheeks as the grief of witnessing the sacrifices of Max's mother—the lengths she had gone to save them all—bore down on her.
Barron, standing a short distance away, watched in stunned silence, unable to intervene. Even he understood that this was a private moment of vulnerability, a catharsis Max needed. Thank the stars His Highness was not here… he thought, quietly stepping back.
"It's not your fault, my lord… sniff… sniff… huhuhu…" Rehena's voice trembled as she cried alongside him. Max continued to sob, his face buried in her shoulder, while Rowena's own tears fell freely at the sight of her nephew's torment. For her, Max was the innocent victim of the Eastern King's relentless cruelty.
"My lady… why? Why must I endure this over and over? What is the purpose of my life when everyone I hold dear… especially my mother… is gone?!" Max's voice cracked with despair.
Rehena faced Max with unwavering dedication, her gaze steady and warm. The brightness in her brown eyes, shining even amidst the smoke and ruin, seemed to calm him ever so slightly. Max could not help but notice the light in her eyes, and for the first time in hours, a flicker of hope stirred within him.
"My lord…" Rehena began, a soft, gentle smile on her lips. "We may not control the fates of our lives, and we cannot bring back those we hold dear… but in this life, there is still purpose." She moved closer, her voice steady, almost soothing. "Every soul carries sacrifices meant to guide us, to help us rebuild what was lost. Do not see this as punishment, My Lord, but as an opportunity to set right the wrongs that came before. Your mother… she gave everything for you, knowing that one day you would rise, that you would protect and guide those she cherished, so that they might have a brighter life in this kingdom." Her smile deepened, gentle and reassuring, and Max felt a small comfort touch his aching heart.
"You are not alon..," Rehena whispered, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
Max's gaze wandered to the people around them. "Look at them," she murmured, waving toward those whom Roselia had treasured the most. Slowly, he turned to meet their eyes, seeing the lives his mother had nurtured, the trust and hope in their faces. Both he and Rehena rose from where they had been sitting, standing together amidst the gathered crowd.
"They need you, My lord," Rehena said, wrapping her hands firmly but tenderly around his. "You are the rightful heir to the Eastern Empire. You must fight for your people, bring justice to their lives, and remove the darkness your father has cast upon them." Her voice was unwavering, fearless, each word anchoring itself in his soul. Max felt it as a spark of resolve, widening in his chest, filling the hollows of his despair.
"But how?" one of Max's people spoke up, hesitant and uncertain. "We have so few forces, and we are simple folk, skilled only in herbs and craft." Max remained still, lost in thought, unsure of what to say.
"The North stands ready to help you," Barron interjected, his tone sharp but encouraging. "Lady Celistine has sent word to all who believe in her. Her arms are open to welcome you and your people." Murmurs of hope rippled through Max's followers—the disciples of Roselia—already beginning to feel conviction and courage.
"But… we have nothing, my lady," Max admitted quietly, meeting Rehena's eyes with a mixture of shyness and discomfort.
Rehena only smiled, her eyes locking with his. "Then we shall begin with what we have," she said softly, a spark of warmth and determination shining through. "Hope is never nothing, my lord. Courage is never nothing. And together… we are more than we can yet imagine."
Once clarity returned to his mind, Max steadied himself, gathering strength. Together with his people, they began to move, fleeing toward the North, where Lady Celistine awaited them with open arms and unwavering hope.
*****
In the Western Empire, Celistine, alongside King Henry and the others, had attended the funeral of Johanes David Drusu of Boulevard. The ceremony was held in the duchy of Boulevard, and sorrow weighed heavily on every face. None could believe that the mighty warrior, commander of the North, had passed so suddenly—victim of the scheming duchy of Valendrich, who dared to attack and claim the lands of Portkwero, leaving several hundred Northern soldiers fallen.
"May he rest in peace," the priest intoned, his voice solemn as the final rites were pronounced. Then, once more, Johanes' coffin was lowered into a secluded yard behind the mansion, near the garden—a place where the soul of Johanes might finally find peace. The sky hung low and gloomy, echoing the grief that gripped all present. A chill wind swept through the gathering, biting at exposed skin. Beside Celistine, her beloved brother stood rigid, fists clenched in anger, disbelief etched across his face.
"This shouldn't be happening!" Carlo's voice cracked with fury, his jaw tight. Celistine reached out with her left arm, resting her hand gently against her younger brother's shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity.
"I will seek justice for Lord Johanes, I swear it!" Carlo added, teeth clenched, eyes blazing with determination. Celistine allowed him his grief, though her mind lingered on her dearest friend, Grace. She understood all too well the weight of losing both parents. In her bedchamber, Grace curled into a fetal position, silent sobs shaking her small frame. She could not bear to witness her father's burial, the reality of his absence too raw to face.
After the burial, a few nobles who had held Johanes dear remained in the Great Hall of the Boulevard castle. Others had already departed for their homes, whispers filling the empty spaces.
"It's hard to believe he's truly gone," one murmured.
"Indeed…" another replied softly.
"Poor child… his daughter."
Celistine observed quietly from the sidelines, absorbing their words without intention of replying. Her purple eyes followed their muted conversations, noting every subtle expression and gesture.
"Condolences, Your Highness," a familiar voice spoke. Celistine turned and found herself facing the Warden of Seawatch, Anderson. He was dressed in a cream-coloured long-sleeved shirt, ruffled at the collar, layered beneath a maroon sleeveless tunic trimmed in brown, the front laced neatly. A dark brown leather belt with tassel detail cinched his waist, and his gray hair and solemn dark eyes reflected the sorrow of the day.
Celistine inclined her head in acknowledgment. Yet her attention was drawn not to Anderson himself, but to the man standing beside him. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt with a V-neck and billowy sleeves, cinched at the waist by a broad dark brown leather belt. His trousers were dark brown, tied at the ankles, complementing his striking yellow-gold hair, so like her own, and piercing blue eyes that tugged at her memory. "Have I seen those eyes before?" she wondered, curiosity stirring in her chest.
"Thank you for your condolences, my lord," Celistine said politely.
"The Duke of Boulevard was a great knight of the North. May his soul rest in peace," Anderson replied, sorrow etched deeply across his face. "Your Highness, allow me to introduce—"
"Kaelen!" a sudden voice broke through. Carlo strode forward, clearly overjoyed, as he met the man beside Anderson.
"Oh… Your Highness, it has been far too long," Kaelen said, shaking Carlo's hand warmly. Carlo's face lit with happiness, and Celistine's curiosity only deepened as she watched the reunion. "Kaelen?" she thought, noting her brother's unrestrained joy at seeing someone from Seawatch.
"Allow me to introduce him, sister," Carlo said, dressed in black funeral attire that matched his boots and trousers. Celistine wore a simple black funeral gown, her yellow hair elegantly coiled into a neat bun.
"This is Kaelen of Seawatch.." Carlo continued, gesturing to the man before her, "the one who designs our warships." Celistine blinked, struck by the revelation; the man standing so composed before her was a master craftsman of ships.
"It's an honour to meet you, Your Highness," Kaelen said, placing a hand over his heart and bowing with understated grace.
"I… did not expect you to be the man behind the North's warships," Celistine admitted, a mix of awe and curiosity in her voice. "Were you born of noble blood?"
Carlo's lips curved in a modest smile. "Ah… as I asked him, sister, he hails only from Seawatch—nothing more." He chuckled lightly at Kaelen's humility..
"This young man is my assistant," Anderson explained, "born an orphan, Your Highness."
Celistine studied Kaelen closely, her curiosity piqued further, drawn especially to those remarkably familiar blue eyes.
"Greetings, Your Majesty," Kaelen suddenly bowed as he noticed King Henry approaching. Both he and Anderson inclined their heads respectfully, while Carlo and Celistine gave their own nods of deference. The King acknowledged them with a solemn nod, and conversation began to flow between them, the shadow of grief mingling with the fragile threads of new introductions.