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An Imperial Baroness, her lady-in-waiting, and her personal fashion designer find themselves in a very spacious walk-in closet with bellies full of lunch from an hour earlier and growing headaches. No, not from the food—the dishes were very light and thus easy to digest for the 3-month pregnant lady of the manor; the chefs made very sure of that. Besides, with the rapid decline of her taste buds and appetite, it’s crucial that no meal would upset the Baroness’ poor constitution.
Anyway, headaches. The source of the 3 ladies’ headaches? Everything in the walk-in closet.
To understand their conundrum, we must examine one common practice for ladies of high society—from Baronesses like herself to Her Imperial Majesty. See, every noblewoman faces an adversary every year and every Fall.
Clothes. More specifically, clothes that are deemed out of season and, thus, out of fashion. Or what will be considered out of fashion in the coming Spring. For clothes are what armour is to soldiers and warriors alike. It’s a silent yet powerful statement amongst the sea of bloodthirsty and judgemental sharks, constantly looking for opportunities to tear into ignorant prey underneath the guise of civility.
“You know what? I actually wished that you were joking, Celly.” Isolde, who was still a student of the academy they studied together and not yet Queen of Intacia, said with suppressed horror. She’s wearing a dress made of envy from the other girls at the end-of-year dance—a dress the Baroness commissioned to protect her best friend. “For Goddess’ sake, it’s just satin!”
“Yeah, it’s giving Simon Cowell’s ugly ass stare, baby. No, seriously.” Castin hissed when the two of them were on the dance floor of a royal ball. Painfully aware of the eyes on them and the handsomely cut 3-piece suit and cape that his wife had approved just for that night. “They kept staring at my cufflinks. I know pink diamonds are rarer than rare but they’re just cufflinks at the end of the day. Man, I don’t get it.”
Now, let’s get back to the gravity of the situation with the context provided.
“Fast yet efficient. We can do this, ladies.” Celica Anesidora declares once Ain Pandora - her lady-in-waiting for over a year now, still an unknown veritable in terms of threat level - gently ushered her to rest on the soft settee that is located between two display glasses for Celica’s bracelets. She loves this settee; she loves how her husband ate her out on this settee. Anyways, the Baroness’s voice holds the same attention as it does when she lays out the plans to sneak out of the academy after curfew with Lord Reyes and Isolde or how the Intacian servants can sneak around and rescue their kin during the palace siege. “The floor is yours Rosewyn.”
Rosewyn Fair - the Baroness’ personal fashion designer, employed a day after Celica officially took office for her timid demeanour yet brilliant mind - resolutely nods. She clutches a pink clipboard tight against her chest. “Yes, Your Grace! U-Um, I took another sweep of everything in here yesterday and re-organised them from what’s no longer in season in terms of Imperial and Intacian standards to what’s still acceptable to be seen in public. Well, at least until the Summer of next year.”
Celica is very pleased to hear that. Also grateful that Rosewyn always goes above and beyond to ensure that she’ll never suffer a wardrobe malfunction in her life. “Excellent work. Anything interesting caught your eye within the fashion industry? Thank you, Ain.” The Baroness sighed, loving the scent of rose, and Darjeeling wafted from the cup of tea the younger woman from a rival house poured for her. She should probably check if it were laced with poison, but Conquerer damn it, it’s a small mercy that she’s still able to smell anything. Besides, Celica likes to pride herself on employing those who have more than one brain cell at the very least. Midday assassination is terribly gauche.
“Not much, Your Grace.” Rosewyn reports. Her cute face scrunches as she recalls gossip across the seas. Sometimes, it pays to extend an ear among wives of sailors and travelling merchants. Her musing is cut short when Ain hands her a cup of tea. The girl stumbles as she adjusts the clipboard in favour of the hot drink. “O-Oh! Thank you, Miss Pandora. Where was I - oh! Right, sorry, Your Grace.”
“Take your time. We are in no rush.”
“Right! As I was saying, fashion within high societies everywhere is still in a stalemate. We’re waiting for both new and old icons to make waves soon. Merchants with textile and fabrics are on standby for orders. On a surprisingly note, there’s word back home that some would-be debutantes from different noble factions are coming together to create their very own company. Quite ambitious as they planned to be the new powerhouse that challenges other luxury design brands.”
The Baroness hums a few bars as she sips her tea. ’They said, “All teenagers scare the livin’ shit out of me.” They could care less as long as someone’ll bleed. So darken your clothes, or strike a violent pose.’ - Hey, she will deny nor confirm the lifestyles she went through during her youth. “If the rumours turns out to be true, I would love to invest in their endeavours. Speaking of icons, how is my influence when it comes to the trends?”
“You’re still going strong, Your Grace,” Rosewyn assures the Baroness. Standing nearby, Ain demurely applauds. “Modas is still the no.1 luxury brand in Steelgate, and with you as their number one client, you sway the designers' next masterpieces.”
That’s another form of power that Celica had learned to cultivate. While it possesses the least weight in the grand scheme of things, she knew better than to underestimate the impacts a fashion icon leaves in their wake.
With the relevant news out of the way, the trio tackles the issue: what to do with Celica’s clothes and jewellery. After serious consideration and considering the common folk's reactions, the Baroness opts to donate the fabrics for better everyday use, and the jewellery could always be redesigned or resold. She’ll let Rosewyn decide. Afterwards, servants march in uniform, which her husband would definitely approve of, and even more so if he sees the way Rosewyn takes charge, as if she’s Commander Castin Hammer himself. They take down the clothes from the racks and wardrobes, clear out the sunglasses and jewellery from its display cases, unhook the scarves and hats and box away a small army's worth of shoes of various kinds. Meticulous; a textbook example. Everyone will be getting their year-end bonus.
Once the servants clear out, what’s left of the walk-in closet are the clothes that still hold some statement come the new year and her favourite pieces (that Castin loyally gushes about or pants for).
“Right, that’s one agenda out of the way.” Says a satisfied Rosewyn. Some of that confidence that Celica loves to witness resurface. She then consults her trusty clipboard. “The designs you approved will arrive today, Your Grace, so please don’t worry. If you have any impromptu plans with the Commander, you’ll be armed and ready.”
“Wonderful. I’m sure Castin will appreciate them very much. Now… quick question - why do you purposely leaves that wardrobe empty?”
Both Ain and Rosewyn turn to where Celica points with her thumb. Right beside the wardrobe filled with risqué satin gowns and near see-through silk dresses. Rosewyn recovers first, though she has a look of confusion. “That’s for the Commander’s costumes. I believe… they come with the batch of your new clothing, Baroness.”
Wait. Rewind. “Costumes? What costumes?” Celica asks, just as confused as Rosewyn. This, apparently, is the cue for Ain to slip away with a grace that would make any thief worth their salt seething with jealousy. She hovers at the door, where a maid is waiting outside to quietly request a pot of fresh and, most importantly, calming tea. The maid curtsies and hurries away.
Suddenly, there are three knocks on the bedroom window. A now curious Celica pads towards it—pads, not waddles. She’s not that huge yet, thank you very much. The other two follow closely behind. The ladies didn’t have to wait long until a sheepish Castin let himself in.
“Husband,” Celica sighs again, but this time with fond exasperation as Castin exchanges his boots for indoor slippers. “Why couldn’t you come in normally?”
“‘Cause variety is the spice of life!” Castin beams after brushing himself down from the stray leaves and twigs that caught on his hair when he climbed the trees. “Besides, it’s fun! I kept asking myself questions like: How fast can I break in? Will I die via impact from whatever my lovely wife throw at me? What if she does so while in mid-undress? A man needs his answers, baby.”
“Fair enough. Do you still want me to throw something at you?”
“Depends. What cha thinking?”
“I have this tea pot. And I could do with a new study lamp.”
“Then I’ll pass.”
“Shame. I guess I have no choice but to call upon Captain Rex to save me from the intruder.”
Ain and Rosewyn made their exit when he takes three quick steps towards the Baroness. Celica can’t help but giggle when her husband swoops in to capture her in his embrace, peppering kisses all over her cheeks and neck. Plying her with sweet nothings, and when his teeth gently graze the shell of her ear, she shivers. “Aww, c’mon Celica. Don’t call the big bad soldier. Being a narc is no fun. But you know what is fun? Playing hooky with your man; especially when all the doors are locked.”
The Baroness snorts and shoves her husband’s face away from her. Castin lets out a pitiful whine that’s no different from a spoiled horse’s. Now that she thinks about it, Castin can be surprisingly just as fussy as well. What a fascinating discovery. Perhaps she needs to let him out to the pasture every once in a while. “Easy, Castin. I’m still a bit sore from last night’s playtime.”
That snaps him into attention, concern and worry lining his forehead. “Shit, do you need anything? Is the baby OK? Do I need to do CPR?”
Celica stares at the fretting Castin, who herds her to the bed so she can lie down. With her head resting against the pillow, she earnestly replies, “I wish I understood you.” At that moment, she suddenly remembers—“Like the costumes that Rosewyn mentioned. Are you contemplating a career change?”
“Hah! Can you imagine Rhett’s face if I switch to theatres? Hey, do you think I’d make a good lead actor? I think I’d be a good lead actor.”
“I think you’d be a good lead actor.” Celica assures him because her body is well acquainted with how fast Castin can switch from goofy husband to pleasure Dom. Plus, his soldiers have testimonies of their own though Celica secretly hopes it’s because he’s their commander and not the go-to person for sex.
“I know I can count on you for support, baby. Or alibi. Same thing now that I think about it.”
“Mmhm and we’re getting distracted. Costumes. Why do you need a wardrobe full of them? What is the nature of these costumes?”
And the beautiful grin that Celica adores so much returned with a vengeance of a thousand suns, just after she said goodbye to her sunglasses. “Right, right! Ok, so, you know how we’ve been attending those classes at the weekend?”
“The ones for first time parents, yes darling. I signed us up for them. The teacher’s eye twitched six times whenever you interrupted her mid-lecture. It was fun counting them.”
Castin rolls his eyes as if his wife is the impossible one. He plants a new kiss on her cheek, and as usual, that patch of skin pleasantly tingles. And just like that, he’s forgiven. “Of course you did. My concerns were genuinely legitimate, and I was heartbroken that our teacher didn’t take me seriously after I asked if our babies might feel less embarrassed if daddy puke all over his shirt with them in solidarity.”
“Castin. Focused.”
“I’m getting to the empty wardrobe and costumes. Scoot over, I’m gonna share with you the vision.”
Celica grunts but, ultimately, wiggles aside to make room for Castin to lie down beside her. Together, they stare up at the ceiling as her husband begins to make dramatic gestures with his hands, as if he’s trying to paint an invisible picture for her. “Lack of empathy aside, there was that part where the teacher said bonding time should be fostered with our baby. Helps them understand that they have support systems, ya know? And then I remembered my Ma! How she’d always read me bedtime stories when I was a kid. She’s awesome like that. Did Ezekiel ever read to you too?”
“No, but Eaton did sang me a lullaby once.” Celica’s brain transforms into a projector and, without her consent, flashes a memory of when she was 12 years old, tucked in a bed too big for her with the Anesidora Knight/Assassin singing Dumb Ways To Die. It was a popular, Pre-Cataclysm song that kids love, according to the maniac. Castin probably won’t appreciate that story, though. “Are the costumes part of the soon-to-be bedtime stories for our unborn child?”
Her silly husband is supremely satisfied that she’s getting his very important vision. He cuddled close (any closer, and then Celica would need to pry him away with a stick) and started affectionately petting her tummy. “You bet! I’m gonna be putting on the best bedtime stories/performances for our kiddo that he or she would take it as a challenge and do it even better with our grandkids. It could be a family tradition!”
Celica supposed that’s better than singing about how one could die in the stupidest way possible, so she’s in. “It’s so very rare that you have a project of your own, Castin. I approve of this. So what kind of costumes did you get?”
“Nu-uh. That’s gonna be a surprise for you, Rhett and the Queen tonight!”
“Excuse me?”
“Double dates! I always wanted to do this with you, Celly. Beats that threesome we had at school.”
King Rhett of Intacia and once Witch Hunter, who prided himself as a man rarely taken off guard, spat out his lemonade. Besides him, Castin’s eyes and mouth are wide. The forkful of spaghetti splattered all over his shirt, yet remains a statue.
The Baroness had invited the royal couple over to the manor on that very same day for an unsuspecting dinner. Unsuspecting in the way that King Rhett and Queen Isolde arrive in their casuals and only two guards. When you have an Ascendant for a wife, she part-times as a bodyguard, too and knowing Isolde, she’s always happy to bust out some moves that may or may not have Rhett in despair. Seeing as he joyfully hugs Castin as soon as the dining hall doors close behind them, Celica is safe to assume that Isolde behaved herself. Bonus point? Neither of them suspects anything.
After they exchanged heartfelt greetings as if they just didn’t see each other yesterday at the palace’s court, trying not to scream at the old timers who refuse to even hear about Intacia’s new policies, dinner was served. And now we’re back to the present, where Castin and Rhett are lost in their respective fantasies. Too bad for them, Celica opens her mouth and explains, “Isolde, don’t torture our husbands. They still have their uses. Castin, close your mouth before you let flies in. And for your information, it was the boring kind of threesome where we needed a tutor for one of the classes. It was all very dull.”
Queen Isolde leans forward with a mischievous smirk, not that different when she’s up for a prank. Rhett recovered just in time to push her drink away before it could spill over her wagyu. Lemonade over beef would be an abomination. “It wasn’t all boring, did it, Celly? Miss Straight-A student was hardcore crushing on Reyes; enough to feel threatened by us. That whole tutoring schtick was just her attempt to sabotage our grades.”
Oh, yeah. Celica’s forgotten that bit. It’s hardly memorable when her revenge plan summarised to shoving their ugly sides to Reyes - grades and all. In Celica’s humble opinion, Miss Jealous Straight-A student should’ve discussed her plan with her because Reyes once had to hold both of her and Isolde’s hair as they hunched over a toilet, puking their guts out after a bad night of alcoholism and existential crisis. That was also the night before their finals, and you can guess why a tutor was needed. But really, there was no salvaging one’s reputation after that hot mess.
“Yikes,” Castin replies, cleaning bits of sauce off of him with a napkin. “Did y’all pay her back?”
“If by telling Reyes the truth count as payback then sure. She accused us of sabotaging her back but we just did him a solid. Girl was beyond delulu.”
“Hear, hear.” Celica raises a glass and clinks it with Isolde’s. Her best friend then helps clean Rhett up.
After regaining his composure (graceful despite his earlier reaction. Celica mentally salutes his etiquette teachers.), Rhett tucks into his meal again. “It never cease to amaze me how,” He stops to think of a word, his face twisted funnily. “Colourful your histories together. Suddenly, Lord Reyes has more than just my respect.”
The atmosphere is good. Dinner is even better. Not that Celica enjoyed much since her appetite is slowly abandoning her and that Castin is doing his best to spoon-feed forkfuls of spaghetti, but it’s the thought that counts.
“So what’s new with y’all?” Isolde asks in between furiously polishing her bowl of sorbet clean. Apart from the bun still cooking in the oven, can I say that I love your hot new bod, Celly? You’re rocking it. If that’s not obvious enough, I need you to give me tips when Rhett knocks me up.”
“Isolde… really? I feel like a breeding stallion.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want to do the birthing instead?”
“On second thought - "
Castin snickers. He and Celica watch as a smug Isolde smugly pinchs her husband’s pouting cheek with so much smugness. Ah, young love. It’s good that Isolde is settling down with a man who can keep up with her shenanigans. It’s a good thing that Rhett formally apologised for Isolde’s abduction because the Baroness has no problem teaching the King why poison is quite popular in the Empire. But before any old grudges could resurface like a spiteful groundhog at someone’s abundant vegetable garden, Castin takes the wheel of their conversation. “Walk right into that one, didn’t you bro? But you know what? Funny that you should ask, Your Queenliness… ness? There’s a reason why Celica invites you guys over for dinner and have hidden some very important documents over at the palace.”
“Say what?”
“Oooooh! Is this a conspiracy? Are we overthrowing the government? AGAIN!?”
“Honey, we are the government now. Baroness, please, did you really - “
“Yes. Rest assure that all of the important paperwork will mysteriously find themselves on your tables tomorrow, safe and sound.”
“You mistook me, Baroness. I was actually looking forward for them to be lost forever. What good is having a crown when paperworks haunt you still?”
“Ah. My congradolence, then.”
“Guys! Hello? Can we focus on me for a bit?”
Rhett despairingly tilts his head at Castin so his best friend can clearly see how he’s not mad, just disappointed at his bratty behaviour. He spares a glance at the Baroness, silently admiring her endless patience. Celica simply shrugs and then shoves her salad on Isolde’s plate, unsuspecting as the Queen is too busy refilling her glass of lemonade from the pitcher via magic. What a fun dinner this turns out to be.
However, the longer Castin pouts, the stronger the pounding in Rhett’s head makes itself known. Nothing has changed since they were kids so he has no choice but to ask Celica, “How many cupcakes did you let him eat before dinner? You know his sugar rush is worse than a toddler.”
“Wow, rude. And I didn’t had any sugar, Rhett! No, baby, I really didn’t - you know Ezekiel would’ve skin me alive if I steal tonight’s desserts.”
“Truth be told, I was wondering if it was some form of delayed torture. Ezekiel did the same to Eaton and Tristan back in the day.” Celica had the audacity to admit. As if it were the norm that the same person who is supposed to be taking care of your house would also torture you. Castin should really talk to his wife about that. Seeing his aghast look, Celica pats his hand comfortingly. “No need to fret, darling. I love you. I would’ve tell him to only torment you for a day.”
Rhett stares incredulously at the Baroness. Beside him, his Queen desperately tries to dry the lemonade that was accidentally spilled on the tablecloth.
He snaps himself out of the absurdity of whatever that just left the Baroness’ mouth to finally get into the meat of the matter. “Castin, just… just sit your ass back down, please. Why did you invited us over?”
The sun once more shares its radiance with Castin because when he suddenly smiles again, it feels as if all the shadows inside of the dining hall have been chased away. Which is damn impressive, considering it’s almost late to the evening already. “Why, I’m glad you asked, brother! See, I’ve been thinking lately - ”
“Should I have called for the Royal Physician?” Rhett can’t help but dryly quip.
There was an annoyed tic in Castin’s jaw now. A distracted Celica is too busy moving plates of dishes away after the pitcher of lemonade accidentally tumbled with Isolde cursing under her breath about bad luck and how she insists that no, she doesn’t need to sober up via iced water on the head.
“Dude.”
“Right, right. Shutting up now.”
“Thank you! Ok, so, this is how it went down…”
Things calm down a bit when a new tablecloth is laid as Castin shares what he told Celica today. Their plates are gradually cleared, and the desserts—mostly cupcakes—are served. That’s when Castin stops talking to snatch a walnut cupcake to cram in his mouth; Rhett lets out a tiny sigh of relief.
“You invited us to dinner and a sleepover with a promise of a show because the midwife that was teaching your classes and who you nearly drove insane told you that bonding with your future children is important.” Rhett surmised.
“Exactly!”
“Children that your wife is still baking.”
“…You know when you say it like that…”
“I think it’s funny actually.”
“Of course you do, babe.”
“Sleepover! Oh, Goddess, yes! Rhett!”
“That’s one mental image that I could live without. Thank you, Isolde. I shall make full use of my therapist next week.”
Celica pulls a face after she says that; she still hasn’t decided if said therapist is a foe or ally yet. Meanwhile, Castin is not so gently ushering them all out and to the guest suite room where the four of them would be sleeping with his busy is still chewing on cupcakes. Rhett wonders why he won the race. Isolde cheerfully waves at the gobsmacked servants in the hallways. Never before had they seen their leaders acting like miscreant teenagers up to mischief with absentee parents. What a sight they must’ve appeared.
Once the doors to the suite room were shut behind them, Castin ordered everyone to clean up for bed. Rhett, who is supremely unimpressed at him ordering around like an overbearing mother hen, stole Castin’s favourite underwear as petty revenge when Castin’s back was turned. It’s then that to avoid wasting the evening, Castin made a heartbreaking decision that couples shouldn’t bathe with one another. The reaction to that was utterly surprising. Rhett uncharacteristically yelps in fear and quickly shields his eyes while Isolde cackles when Celica grumpily shucks off a pair of black lace panties and chucks it at her husband. Clearly, she had a different bathing arrangement in mind.
“Goddess, tonight I am but your humble servant as I deliver my sincerest gratitude for this sweet blessing!” Castin prays held the panties up high.
The Baroness sneers. In a move that took the men off guard, Celica flips her middle finger at Castin before stomping towards the bathroom. Isolde, who is still grinning hard, follows after her. Their husbands begin to stammer.
“You didn’t said anything about bestie’s bathing together, Cassy.” The Queen snickers and blows them a kiss. The bathroom door closes.
Silence.
“I don’t ever want to see your pasty ass again, Rhett.” Castin blurts out. He pauses and then puts the proverbial bandaid on, “No offence.”
Rhett makes a silent vow to himself to steal Castin’s favourite sword next because he’s not suicidal enough to try and steal his wife.
Everyone eventually settled in a pile in front of the crackling hearth, all warmed and tucked in. Well, at least for Celica and Rhett. As for their respective spouses -
“Aww, sick! I’m lowkey vibin’ with this pirate fit!” Isolde exclaims, admiring herself in front of a full-length mirror. Rhett dutifully did his job as a husband by applauding her various poses, “Oooh”s and “Aah”s where it’s appropriate.
As for Castin, he’s in such finery fit for an Imperial Prince that Celica immediately connected the dots. It’s not that hard when the design is straight out of every history book back in the Empire. “You’ve been planning on putting on a performance of that popular story - the Prince and the Pirate Queen.” She says, breathless. Intacia’s grapevine whispered to her one day that sailors and merchants had been chatting up quite a storm about a ship sailing around various islands. Two of its most prominent crew are the most unlikely pair you could imagine, but that’s where the truth and rumours began to muddle. Some say the pair is a beggar and noble. Other say it’s a kidnapped prince and a pirate captain. It varies, but their misadventures have stolen the breath of many. Including the Baroness’ as you’ve read earlier.
“Hell yeah, baby. I thought it’d be fun for us and the kiddo,” Castin says, sweeping his hair back. His eyes suddenly take on a seductive flair, and a smirk takes over his handsome face.
What breaks the spell is Rhett pretending to gag in the background. Isolde just leans back, laughing.
Celica can’t help but smile in contentment. Tonight is going to be a good night.
“Let’s the show begin.”