A Dance Of Blades And Hearts

HALEMOND

"You called for me, Father?" Kara asked, dry as ever, smoothing her sleeve as she stepped in.

Lord Velmorn didn't look up immediately. "I did."

He gestured for her to sit. She did.

"I suppose this is about Neriah," Kara said first, her tone dry, defiant. "Has she finally taken up martyrdom as a hobby?"

Her father didn't flinch. "Your sister has agreed to wed the Storm Lord."

Kara gave a short exhale of disbelief — not outrage, not sorrow. Something closer to relief.

"Well. That's… excellent." Kara leaned back, letting her fingers drum along the carved edge of the chair. "Hells," she muttered. "I owe her a cake."

"This is not a jest." Lord Velmorn said sharply, "You would have disgraced this house -"

"I disgraced nothing" she snapped. "I merely—"

"Carried on like a bored lioness in heat. That is not how noble daughters conduct themselves."

That gained a moment of silence.

Lord Velmorn rolled up a scroll and reached for another.

Kara crossed her arms again. "So. What happens to me now? Am I to stay in Halemond, look longingly at the hills, and pretend to mourn the loss of a future I never wanted?"

"No," he said simply. "You'll be married to Lord Cederic of the Duskwood."

She blinked. "Cederic?"

"A respectable match," Velmorn said. "He's blood of our blood — distant, but strong ties. The marriage was proposed before all this."

Kara tilted her head. "The Forest Lord. Interesting."

"He governs half the duskwood and commands five hundred bows," Velmorn said, matter-of-fact. "It is not an unworthy union."

Kara gave a soft laugh. "I'm not protesting, if that's what you're worried about. Honestly, I'd take a thousand pine trees over the Butcher King. At least they don't bite."

"The arrangements are underway." Lord Velmorn paused and added "Kara, I expect you to respect his house." he said voice firm.

She waved a hand. "Oh, I'll be the very picture of respect. Do you want me to wear antlers?"

"You will leave within three days, as soon as the weather permits. Your trunks will be packed. Your horse made ready. And you will not disgrace this house again."

Kara stood frozen, the words biting into her like sleet. Her pride writhed, but there was nowhere for it to go.

"Well," she said, "gods help Neriah. Because she's the one going to war."

************************

ARKENFALL

Leon was not a tidy man by nature. His chambers were always in some state of semi-controlled chaos — training gear scattered across chairs, riding cloaks tossed half-on, half-off hooks, maps and war charts pinned to the walls like trophies. But this morning, he was dusting.

Well — trying to.

The knock never came. The door simply creaked open, uninvited, and in swept Kaelith — the Keeper of the Crown.

"You missed a spot," Kaelith's voice sang from behind him.

She was a storm wrapped in silk.

Sharp green eyes that danced with secrets, full of mischief and knowing. Her honey-brown hair was braided to one side, loose strands escaping as if even her own tresses refused to be tamed. She wore a deep crimson bodice that flattered her too-bold curves and breeches instead of skirts — much to the horror of half the palace seamstresses.

No one ever told Kaelith what to wear.

She had the gait of someone who belonged everywhere and answered to no one. Her presence filled the space before her voice did — and her voice was unmistakable: clear, smooth, like honey laced with sarcasm.

"Missed a spot," she announced, already halfway across the room.

Leon didn't turn. "You say that as if you care."

"I say that because you're cleaning with your sleeve," she said sweetly.

As Keeper of the Crown, Kaelith was tasked with the daily oversight of court affairs — everything from royal linens to council scheduling.

Kaelith strolled in without invitation, wearing that smirk she seemed to have been born with. "You're cleaning because His Royal Storminess is coming to fetch you, aren't you?"

Leon glanced at her over his shoulder. "How do you know that?"

Kaelith lifted a brow. "I keep your secrets, Leon. I don't ignore them."

"Remind me why Damon made you the Keeper of the Crown again?"

"Because I'm delightful. And I know where all the bodies are buried."

Leon huffed a laugh.

She plopped onto his windowsill like a cat. "So. You, Ethan, and our monarch are riding out to Halemond. Let me guess — some covert meeting, noble handshake?"

Leon shrugged. "None of your concern."

"Of course not," she replied cheerfully. "I just want something while you're there."

He froze. "Absolutely not."

"You didn't even let me finish."

"No," he said, slinging his sheathed swords over his shoulder. "Whatever it is, the answer is no. You're not charming enough to convince me, Kaelith."

She placed a hand on her chest. "That hurts. Deeply."

"Good."

"I want a flower."

Leon turned, squinting. "A flower?"

"A wild one. Purple. Grows only in the mountains outside Halemond. It has six petals, smells like strawberries,"

"That can't be real."

"Oh, it's real."

"I'm not your errand boy."

She tilted her head and gave him the look. The one that had disarmed kings, guards, and drunken innkeepers alike.

Leon groaned. "Don't give me that look... fine. If I see your cursed flower, I'll bring it."

"Thank you," Kaelith beamed.

At that moment, the heavy thud of boots echoed outside Leon's chamber. Ethan appeared first, ever the hawk-eyed shadow in riding leathers, his expression somewhere between stern and sleep-deprived.

"Are you ready?" he asked, eyeing the half-packed chaos that was Leon's room.

"Is Damon with you?" Leon asked.

"Coming down the stairs. Roran's jabbering in his ear."

Damon Dragarth, The Storm Lord and King of the Bannerlands, appeared at the door, his cloak slung over one shoulder . He looked every inch the king — tall, broad-shouldered, striking — but the smirk on his lips betrayed the sarcasm beneath.

"I don't care which daughter they send," Damon said casually. "They could send their stable girl in a gown, I'll still marry her."

Leon raised a brow. "That's touching."

"I'm a romantic," Damon said. "Didn't you know?"

Ethan chuckled, folding his arms. "We should put that on the royal seal: Damon Dragarth, slayer of rebels, defender of realms… romantic."

Roran clapped Damon on the back. "Honestly, I think you could frighten Velmorn into sending his horse if you frowned hard enough."

"I already tried," Damon deadpanned. "The horse declined."

Moments later, the king and his men rode out from the gates of Arkenfall — Damon, Ethan, and Leon, cloaked against the drizzle, banners trailing behind them, bound for Halemond.

And if the gods were paying attention, they would have known something was coming — something far bigger than a bride swap or a mountain flower.

Because the Storm Lord was riding — and wherever he went, the winds were sure to follow.