Peace Through Blade

The candlelight shimmered across the polished blackwood table as Lance adjusted his collar and ran a hand down the front of his deep blue doublet, embroidered with subtle golden threading at the edges. His silver sash, denoting his status as crown prince, was fastened tightly across his chest. With a deep breath, he stepped out of his chambers and into the winding hall that led to the royal meeting chamber. The air was thick with tension, not just from what was to be discussed, but from the strange feeling that had been building in his gut since morning.

Rowan stood waiting at the chamber entrance, his usual smirk on his face and arms crossed over his chest. He wore an elegant black tunic adorned with a sash of red and gold—modest compared to others, but still noble.

"You look like you're about to marry your horse," Rowan said, chuckling. "Or maybe you're just nervous because you'll have to pretend to agree with old Benedict."

Lance gave a rare grin. "You should try pretending to agree with Sir Garrin. It's worse."

Rowan laughed under his breath, but his eyes sharpened slightly. "Aye, well. Let's hope this isn't a waste of breath. We have enemies scattered and no clear plan. I can feel something brewing."

They entered the chamber together.

At the head of the long rectangular table sat King Julian, adorned in a regal fur-lined cloak of crimson and charcoal. His beard was trimmed, his presence still commanding despite the grey in his hair. To his left sat Queen Elaria, her pale, calculating eyes observing the room like a hawk watching prey. Her fingers rested rigidly on the arm of her chair, knuckles white against the wood. Beside her sat Sir Gladion, ever stoic in shining plate armor.

Opposite of the king was General Alexander, leaning back in his seat with arms loosely folded, a cup of wine before him. His ebony armor bore the subtle scarring of recent conflict, though his expression was unreadable. Elaria didn't even glance at him.

Ai'lar of Zul Kifar sat beside Alexander, wrapped in layered robes of muted green and bronze, his golden rings catching the candlelight as he exchanged quiet words with his men. Next to him were his top commanders, their heads shaved and marked with the turquoise tattoos of Zul Kifar heritage.

Lance took his seat beside his father, nodding to the others as he looked around. Sir Garrin, the knight commander, sat upright and tense. Sir Nightingale, head of the guard, stood at ease behind the seated nobles. Axel, was watching from a corner, hand on sword. Lady Mirelle of the treasury adjusted her glasses, clearly irritated about something. Lord Benedict, old and heavy-set, clutched his scrolls and muttered to himself. Arlan of the Faith, draped in modest robes, looked out of place among the finery.

The room fell quiet as King Julian raised a hand.

"We have much to discuss," he began, voice gravelly but strong. "The war may be declared over, but unrest festers. Let us begin with the border rebels still loyal to Usifar."

Lord Benedict puffed. "These rebels are few and poorly armed, Your Grace. They should be hunted down and executed. Swiftly. Publicly."

Arlan frowned. "Mercy must also be considered. There are those misled by lies. If they surrender, let them be spared. Let their punishment be servitude, not death."

Sir Garrin nodded. "A show of mercy, mixed with a firm hand, may quell the remaining embers."

"And if they do not surrender?" Lady Mirelle said with a cold smile. "Then let them burn."

The king turned to Alexander. "General, your thoughts?"

Alexander exhaled slowly. "The rebels are cowards. They hide among civilians. Send elite scouts to root them out. Spare those who yield. No need to waste time executing every fool with a broken sword."

Elaria scoffed under her breath, but said nothing. Lance caught the small twitch in her jaw.

"Very well," Julian said. "Next: Usifar. The snake has fled, but where? And what will we do when he is found?"

Ai'lar raised a brow. "There be whispers... he gone south, yeh? Toward the shattered coasts — mayhap hidin' in old mountain tunnels… or sailin' past the sea."

"When he's found," said Sir Gladion, his voice hard, "he must be made an example."

Lady Mirelle added, "His head on a pike."

Elaria smiled faintly. "And let the Luxarians send songs to their coward king in the afterlife."

Lance's hands curled into fists beneath the table. The pain of the attempted assassination still lingered. Pride bruised. And worse, one of them had escaped.

Julian turned toward Sir Nightingale. "Explain to me how three assassins entered my city, and one walked out."

Nightingale bowed his head. "Your Grace, the guard has been... cleansed. Corrupt elements were rooted out. New leadership has been installed. Sir Garrin now works closely with me. The failure will not be repeated."

"It better not be," Julian said sharply. "My son almost died."

Silence followed. Lance looked down briefly. The arrow in the foot should've stopped the third assassin. Yet somehow, they'd vanished. Something didn't sit right.

Ai'lar leaned forward, breaking the tension. "Your Grace… now, we speak of land wearin' your banner. Them swampland borders — they once be ours, long 'fore Luxarian hands took hold. We ask… give it back."

Julian gave a tired sigh and waved a hand. "Take it. We have more land than we can manage. The realm is too large now. Let Zul Kifar govern its own corner, so long as you remain loyal."

Ai'lar nodded, lips curling upward.

Rowan whispered to Lance, "He just gave away a valley without blinking. Either he's very confident, or very tired."

Lance didn't answer. He was too busy watching Alexander. The general had said nothing for some time, only sipping his wine, eyes darting to everyone and no one.

Julian rose slightly. "We will break for now. The second half of this meeting will commence shortly."

Servants swept in with food and wine. Silver trays were placed before each noble. Steaming venison, honeyed carrots, sweet potatoes with spice. Golden wine poured into polished goblets.

Panthia approached Lance, he emerald eyes meeting his briefly, a hint of worry buried under her calm expression. She placed his plate before him and, with subtle grace, slid a folded slip of parchment beneath it.

She left without another word.

Lance glanced around, then slid the letter into his lap and opened it under the table. His eyes moved across the words quickly:

Something weird is going on, Lance. I'm worried. Alexander's army along with some Zul Kifars are sneaking around and acting suspicious. Please be careful. I love you.

Lance's chest tightened.

He slowly looked up. Across the table, Alexander and Ai'lar sat side by side. The moment Lance's eyes met Alexander's, the general turned.

Those cold brown eyes stared directly at him. Like he knew.

They were unreadable. Not warm. Not cruel. Just... ancient. Like a man who'd seen too much, and felt too little.

Lance swallowed, folded the note, and tucked it into his pocket. The food before him had lost its flavor before it even touched his lips.

He chewed slowly, but his mind was running wild.

Thinking.

Planning.

Watching.

Waiting.

This was no longer just a meeting.

This was the moment the storm began to gather.

---

The grand dining hall fell silent as King Julian stood tall at the end of the long, glimmering table. The sound of goblets being set down and nobles clearing their throats echoed off the stone walls like whispers in a tomb. The break was over.

"Let us now resume—" the king began, his voice regal and worn from decades of ruling.

But a chair scraped back with violent force, and all heads turned.

Alexander rose.

Clad in his dark cloak, the edges frayed like scorched parchment, he stood with the poise of a soldier, but the fire of something far more dangerous. His ebony chest plate gleamed in the torchlight, a silent reminder of the wars he had endured—and survived.

"Before we continue," Alexander said, his voice low and coiled like a viper, "I have something to say."

King Julian's brow furrowed. "This is not the—"

"You will listen," Alexander snapped, his voice suddenly louder than thunder. "You owe me that much."

The entire hall froze. Forks hung in midair, words caught in throats. The only sound was the subtle hiss of the fire behind the king's throne.

Alexander's glare fell on Julian like a spear.

"You sent me to war when I was eight years old, twelve years," Alexander continued, his voice like gravel and glass. "Twelve years on the border. Twelve years of watching my brothers burn. Twelve years of killing for your kingdom, for your comfort, while you drank wine and sired bastards with painted whores."

"Enough!" the queen snapped.

But Alexander wasn't finished. His fury poured like lava.

"You called it honor. You called it duty. But I know what it was. It was disposal. I was a tool. I was a threat. I was the bastard son of a peasant—and that terrified you."

The queen clenched her teeth, shaking her head.

"But the worst," Alexander continued, his voice cracking with loathing, "was what you did to my mother."

The room quieted further, if such a thing was possible. The nobles leaned in, caught in the pull of this rising storm.

"You called her a traitor. For what? For being raped by a king? For bearing the seed of a king who couldn't admit his sins?"

Julian's face drained of color. His hands trembled beneath the table.

"You didn't just kill her," Alexander growled. "You tortured her. You stripped her naked in the public square. You let men—starving, broken men—rip her dignity from her, piece by piece. You let her suffer for days. You beat her. Starved her. Laughed as she begged for death. And when she couldn't even scream anymore, you gave the order."

His eyes were blazing now—deep, bottomless pools of hatred. "You butchered a mother. You murdered an innocent. And you called me a bastard."

Alexander leaned forward, his voice cold now, flat and sharp. "But today, I speak as something far worse. Today, I speak as your executioner."

The queen stood up with a snarl, her golden gown flowing like fire. "You filthy bastard child. You will never be more than the shame we buried! You are nothing but the spawn of a gutter whore—"

Her words died in her mouth.

A loud thunk split the air.

The queen's head snapped back. A steel bolt jutted from her forehead, dead center.

She collapsed, her tiara clinking against the floor as her body crumpled like discarded silk.

The scream that tore from Lance and Rowan's throats was animal, primal. It filled the chamber like the toll of a funeral bell.

The entire room erupted into chaos.

Alexander had already dropped the crossbow and stepped back, calm as the wind after a storm.

Ai'lar and his cloaked men moved with terrifying precision, reaching beneath the table and drawing their hidden weapons—sleek black crossbows already loaded. Ai'lar turned, cold eyes locking onto Lance.

Lance's world blurred. The walls seemed to tilt. The queen—his mother—was dead. Her blood painted the marble floor like spilled wine.

But before Ai'lar could fire, a mountain moved.

Axel.

The strongest man in Dragonsvale, grabbed the chairs of both princes with one hand each, and yanked them backward like they weighed nothing. Lance and Rowan hit the floor behind the table with a grunt.

Axel turned, face like carved stone. "Man up," he growled. "Snap out of it. This ain't the time to be whining."

His voice was rough, edged in command. He pulled his massive sword from its hilt and stepped forward into the storm of betrayal.

Above them, the king had tried to rise—only to be silenced by another bolt. His body slumped over the table, eyes wide with shame and regret. A second hole marked his end.

Lance stared. Father. Mother. Dead. Gone. In seconds.

His breath came in ragged gasps. The walls, the sounds, the people—it all blurred.

Rowan, trembling, shook him. "Lance! Look at me!"

Lance blinked.

"We have to go."

Screams rang out. Nobles dropped dead from stray bolts. The hall was a war zone. Four royal guards had joined the traitors, slaying their own kind. Among them, three black-robed warriors moved with deadly grace. Ai'lar's elite.

And then Lance saw her.

A door cracked open across the hall. Framed in the sliver of light was red hair, eyes of emerald—the soft, familiar face of Panthia.

"Run!" Lance shouted.

They sprinted. Crossbow bolts shattered behind them, splinters of wood and screams echoing in every step.

A sharp sting tore through Lance's shoulder, and he fell forward with a cry.

He crashed through the door. Rowan slammed it shut behind him.

"Lance!" Panthia shouted.

He clutched his shoulder, blood soaking his tunic. Rowan knelt beside him.

"You'll be alright," Rowan said, voice shaking. "It barely missed the bone. Just grazed the skin."

Lance gritted his teeth. "Damn it—"

He looked up at Panthia. She was pale. Terrified. But still beautiful in the glow of the firelight.

"What's happening?" she asked, her voice tight.

"Alexander's betrayed us," Lance growled. "He's killing everyone. We need to escape. The tunnels beneath the palace—Rowan, the entrance?"

Rowan nodded. "I know the way."

But then Rowan hesitated.

"What about Seraphina?" he whispered. "Our sister. She wasn't in the chamber."

Lance shook his head. "She must be somewhere in the palace. We'll find her—"

"But what if they find her first and—"

"Rowan!" Lance barked. "Alexander won't kill her. He'll use her. Bait. He needs leverage. She's safer staying hidden than trying to run."

Before Rowan could reply, footsteps echoed down the corridor—two palace guards spotted them, swords already drawn.

The group braced themselves. No weapons. No cover.

Then the door exploded inward.

A shadow stepped in.

Tall. Armored. Covered in the blood of traitors.

Sir Gladion.

He didn't speak. He moved.

The first guard lunged. Gladion parried with ease, then slashed across the man's throat. Blood sprayed across the stone wall.

The second tried to flank him, swinging low—but Gladion twisted, blocking behind his back, then spun and severed the man's head in one clean blow.

The corridor filled with the sickening slap of flesh hitting stone.

Gladion turned to the group, sword dripping red.

"You must go," he barked. "Get outside the kingdom. From there, you can make whatever decisions you desire."

He looked directly at Lance.

"King of Dragonsvale."

The title hit harder than any bolt.

Lance was silent. Numb.

His parents were gone. His throne covered in blood. But the crown now rested—unwanted—on his head.

"Okay," Lance said darkly.

Gladion turned to the hallway. "I'll hold them back. Go."

He tossed his sword to Lance. Then picked up another from the fallen guard and hurled it to Rowan.

They both caught the blades, clumsily but tightly.

Gladion picked up the last remaining weapon from the dead guards and got into a stance, ready, unmoving, a steel wall.

"GO!!"

Lance, Rowan, and Panthia turned and ran.

They never looked back.

---Let me kkno