Peace Through Blade

The hallway echoed with the frantic rhythm of boots pounding against the cold stone floor. Rowan led the charge. Panthia flanked him. Lance, slightly behind, stayed alert, watching their rear with clenched fists and narrowed eyes. They raced deeper into the winding halls of the keep, desperate to escape the chaos they had left behind.

But one stayed behind.

Gladion stood tall, his sword gripped tight in his calloused hands, his feet planted firm against the worn stone beneath. His breathing was calm, but his eyes burned with anticipation. He knew what was coming. He had sensed it even before the others fled. He wasn't wrong.

From the shadows emerged two figures. The first, a towering presence with black hair and eyes as cold as northern steel—Alexander. Beside him, moving with an almost reptilian grace, was Ai'lar. His robes were soaked in battle grime. A crooked smile curled on his lips, and his accent, as always, seemed to slide off his tongue like oil.

"Told ya he'd be waitin'..." Ai'lar muttered, vowels elongated, consonants slurred. "Fool's got more pride than sense."

Gladion raised his sword and pointed it at Alexander. "You betrayed your own people. Killed your father. The Queen."

Alexander's face remained impassive. His reply was slow, deliberate. "Was I ever part of this kingdom? Or was I just a weapon? Something sharp to be used and discarded once the blade dulled."

Ai'lar clicked his tongue. "That's enough broodin'. We ain't here for talk."

In one fluid motion, Ai'lar drew his sword—a curved, elegant blade with a golden pommel shaped like a falcon's claw. Its edge shimmered with a faint reddish hue.

Gladion turned, adjusting his stance to face Ai'lar. "Then let it be blades."

The two warriors clashed in a shower of sparks. Ai'lar moved like liquid flame, slashing and spinning with deceptive speed, while Gladion countered with practiced precision and brute strength. Ai'lar aimed low, then high, feinting with flicks of his blade before thrusting. Gladion parried each strike, his armor clanking with every blocked blow. Their blades sang with fury, echoing in the hallway like a dirge.

Gladion stepped into a heavy overhead strike, locking blades with Ai'lar. "You always hid behind Alexander's name," he growled.

Ai'lar hissed. "And you always thought ya were better than the rest of us."

They broke apart. Ai'lar darted left, hoping to flank, but Gladion anticipated the move. He twisted, swinging with lethal intent. The strike missed Ai'lar's head by inches but caught his leg with a deep gash. Ai'lar screamed, stumbling back.

Gladion surged forward, blade flashing, and in a brutal follow-up, slashed Ai'lar across his right eye. Blood sprayed, and Ai'lar fell to one knee, shrieking and clutching his face.

The finishing blow was in reach.

Gladion raised his sword for the kill—

But steel met steel.

Alexander's blade parried the strike in a brilliant arc of sparks. The force nearly knocked Gladion off balance.

"Impressive," Alexander said coolly. "Join me. Together we could bring down every decaying house of nobility. Rule, not serve."

Gladion spat blood. "I will never kneel to a traitor."

Alexander exhaled through his nose, disappointment flashing in his eyes. "Then you die like one."

Their swords clashed.

Alexander was a phantom. His footwork smooth, his strikes calculating. Gladion was pure power, anchoring each blow with unwavering resolve. The hallway trembled with their fury. Sparks burst with every parry. Alexander's blade scraped across Gladion's shoulder, cutting through the chainmail, drawing blood.

Gladion winced but pressed on, retaliating with a powerful cleave that forced Alexander to duck.

But time was not on Gladion's side.

Winded from his battle with Ai'lar, his movements grew sluggish. He blocked slower, dodged later. Alexander took full advantage, landing another strike across his thigh. Blood soaked his leg armor.

Then Ai'lar, face drenched in blood and eye ruined, stumbled back into the fray with a scream of rage.

Gladion turned, but it was too late.

Alexander struck high. Ai'lar slashed low.

Gladion deflected Alexander's blow, but Ai'lar's blade sliced across his ribs. He staggered, sword lowering just slightly.

Alexander kicked him backward.

Gladion dropped to one knee, panting. His sword trembled in his grip.

Alexander stepped back. "This is your end, old friend."

Ai'lar roared and lunged.

His blade cleaved through Gladion's neck with a sickening crunch. The head fell with a thud, rolling a few feet before stopping face-up. The eyes, still wide with defiance, stared into nothing.

But Ai'lar didn't stop. He screamed in fury and began stabbing the corpse again and again, his sword punching through armor, bone, and flesh, mangling the body with animalistic rage.

"Enough!" Alexander grabbed Ai'lar's arm mid-swing.

Ai'lar panted heavily, blood dripping from his blade and face. "He deserved it… traitorous filth."

"You're wounded. That leg's deep, and that eye's gone. If you don't get it treated, the rot will take you."

Ai'lar snarled but nodded, limping away. Before leaving, he spat on Gladion's ruined corpse.

Alexander turned back. He knelt beside the severed head, brushing aside strands of silver-streaked hair.

"I'm sorry, old friend," he whispered. "You were amazing. I'm sure your child will make you proud someday."

He stood, eyes hollow, and walked into the shadows.

The hallway was silent again, save for the soft dripping of blood.

---

The stone walls of the palace glowed with the gentle warmth of midday sun filtering through the stained-glass windows. Within her private quarters, Princess Seraphina sat at her desk, quill poised over parchment, her thoughts adrift. A half-written letter to her cousin in Eldwyne lay forgotten as her green eyes drifted toward the distant hills beyond the city. There was a strange stillness in the air, the kind that made your skin crawl despite the summer heat. It wasn't the silence that disturbed her; it was the weight behind it. Something felt off.

She pushed away from the desk, rubbing her arms. Her golden gown shimmered faintly as she stood, and she reached to brush a strand of her long, blonde hair behind her ear. The polished oak door creaked as a sudden knock echoed from the other side.

"Who is it?" she asked, stepping toward the door.

No answer.

Her heart ticked faster. A chill clawed down her spine as she slowly reached for the handle. Just as she turned it, the door burst inward.

A cloaked figure lunged forward, faster than she could react. His hand seized her throat, lifting her off her feet and slamming her to the marble floor with a sickening thud.

Pain lanced through the back of her skull. The air left her lungs as the man's fingers tightened around her neck. She gasped, struggling, trying to dig her nails into his wrist, but his grip was iron. Her eyes widened as she finally looked into his face—black hair matted with sweat, a short beard, and skin tone that resembled a Luxarian.

A foreign assassin?

He said nothing, only leaned in closer, his breath hot and sour against her cheek, his eyes filled with cold intent.

Her vision began to blur, her chest burning.

Do something... now! her mind screamed.

Summoning the last of her strength, she jabbed her right hand upward, her nails digging into the soft flesh of the assassin's left eye.

"AAARRRGGHH!" he roared, convulsing.

She didn't stop there. Her left hand shot up, fingers stiff like claws, and gouged into his other eye. Blood squirted, hot and thick, across her arms and face.

"YOU BITCH!" he bellowed.

Still blind, the assassin slammed her head into the floor. Once. Twice.

Stars exploded in her vision, but she refused to let go. Her muscles screamed in protest, but her survival instincts took over. She shoved at his face and body with everything she had until finally his grip loosened.

Gasping for air, Seraphina rolled free and scrambled backward. The man reached for her, his hands groping in every direction, face a mask of pain and fury.

He grabbed her ankle.

She spun and threw her full weight forward, hammering her fists into his face. One. Two. Three. Four. Five times.

His body went limp.

Panting, Seraphina stumbled back, staring down at the bleeding figure. She felt no guilt. Not now. Not after what he tried.

But questions tore through her: How did he get in? Why would someone try to kill me here? In my own room? In daylight?

She knelt, reached beneath the bed, and retrieved a dagger she had hidden since she was fifteen. The blade was narrow, sharp, and hers. She tucked it beneath her belt and cracked the door open again.

The hallway was eerily empty.

Every instinct told her to run.

She slipped into the corridor, soft slippers silent on the polished floor. She hugged the wall, eyes scanning every corner, every tapestry, every shadow.

Voices erupted in the distance. Yelling. Shouting. Screams.

She turned toward the council chamber—the meeting room. Her father, King Julian, had summoned everyone there for a final debate.

Her breath caught.

As she crept closer, footsteps echoed from around the corner. A palace guard appeared, his helmet skewed, and sword drawn. Blood dripped from the tip of the blade.

Her heart dropped.

"You! Guard! What's happening? What is all this?!" she demanded.

The guard looked at her, eyes empty.

"Princess... come with me," he said softly, voice flat. "I'll keep you safe."

Something was wrong.

He stepped forward slowly. The blood from his sword pattered onto the floor.

She hesitated, but moved cautiously toward him.

When they were barely a foot apart, his lips curled.

"Stupid girl," he whispered, raising the sword.

Before the blade could fall, a massive two-handed sword burst through his face.

The guard froze, twitching, then collapsed to the ground.

Behind him stood Axel, the towering, bronze-skinned knight with muscles like iron bands beneath his armor. His greatsword gleamed with crimson.

"Princess!" he barked, reaching out. "Come!"

Too shocked to argue, Seraphina took his hand.

They ran.

"What in the name of the gods is happening, Axel?!" she demanded.

"Alexander," he spat. "He's betrayed us. Killed the King and Queen. It was a coup."

She halted, yanking her hand free. "You're lying. He would never..."

"I wish I was," Axel said, his face pale but grim. "But we must move. Now. Over half of the army that Alexander brought back from the east now flies his banner."

Seraphina's mind reeled.

Her knees buckled slightly. Her brother—her twin. Born on the same day. The same hour. He had been gone for so long. Dirty, clothed in rags when they first found him at four. A child of her father's infidelity.

At first, they kept him hidden, claimed he was her twin after birth. But her mother knew. And she hated him. Her hatred ran so deep, she had him sent to war at eight.

She wasn't cruel to her legitimate children, but she never looked at Alexander with warmth. The bastard child. The reminder of betrayal.

Still, sending a boy to war?

Seraphina wiped her tears, standing straight. Now was not the time for grief.

Axel placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she whispered. "Just... shaken."

He nodded. "We need to get you out. Prince—King Lance is waiting for us beyond the walls. In the village."

She blinked. "Lance is... king?"

Axel nodded solemnly. "The crown was passed the moment your father fell."

Seraphina's chest swelled with emotion, but her mind shifted to strategy. She was the clever one, the one with knowledge. She had studied more history and architecture than any royal child in generations.

"Axel," she said, suddenly firm. "There are tunnels beneath the palace. Hidden ones. I used to sneak out as a girl with my maid through them."

His eyes widened. "Where?"

She turned and began moving again. "Follow me."

He did, sword in hand, eyes sharp.

They passed columns and broken vases, flickering torchlight casting strange shadows across the bloodstained walls.

Somewhere behind them, the sounds of war echoed through the palace halls.

But Seraphina was no longer running from death.

She was running toward something.

Hope.

Freedom.

And vengeance.