Peace Through Blade

The cold stone beneath their feet turned slick with moisture as Lance, Rowan, and Panthia emerged from the concealed tunnel beneath the palace. The narrow passage had led them away from the carnage, winding deep under the foundations of the capital and depositing them behind the inner wall of the village that surrounded Dragonsvale. Their boots echoed against the cobbled path as they stepped into the open air, the taste of ash and iron still thick in their mouths.

A thunderclap cracked above, splitting the sky open like a wound. Dark clouds rolled in overhead, heavy with rain and rage. Within seconds, the heavens poured down, soaking the trio to the bone. Rain matted Lance's hair to his forehead and made Rowan's cloak sag with weight. Panthia wrapped her arms around herself, teeth clenched against the chill.

Beyond them was the outer wall—tall, cracked in places, but still standing. The village between the palace and that outer barrier had once been filled with life. Now it lay eerily still. Shutters were drawn, doors barred, smoke rising from some distant rooftop chimneys. The occasional scream or shouted order echoed faintly through the storm, but it was unclear who held control now.

Lance narrowed his eyes, scanning the path ahead. "We might still have allies beyond the wall," he said over the rain. "People who haven't bent the knee to Alexander. If we can find them, we can—"

Hoofbeats.

All three froze. A horse galloped through the main gate, hooves striking the stone like war drums. A tall rider emerged through the rain, flanked by five guards. Alexander.

"Hide," Lance hissed.

They darted into the thickest bush they could find—a knotted tangle of brambles and vines near an abandoned cart. Rowan cursed under his breath as thorns scraped his cheek.

Alexander pulled his horse to a stop outside the tunnel's disguised entrance, his cloak flaring behind him. His eyes, cold and calculating, studied the tunnel's mouth. Rain dripped from his brow, unblinking.

"I want two guards posted here," he said, voice cutting through the storm. "If they haven't escaped, they'll be coming through this way eventually."

"Yes, General!" one guard barked.

Alexander turned his horse in a sharp motion. "The rest of you, with me. We sweep the perimeter."

And with that, he spurred his horse and galloped away, his men following close behind, their silhouettes vanishing into the gray haze.

Lance rose from the bush, his fists clenched, eyes smoldering.

Rowan laid a hand on his shoulder. "We got lucky. Let's not waste it."

Lance nodded, silently, and began moving again. They darted through the village, keeping low, cutting between crooked homes and broken fences until they reached the far edge. Mud clung to their boots as the trail narrowed into farmland.

A faint glow of lantern light flickered in the distance—a humble cottage framed by rows of low crops, mostly potatoes. A small barn leaned with age beside it, its roof half caved in. Lance jogged toward the front door, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder where a sword had grazed him earlier in the night.

He knocked three times. The door creaked open.

"Lance?" a rough voice asked, baffled. Thorn stood in the doorway, barefoot as always, his curly black hair wild and his expression twisted in disbelief.

"Thorn," Lance said, rain sliding down his face. "It's bad. The king and queen are dead. Alexander… he betrayed us."

Thorn's eyes widened, and for a long moment, he didn't move. He stared at Lance—at the blood, the soaked tunic, the fire in his voice. Then, with a resigned grunt, he stepped aside. "Get in."

They entered the warm room, the scent of cooked roots and earth hanging in the air. A fire crackled in the hearth. Thorn handed each of them a rough towel and motioned to sit.

"So it's true," Thorn muttered. "Didn't think Alexander had it in him, but I guess I always knew he wanted more."

"I don't care what he wants," Lance said. "Right now, I need people. I need anyone still loyal to the throne—to me. We can't win this. Not yet. But we can survive."

Thorn studied him. "You're talking about running."

"I'm talking about living."

Thorn nodded slowly. "I've got one horse. Old thing. Barely fit for two, but it'll move if you kick it hard enough."

Lance turned to Rowan and Panthia.

"No," Panthia said before he even spoke. "It's too dangerous."

"She's right," Rowan added. "You're the king now. You need to stay alive."

Lance looked down at his boots, muddy and cracked. "I'm not the kind of king who hides while people die."

Without another word, Thorn led him outside to a small covered shelter beside the barn. A shaggy chestnut horse stood beneath it, munching hay. Thorn saddled it up and handed the reins to Lance.

"Don't die," Thorn muttered.

Rowan stepped forward. "You better not die. I've lost enough people today."

Panthia approached, eyes locked on Lance's. She grabbed the collar of his tunic and pulled him down into a sudden, fierce kiss. Her voice trembled when she whispered, "You better come back to me."

Lance's heart pounded. He gave a nod, mounted the horse, and rode off into the rain.

---

The storm raged overhead as Lance galloped through the village streets, eyes darting to every alley and shadow. The capital wasn't burning. There were no screams, no horns of war. Alexander wasn't destroying Dragon's Vale—he was claiming it. That meant he wanted power, not ruin. The rain may have stayed his hand for now, but Lance knew it wouldn't last. When the skies cleared, blood would spill.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. A figure dashed into an alley.

He pulled the reins hard and turned into the narrow street. "Wait!" he shouted. "I'm not your enemy!"

Two figures froze. One, a woman with soaked golden hair, slowly turned.

Lance's breath caught in his throat. "Seraphina?"

She ran to him without hesitation, wrapping her arms around him. He dismounted and embraced her, the rain forgotten as she sobbed into his chest.

"They're gone… aren't they?"

Lance swallowed hard. "Yes."

She cried harder, clinging to him until her knees nearly gave out. He held her upright, gently brushing rain from her face.

A man stepped forward—tall, weathered, with streaks of gray in his beard. "King Lancelot," he said. "It's me—Axel."

"Axel…" Lance said, astonished. "You're alive."

"I found her after the chaos. We've been hiding since." Axel stepped closer. "I have news. There's a force of loyalists outside the village wall—about seven hundred strong. They're guarding the gate. They've been waiting for your command."

Lance blinked. "Seven hundred?"

"Not counting villagers who've heard of the uprising. They call themselves the Loyalists now."

Lance turned to point back the way he came. "Follow that road. There's a potato farm on the right. Thorn lives there. Inside are Rowan and Panthia. Bring them to the Loyalist camp. They'll need leadership."

"What about you?" Seraphina asked.

"I'm going through the city," Lance replied. "I need to find anyone who hasn't pledged to Alexander. Every sword, every voice matters."

Axel gritted his teeth. "You always were too stubborn for your own good. Fine. Do it your way. But don't be reckless. Come through any gate. They'll let you in."

"I will," Lance said, giving his sister a kiss on the cheek. "Stay safe."

"You too," she whispered, voice shaking.

Lance mounted his horse and gave them one last look—Axel, tall and grim, Seraphina holding her cloak tightly, her eyes locked on him with fear and hope. Then he turned and rode off into the storm.

The wind howled like a beast, and the thunder rolled across the mountains like drums of war.

What have you done to us, Alexander? he thought. What kingdom do you believe you're building—one of power, or one of ruin?

Either way, Lance would not let it stand.

---

The village lay shrouded in the quiet shambles of twilight, lighting flickering in the distance. Eryc Gladion and Alia Renford crept through the rubble, both cloaked in dirt and grief. The weight of the last few hours had sunk heavy in their bones—Eryc's mother slaughtered before his eyes, Alia's family captured or slain. There was no place left for nobles now. Only survivors.

Alia, tall and formidable, kept her hand near the hilt of her sword, her sharp eyes scanning every corner. Her presence, even in the haze of loss, was calm and commanding. Eryc, though younger in demeanor and fiery in temperament, mirrored her readiness.

"They won't stop until we're all dead," Alia whispered, glancing at the flickering torchlight that danced along the stone walls of the nearby buildings.

Eryc only nodded. He had no words left. None that mattered.

Hooves clacked on cobblestone.

From around the far corner of the ruined chapel, a rider emerged, slow and methodical in pace, as though surveying his prize. Alexander.

Even from a distance, his black hair shone under the moonlight, his back straight and regal in the saddle. He rode like a king, though he was born a bastard.

Alia pulled Eryc into a shadowed alcove. They held their breath.

Then something slipped from Alexander's saddle, bouncing and rolling in the dust. It came to rest near the broken fountain. It was... a head.

Eryc blinked. His breath caught in his throat.

The hair was unmistakable. Chestnut brown, streaked with silver.

"No," Eryc muttered.

Alexander dismounted calmly, like he had all the time in the world. He crouched beside the severed head, lifted it by the hair, and held it before him, examining it like a trophy. Then he turned, eyes locking onto the shadows.

The head turned too.

Sir Gladion.

Eryc let out a cry so raw it split the silence. "You bastard!"

He drew his blade in fury, charging without hesitation.

Alexander smirked. "I figured that would draw someone out," he said with a calm, cruel voice. "But the child himself. Even better."

Their blades clashed in a shower of sparks. Eryc's blow was heavy, wild. Alexander parried with ease, sliding his sword to the side and stepping lightly around the younger fighter.

"He screamed for you, you know," Alexander said coldly. "Your father. Right before I separated that arrogant head from his shoulders."

"You're lying!" Eryc roared.

Alexander chuckled darkly, sidestepping another of Eryc's strikes. "Why would I lie to you, little boy? I want you angry. I want you broken. I want to see the last flame in your heart go out."

Eryc swung again, this time aiming low, trying to slice Alexander's leg. But the older warrior danced back, his blade flicking forward in a counter that left a nick on Eryc's cheek.

"You're sloppy," Alexander sneered. "Just like your father was."

The fight went on—steel singing in the air, boots scraping the stone, torchlight catching on the blades. But it was one-sided. Alexander never broke a sweat. He moved like a predator, calculated and cruel. Eryc, in contrast, fought with emotion, fury blinding his technique.

Finally, with a loud clang, Alexander knocked Eryc's sword from his hand, sending it skittering across the ground. He raised his blade high.

"Say hello to your father for me."

The strike never came.

With a grunt, Alia leapt from the shadows, her blade intercepting Alexander's mid-swing. Sparks danced between them. Her arms shook, but she held the block.

"You fight children now, Alexander? How brave of you," she spat.

He tilted his head, amused. "Ah, the cousin. I always thought you'd look better on your knees."

Alia's eyes blazed. "I'll die before I kneel to a monster like you."

"Then die it is."

Alexander lunged.

The two clashed—Alia sharp and precise, using her reach and strength. Eryc scrambled to his feet, grabbed his sword, and rejoined the fray. Together, they struck with tandem movements—Alia sweeping low while Eryc attacked high. For a moment, just a flicker, it looked like they had the upper hand. Alexander backed away, letting out a low breath.

Then he grinned.

"You two are trying," he said, almost playfully. "It's adorable."

Then he moved.

In a blur, he disarmed Eryc again, his sword knocking Eryc's from his grasp like a twig. He spun, catching Alia's arm with a gash that made her cry out. A backhand sent Eryc tumbling.

They were both on the ground, panting. Beaten.

Alexander walked over, blade raised once again, this time aimed directly at Eryc's chest.

"I was going to make it slow for you, but now? I think quick and clean will do."

The sword fell—

Clang!

A new blade intercepted it. The force of the block sent a shiver through the air. Alexander's eyes widened slightly.

Lance.

The young prince—no, the king now—stood over Eryc, sword braced, his eyes burning with fierce resolve. His armor was dented, his expression tired, but his stance was unshakable.

"Back off, Alexander."

Alexander stepped back. "So the little dragon roars. Come to avenge dear old mum and dad?"

Lance didn't reply. He simply stood his ground.

Eryc stared up at him, eyes wide. The man he admired from afar—had come to save him.

"Get them out of here," Lance said without taking his eyes off Alexander.

"I won't run!" Eryc growled, picking up his sword again. "He killed my father!"

Lance turned slightly, his voice low and commanding. "And he killed mine too. But I need you alive. You're strong, Eryc. You can be more than this—if you just listen."

Eryc shook his head. "I'm sorry... but I can't."

Thunk.

A heavy blow struck the back of his head. Eryc collapsed unconscious. Alia stood behind him, breathing hard, sword in one hand, her other trembling.

Lance raised an eyebrow. "That's one way to do it."

Alia offered a tired smile. "You're welcome."

Lance nodded, pointing toward the road. "Take my horse. Ride out. Past the walls, there's an army. Tell them who you are—that the king sent you. They'll let you in."

Alia nodded solemnly. "Be careful, Lance. Please... don't die."

He offered a half-smile. "I've heard that too many times now to let it happen."

He turned back to Alexander, sword raised. The firelight gleamed off both their blades.

The genius. The bastard. The kingslayer.

And now, the king to a little over half of Dragonsvale.