Peace Through Blade

Their boots sank lightly in the soft, soaked ground as they circled each other—eyes locked, blades unsheathed, every movement honed and cautious. A steady sprinkle of rain kissed their shoulders, cold and constant, threatening to become more.

Lance spoke first, his voice low but clear in the quiet forest air.

"How could you manipulate everyone like that?" His grip tightened on the hilt of his longsword. "How could you twist Eryc? He's only sixteen... You turned him into a storm without direction."

Alexander, once so arrogant and dismissive, no longer wore his familiar smirk. His expression was measured, eyes sharp and dark beneath the light drizzle.

"That's how I wage war, Lancelot," he replied simply.

Lance didn't look surprised. Only disappointed.

"My father was cruel for sending you to war at eight," Lance said, jaw tightening. "Even if you were bastard-born. But killing him solved nothing. You left the kingdom in ruins."

Alexander gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Exactly."

Lance paused, his brows knitting. "Why?"

Alexander's eyes gleamed with the weight of memory. "Because it was never about the war. I grew stronger from it. I learned strategy, patience, pain. No... this was always about my mother."

The name was never spoken. It didn't have to be.

Lance's face grew solemn. He knew the story—the woman brutalized, humiliated, and executed as a public lesson for daring to bear a child that was the kings. A secret no longer whispered but still rarely acknowledged.

"She didn't deserve what happened," Lance admitted. "But your revenge... it's poisoned everything. You've tried to kill your own brothers. Your sister. Innocent knights."

His gaze dropped to the ground where Sir Gladion's head still layed, and grief flickered in his features.

Alexander's voice was cold, unwavering. "Because my revenge doesn't end with the king and queen. I want the kingdom to feel her pain. Every last breath of it."

Lance stopped circling. His breath steamed in the chill. His voice held quiet fury.

"Then I won't let you."

Alexander nodded. "Alright then, Lance. King of Dragonsvale. The Beloved."

In a flash, steel clashed.

Lance lunged first—his form a blur of precision. Alexander parried cleanly, answering with a sweeping cut aimed at Lance's ribs. The prince spun, dodging, twisting around Alexander's next swing with elegant efficiency. They were mirrored forms—tempered by different fires.

Rain poured as if summoned by their fury, soaking hair and drenching cloaks. Water beaded down their swords, dripping from their brows and lashes.

Lance slashed high. Alexander ducked and responded with a stab meant for Lance's thigh. Lance caught it with the crossguard, shoved it aside, and delivered a heavy boot to Alexander's chest that staggered him back.

But Alexander was quick. He recovered mid-step, pivoted low, and swept at Lance's legs. Lance leapt, avoiding the blow, and used the momentum to drive his blade downward. Alexander rolled, the tip grazing his side.

Back and forth, strike and riposte, power and finesse. One would land a blow—a shallow cut to the arm or a slam to the ribs—only to be answered moments later. The ground churned beneath them, boots sliding in mud, swords shrieking against each other in a chorus of war.

At one point, Alexander's sword slipped past Lance's guard and struck his shoulder with such force that Lance stumbled backward. The leather ties of his knot unraveled, and golden hair spilled around his face, plastered to his cheeks by rain and sweat.

Breathing hard, both men retreated a step, circling once more. Thunder rolled distantly.

Alexander laughed breathlessly, voice rough.

"You're amazing, Lance. This is why I tried to get rid of you before the final meeting."

Lance lifted his brows, rain running down his temple. "What do you mean?"

Alexander's grin was bitter. "When we drank together, Ai'lar and I agreed to buy the strongest spirits we could find. The goal was to get you drunk—barely able to stand. Then we'd stage an assassination. One for you, one for me. I'd survive, of course. You wouldn't."

Lance blinked, stunned. "Then... the assassin—"

"Was real. The plan was perfect. But that maid—Panthia, was it?—she ruined everything."

Despite himself, Lance laughed. His laughter was short but rich.

"To think a maid undid your grand plan."

Alexander's eyes darkened. He raised his sword again.

"No one will stop this one."

They crashed together once more.

This time it was even more brutal. Alexander fought with the desperation of a man who'd waited his whole life for this. Lance fought with the fury of betrayal, the weight of his people on his shoulders. They pushed each other harder—kicks, slashes, elbow strikes between sword swings. Each man left blood on the other. Lance took a slash across the ribs. Alexander a stab in the thigh.

Lightning flared overhead, illuminating the stormy battlefield.

Alexander struck hard, blade smashing against Lance's sword with such force it sent vibrations through his arms. Lance blocked, gritted his teeth, and lunged again. But Alexander feinted low and drove his hilt into Lance's gut. Lance wheezed, doubled slightly, and in that moment, Alexander sliced across his side.

Pain flared. Lance fell to one knee, blood mixing with rain.

But he pushed up. He would not fall. Not now.

Their breathing turned to gasps, swords trembling in their hands. Then—an opening. A fatal one.

Lance saw the gap. So did Alexander.

In the same instant, they lunged.

Blade first. Death inevitable.

But an arrow buried itself in the mud between them with a violent thunk, the shockwave breaking their momentum. The sound of hooves and thunder tore through the clearing.

A hand gripped Lance's arm, yanking him back just in time. Lance twisted to see Axel—soaked, armored, fierce—swing him up onto a horse already galloping.

Alexander snarled, raising his blade high.

"FIRE!"

Dozens of silhouettes emerged from the house—cloaked in shadow, hidden in the storm. Arrows rained from their bows like stinging hail.

Axel leaned low, shield raised, reins snapping. The horse surged forward, bolts thudding around them, some grazing past.

Lance twisted in the saddle, weak from blood loss. Alexander's silhouette faded into the dark, sword still raised. The prince slumped forward, vision blurring.

"Next time," he murmured, the words barely escaping his lips.

And then darkness claimed him.

---

The sun crested just past its apex in the pale afternoon sky, casting golden rays through the dense canopy of trees. The forest was quiet save for the low rustling of leaves and the chirping of distant birds. Deep within this northern expanse, known to locals as The Hollowed Boughs, a makeshift camp had been established by the survivors of the massacre at Dragonsvale. Tents lined the glade like scattered leaves, men and women tending wounds, sharpening weapons, or simply staring off into the forest with heavy eyes.

Inside one of the larger tents, a low groan broke the silence.

Lance stirred.

His body screamed in protest, and pain surged through every fiber of his being, but he was alive. Barely. Bandages wrapped around his midsection, his shoulder, and his right thigh. His breath came slowly, shallowly. Beside him sat Panthia, the maid who had stood by him since childhood. She was no longer dressed in court garb but in a simple cloak and tunic, her once soft eyes hardened by recent days. She held his hand gently, but firmly.

"Where... where are we?" Lance asked hoarsely.

Panthia smiled, though her face was lined with exhaustion. "We're deep in the Hollowed Boughs, far north of Dragonsvale. It's an old region of forest, used in ancient times by the First Warbands. Nobody comes here anymore. We're safe. For now."

Lance nodded slowly, then winced. "And the others...?"

She looked down for a moment, then back up. "Depends who you ask. Rowan made it out. Seraphina. Axel. Eryc. Alia, Sir Garrin, Sir Nightingale, and Thorn too. We have... a little less than half your army."

Lance turned away, eyes clenched shut, trying to force back the wave of emotion surging in his chest. "So many dead..." His voice cracked. "My father. My mother... everyone in that chamber."

Panthia placed her other hand on his. "I know it hurts, Lance. But we can't stop here. They need you. Your people. They need to know you're still standing. That their king still breathes."

Lance slowly sat up, groaning through the pain. "You're right... You're right."

He shifted to move, but faltered, nearly collapsing again. Panthia caught him, her arms strong despite her size. "Don't be a fool. Sit. I'll call them over. You make your speech from here."

Lance slumped back, giving her a grateful nod. "Thank you... Panthia. For everything."

She gave a soft smile and exited the tent.

---

Meanwhile, back in Dragonsvale, the palace still bore the scars of battle. Blood dried on the marble floors, and corpses had been dragged from the halls and tossed into pyres. Alexander stood atop the balcony of the Grand Spire, looking down on a sea of soldiers and citizens loyal to him. Banners of crimson and silver hung over the stone walls, hiding the blackened sections scorched by fire. The courtyard below buzzed with anticipation.

Alexander, still dressed in battle-worn armor and bandaged across his chest and arm, raised a single hand. The crowd silenced.

He began.

"You all know me. You know my name, but not my heart. And now it is time for you to know both. I stood before our late king as his sword, his shield, his loyal weapon. But was I ever anything more? No. To him, I was but a tool. Used and cast aside like so many before me."

He began to pace slowly along the edge of the balcony.

"Our king, King Julian, wore a mask of nobility. But behind closed doors, he let our people suffer. He lined the pockets of nobles while his warriors starved. He banished dissenters. He brutalized me and my mother."

The crowd began to murmur.

"And I... I was his enforcer. For too long I played the obedient hound, thinking that loyalty was the highest virtue. But I saw the rot at the core of this kingdom. And I swore to carve it out."

He stopped, voice rising with passion.

"Some will call me a traitor. Let them. But I stand here, not as a servant of the old ways, but as the architect of a new age. One where we no longer bow to bloodlines and thrones, but to reason, strength, and unity."

He pointed toward the mountains in the north.

"Lance. The boy king. He and his siblings are the last poison of a dying tree. They will infect this world again if we let them. But I will not. I swear, by the stars above and the fires below, I will end that bloodline. And I will build something greater in its place."

The soldiers erupted in cheers, raising swords and chanting his name.

---

Back in the Hollowed Boughs, Panthia had gathered the survivors. Over seven hundred people filled the glade. Many wore makeshift armor. Others still bore wounds. But every eye was turned to the tent, where Lance, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, emerged.

He leaned heavily on a wooden cane, each step deliberate and slow. As he reached the center of the crowd, silence fell.

Lance looked over them all—faces dirtied, eyes weary, but filled with a flicker of hope. He took a deep breath.

"I should be dead. Many of you thought I was. And perhaps... part of me is. The part that knew comfort. That knew peace. That thought I would live my life as a prince, not a king made from blood."

He took another breath, steadying his voice.

"But I am here. And so are all of you. That means something. It means that fate has given us another chance. Not for vengeance... but for justice."

The crowd stirred.

"I will not waste this second chance chasing the ghosts of the dead. I will not lead you with rage in my heart. I will not spill blood simply to prove a point."

He straightened his back, leaning fully on the cane.

"What I will do—what I swear to you here and now—is that I will protect you. I will fight for you. Every decision I make, every battle we face, every hardship we endure... it will all be with you in mind."

He looked to the front row—Rowan, Seraphina, Sir Garrin, and dozens more.

"Because a king does not stand above his people. A king stands with them. And I promise you this: so long as I draw breath, the bloodline Alexander fears so much will not fade. It will not die."

The wind picked up, sweeping through the trees. The soldiers began to clap, slowly at first, then louder.

As Panthia helped him into the tent, Lance turned back to the crowd-his reason to fight. Somewhere beyond the trees, another king stirred in the ashes of bretayal. And the war for Dragonsvale truly began now.