Peace Through Blade

The flicker of torchlight cast long shadows across the polished stone walls of the war chamber, once a quiet library now transformed by necessity. The high arched windows remained shuttered, letting in only slivers of moonlight. At the head of the great oaken table sat Lance, the newly crowned King of Dragonsvale. His Long, blond hair was slightly tousled, his face lined not with age, but with sleepless nights and the crushing weight of war.

Around him, the newly formed council sat in silence. Rowan, his younger brother, leaned back with a sharp, analytical expression, his fingers rhythmically tapping the wood. Beside him sat their sister, her eyes wandering cautiously from face to face, clearly not yet comfortable in this new role. To Lance, though, their presence meant stability, a tether to his bloodline.

Then came Thorn, the potato farmer with dirt still clinging to his fingernails and confusion written across his face. No one but Lance yet understood why this man, of all people, was summoned. Sir Garrin, the grizzled general with streaks of silver in his beard and scars across his weathered arms, sat in full armor. Axel, calm but focused, kept his hands folded in front of him, the memory of his near-death escape still fresh in Lance's mind. Sir Nightingale, silent and observant, rested his chin on his clasped hands, his loyalty questioned by many, but not by the king.

A few nobles rounded out the group, dressed in deep blues, reds, and golds, their coats of arms sewn into their sleeves. Among them was Nobleman David, known for his sharp tongue and even sharper distaste for change.

Lance stood, a scroll in one hand. "Thank you all for coming," he began, voice low but steady. "We have survived the chaos Alexander brought upon us, but survival is not enough. It is time to rebuild, to restructure, and to prepare for what lies ahead."

He looked around, making eye contact with each person. "First, I've chosen key individuals for important roles. Thorn," he gestured, and Thorn awkwardly straightened, "you will serve as the head of food management. Your understanding of our crops and supplies is vital. It's not glamour, but it's survival."

Thorn looked around hesitantly, surprised but honored. "Aye, my king," he said quietly.

"Axel," Lance continued, "you will serve as our counter. You showed initiative and precision when we escaped together. I need you counting our army—ours and theirs. We need exact numbers."

Axel gave a single nod. "Understood, sire."

Just then, Nobleman David stood with an air of indignation. "King Lance, with all due respect, why are you giving critical roles to peasants? These responsibilities belong to the nobility—to those of us educated in such matters. These men may be brave, but they are not trained for this."

A pause. Lance slowly turned to him, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then he stood.

"We are at war, Nobleman David. This is no time to cling to outdated customs and bruised egos. I do not have the time to appease you or your kind. I need results. I need survival. That does not come from bloodlines. It comes from competence."

The room went silent. David's face turned red, but he said nothing as he slowly sat.

Lance, still standing, scanned the room. "I'm glad you brought it up though, David. Because that ties into something else I planned to announce." He took a breath. "I will be ending the social classes."

Gasps filled the chamber. Even Thorn's eyes widened.

Lance raised his hand. "From this day forward, there will be no nobles, no peasants. There will only be the king… and his dragons."

David shot up, palms slamming against the table. "That is absurd! You cannot simply erase centuries of structure!"

Lance remained calm. "But I can. And I will. It's a simple fact of life: we are all created equal. Is that not right, Brother Eli?"

At the far end, the robed monk, his head shaved in a perfect ring of humility, stood. "Correct, King Lancelot. In the eyes of the Creator, all men are brothers."

David shook his head. "I will not accept this."

"Then leave," Lance said without hesitation. "Go to Alexander if you believe there is better opportunity there."

The noble stiffened. "In his chaos, he killed my wife. I will not bow to him."

"Then we agree on something," Lance replied, voice steady. "I want a kingdom with fairness and dignity. Everyone gets a chance. If you fail, you live poorly. If you succeed, you live well. That is merit. That is strength. And that is the Dragonsvale I will lead."

He finally sat back down, letting the words hang.

The council remained still for a moment before Sir Garrin spoke. "Where do we go next?"

Lance nodded. "Across the Hollowed Boughs. There lies the lesser kingdom of Windmere. It's small, but it sits within our borders. They're still loyal, still untouched by Alexander's reach. We need their strength, their resources, and more importantly—their morale."

Axel leaned in. "The forest is thick and dangerous. But if we move at night and rest during the day, we can cross it in four days."

Sir Garrin grunted. "It's not the forest I fear. It's what Alexander will do to stop us. He will not let us gather strength."

Rowan chimed in. "Then we must move faster than he can track us."

Sir Nightingale finally spoke, voice soft but cutting. "We will be watched. Spies are likely already among us."

Lance met his gaze. "Then we will flush them out. Trust must be earned. Until then, your guards double patrols."

The council murmured in agreement.

"We head to Windmere in three days," Lance concluded. "In that time, train your men, prepare supplies, and ready the people. This is no longer a kingdom hiding from its conqueror." He looked around, his voice rising. "This is a kingdom preparing to rise."

With that, the council slowly stood, their minds filled with uncertainty, but also purpose. A new age was beginning—and Lancelot was no longer just the heir.

He was the flame that would light Dragonsvale anew.

---

The dim glow of lanterns flickered against the stone walls of the ancient library, now transformed into a makeshift war room. The air inside still held a musky scent of old parchment and dust, mingled with the harsh metallic tang of new blades and armor. It had once been a place of learning, now it was a place of planning.

Lance Dragonbane exited the war room, the heavy door groaning behind him as it shut. His jaw was tight, his thoughts weighing down his footsteps as he stepped onto the cracked cobblestone path that ran through the middle of the small, rediscovered village. It was barely more than a cluster of aging buildings, most with sagging roofs and boarded windows. The moonlight gave everything a ghostly shimmer.

He had barely made it ten steps before he heard a familiar voice.

"Brother," Rowan called, stepping out from the shadows of a leaning post. He wore his usual smirk, arms crossed over his chest. His blond hair was disheveled, and his armor was slightly scuffed, as if he had been training or roughhousing again. "You look like you aged ten years in there. Is it the war or was someone just breathing out of their mouth again?"

Lance cracked a smile. "Rowan."

They clasped forearms, a brother's greeting, the grip firm.

"What's on your mind?" Lance asked, voice low, eyes scanning the stars above them as if looking for answers.

Rowan's smile faded slightly. "Well, brother... I agree with you. I think social classes are stupid. Always have. There are plenty of skilled peasants who deserve better lives. But are you sure now's the time to start challenging the structure?"

Lance narrowed his eyes. "You think we should wait? Let them suffer until the war ends?"

Rowan shook his head. "No. But think about it. We're barely holding the nobles together. David's not the only one pissed off. More will follow if you keep pushing. They might leave."

"Let them leave," Lance said without hesitation, his tone clipped.

Rowan blinked. "That's not true though. You need everyone right now. We're in a war, Lance. Every sword matters."

Lance's gaze lowered to the ground. He clenched his jaw, wrestling with the words. "I know that. But I also know that the nobles aren't the only ones who can hold a blade."

"Still," Rowan said softly. "The timing... it's risky."

There was a long silence between them, the night wind rustling through nearby trees, carrying with it the sounds of a distant campfire crackling and soldiers murmuring in their tents.

"This isn't about Panthia, is it?" Rowan asked finally.

Lance froze. His shoulders tightened. The words he wanted to say burned in his throat, but he held them.

He finally answered, voice low. "No. I didn't do this because of her. But I won't lie and say she wasn't on my mind. This is something I've wanted to do for a long time."

Rowan said nothing.

Lance turned to him, his eyes dark and steady. "I've known Thorn since I could talk. We played in the dirt behind the castle. I've seen him struggle to feed his sister while nobles gorged themselves. I've seen him patch wounds with nothing but rags and spit while noble sons cried over bruises."

His voice hardened. "Rowan, the greatest thing about living with nothing is that every day is a fight. Just like war. The peasants are more experienced in war than any noble. They've lived it. Every meal is a battle, every night of shelter a victory."

Rowan took a deep breath. "I agree with you, brother. Truly. I just... I worry."

Lance stepped closer, resting a hand on Rowan's shoulder. "Don't. We're in war. Our parents were murdered. We were hunted down like animals. This—this is the most stressful time of our lives. But it's also when we must be strongest."

He let the silence sit for a moment.

"We can't care about who stands beside us. Not anymore. All that matters is the goal ahead—and that we achieve it. Together."

There was a pause.

Unbeknownst to them, a few figures had been lingering near the side of the library. David among them. Their heads bowed in quiet acknowledgment before they silently disappeared into the night, shadows returning to the dark.

Lance sighed and turned his gaze toward the horizon, the silhouette of distant hills outlined in the moonlight.

---

Far to the east, beneath a blood-red banner, stood a very different gathering.

Torches lit the cold night, casting harsh shadows over the twisted faces of armor-clad soldiers. They stood in lines, motionless but eager, as the man before them raised his blade high into the air.

Alexander, half-brother to Lance and bastard son of King Julian, grinned with teeth bared. His dark eyes gleamed with hatred.

"Brothers!" he shouted, voice carrying like thunder. "We march tonight to reclaim what was stolen!"

Cheers erupted around him.

He paced before the front line, sword still high. "No more will we bow to the weak blood of Julian's pampered whelps! No more will we wait in shadows while they play king and knight in broken castles!"

He stopped and turned sharply.

"DEATH TO THE DRAGONBANES!"

The army roared in response.

"Death to Seraphina Dragonbane!"

"Death to Rowan Dragonbane!"

He took a step forward, his grin widening.

"AND DEATH TO LANCELOT DRAGONBANE!"

The soldiers slammed the ends of their weapons against the ground in unison, chanting the names again and again, the sound growing louder and louder until it echoed like a war drum across the plains.

Alexander turned and looked over his army—his army that would die for him.

He grinned. "It's so easy."

And with a single swing of his blade toward the path ahead, he shouted, "MARCH!"

The storm of boots and steel began, as the dark tide rolled forward under the moonless sky.