Peace Through Blade

The cold night air bit against Lance's flushed skin as he leaned heavily against Alexander. The cobbled streets of the capital stretched before them, eerily silent save for the muffled clack of their boots. A few tavern lights still flickered in the distance, their soft golden glow reflecting off the wet stone, but the streets themselves were barren.

Alexander kept a steady pace, his arm slung under Lance's shoulder to support his wavering weight. The prince's head lolled to the side slightly, his breath hot with the sharp scent of the warrior's brew still lingering on his tongue.

"Bit quiet out tonight," Lance mumbled, blinking slowly. "Should be more guards, right?"

Alexander glanced around. He noticed it too—something wasn't right. With his army freshly returned, the streets should have been lined with guards on rotation, soldiers relaxing in off-duty groups, or at least a few stationed around the castle perimeter. But instead, the capital looked deserted.

"Yeah," Alexander muttered. "There should be."

But Lance, in his dulled state, let the thought drift away, replaced with a clumsy chuckle. "Guess even the guards needed a drink."

The castle's spires loomed just ahead when the sound of shifting shadows reached their ears. Three figures stepped from the darkness—hooded, faces masked by strips of rough cloth. The torches along the stone path behind them barely lit their silhouettes, but their intention was unmistakable.

The leader of the trio raised a hand, his voice low and icy.

"We're not here for trouble," he said. "Only the heir to the throne."

Alexander immediately pushed Lance behind him. "Go. Now."

"I can fight," Lance slurred, stepping forward.

Alexander didn't have time to argue. One of the men lunged. Steel clashed in a fury of sparks as Alexander met the strike and knocked it away. In the chaos, he managed to draw two of the assailants with him, spinning away into the shadows of the courtyard.

But one remained.

Lance tried to square his footing, but the drink still dulled his limbs and slowed his thoughts. The remaining attacker charged forward, a long, curved dagger in hand. The blade caught the moonlight just as it arced toward Lance's neck. He dodged instinctively, the edge grazing the side of his collarbone.

The pain cleared his head slightly. Gritting his teeth, Lance stepped back and drew his short sword with effort, his movements sluggish. The two circled, the assassin with calculated precision, Lance with unrefined but noble determination.

They clashed.

Metal rang out, echoing across the empty courtyard. Lance swung high, only to stumble forward as his opponent ducked. A hard punch to Lance's ribs knocked the wind from him. He staggered, eyes blurring, and barely managed to lift his sword in time to block the next strike.

The assassin pressed the advantage, lashing out with sharp, swift attacks. Lance parried twice, then lost his grip on the hilt. His sword clattered to the stone beside him.

A boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground.

Before he could move, the man was on top of him, pressing the knife down toward his throat. Lance gripped the assassin's wrist with both hands, arms trembling, every muscle straining. The blade inched closer, the cold edge barely an inch from the skin of his throat.

He growled with effort, eyes wide in panic. His strength was failing.

Then the scream.

The man recoiled suddenly, falling off of Lance with a howl of pain. An arrow had pierced clean through his foot.

Lance turned his head slowly, vision spinning. There, trembling and wide-eyed near the garden gate, stood Panthia. Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. She held a bow awkwardly in her hands, another arrow already nocked.

"Don't come any closer," she said, her voice shaking as much as her arms. "I—I'll kill you if I have to."

The assassin looked up at her. Blood seeped from his foot. He hissed, but said nothing. Then, with a final glare, he turned and limped into the darkness, disappearing beyond the hedges.

Lance tried to sit up, but his arms gave out. The world swayed beneath him.

Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder firmly and hauled him to his feet.

"Are you alright?"

It was Alexander—his armor dented, a streak of blood running from his brow to his jaw. He scanned Lance, then looked to Panthia.

"Who are you?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

Panthia stepped forward, still visibly trembling. "I'm... I'm a maid," she said quickly. "Panthia."

Alexander blinked, tilting his head. "You're a good shot for a maid."

Panthia didn't reply.

Alexander looked back at Lance, who was now barely upright. "He's drunk," he muttered. "But he'll live."

He turned to Panthia again. "Take him back to his room. He's your problem now."

Panthia rushed to Lance's side and helped him walk. They moved slowly, the world spinning in his head. She didn't speak, just held onto him tightly.

When they finally reached his chamber, she guided him inside and sat him down on the edge of the bed. Lance collapsed backward without a word, breathing heavy and eyes half-lidded.

Panthia stood there for a moment, staring down at him. The adrenaline still surged through her veins. Her hands were shaking. She looked at the bow, still in her grip, and carefully set it down against the wall.

Then she climbed into the bed beside him.

Lance murmured something incoherent, and she gently pulled his head to her chest, wrapping her arms around him protectively.

His breathing slowed. He drifted into sleep.

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

"I won't let anything happen to you, my love," she whispered, holding him tighter.

Outside, the city remained silent. But within Panthia's trembling embrace, a storm of emotion brewed—fear, resolve, and something stronger: love

---

Morning sunlight spilled through the tall, arched window of the guest chambers, casting long golden bars across the stone floor. Lance stirred beneath the heavy furs, a pounding ache hammering away behind his eyes like a smith at his forge. His mouth was dry, his limbs sore, and the memory of the night before came rushing back with a sobering chill. He blinked against the light, sitting up slowly. The room spun once before settling.

He remembered the alleyway. The figures. The glint of the dagger pressing toward his throat. The pain. The fear. And then—Panthia. Her voice, her arrow, the trembling resolve in her eyes. He turned his head toward the spot where she'd been sitting beside him before he passed out. It was empty now. No sign of her. Only the lingering warmth on the sheets and the faintest scent of lavender told him she had even been there at all.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "My lord," came a voice—stern, professional. A young man, perhaps a page. "You are summoned to the war room. An emergency meeting. The king demands your presence."

Lance swung his legs off the bed, his feet touching the cool stone floor. He stood with a wince, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Tell them I'll be there shortly."

Once dressed in a clean but simple tunic and breeches, Lance made his way down the winding corridors of the royal palace. The castle felt cold, still. Servants moved quickly through the halls, heads bowed. The night's events had clearly shaken more than just him.

The doors to the war room loomed before him—tall, dark oak with the sigil of Dragonsvale carved in the center: a dragon coiled around a tower. Two guards opened the doors silently as he approached.

Inside, the tension was thick enough to choke on.

King Julian stood at the far end of the table, his back rigid, hands pressed flat against the polished surface. His silvered hair was unkempt, and his eyes burned with fury. Around the table stood the court's most powerful figures: Sir Gladion, the old knight, looking at the table with disappointment; Princess Seraphina, arms crossed tightly against her chest, her expression unreadable; Prince Rowan, calm but alert, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword; Commander Nightingale, the head of the city guard, standing with a deep scowl etched across his face; and finally, Alexander.

Alexander leaned in the shadows near the end of the table, one hand resting on the pommel of his blade. His face was unreadable as ever, his sharp features stoic. A faint smear of dried blood lingered along his cheekbone—a scar of the night before.

"Lance," the king said without turning. "You're late. Sit."

Lance obeyed, lowering himself into a seat near the corner.

Julian's voice was thunderous. "My son—my heir—was nearly murdered at the gates of my own palace!" He slammed his fist on the table, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Assassins. In our city. While our army returns home in triumph! Where were the gods-damned guards?!"

Nightingale stepped forward, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "Your Majesty, I swear to you, I gave explicit orders for four men to be stationed at the gates. I checked the roster myself. They should have been there."

"And yet they weren't," Julian snarled. "My son was attacked within reach of the royal doors! This is not incompetence, Commander. This is sabotage."

"With respect, Sire," Gladion interjected, his voice calm but firm, "It's too early to assume treason without further evidence. We should investigate the guards in question. Find out why they abandoned their post."

"They'll be dragged to the stocks by nightfall," Julian barked. "And if they're still breathing by morning, it will only be by my mercy."

Princess Seraphina shifted uncomfortably. "Father, what about the attackers? Do we know who sent them?"

Alexander finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "The two I lured away from Lance—they were both Luxarian. Their armor bore their house insignia. Subtle, but present."

A tense silence followed. Julian's face darkened.

"Luxaris," he spat. "Of course. Petty revenge for our victory in the borderlands. They dare send assassins into my city? Into my palace?"

"It could be a rogue faction," Rowan offered cautiously. "The Luxarian throne may not be behind it. It could be opportunists—mercenaries."

"Regardless," Julian said, voice cold and final, "Dragonsvale will not be threatened so openly. I want double the guard on every gate, every tower, every window."

Nightingale gave a curt nod. "It will be done, Your Majesty."

Julian turned his gaze to his children. "From this moment forward, none of you leave the palace walls without escort. I don't care if it's for a walk or a bath. Guards. At all times. Understood?"

The princess and Rowan both nodded. Lance, still grappling with his headache, gave a slow affirmation.

Then the king turned to Alexander.

There was a long pause.

"Alexander. I see you returned in one piece," Julian said, his voice carefully neutral. "You did well."

The bastard prince remained still.

Julian continued, "You may stay in the capital for as long as you wish. Rest. Enjoy the victory."

A flicker of something passed through Alexander's eyes. Not gratitude—something colder. He inclined his head slightly but said nothing. His posture remained relaxed, but his silence spoke volumes.

Everyone in the room knew the history. Julian had ordered the execution of Alexander's mother—a peasant woman with fire in her blood—and had sent the child to war. Their relationship had always been more political than paternal.

Julian exhaled through his nose, sensing the tension. "Dismissed. All of you."

Chairs scraped against stone as the council dispersed. Lance remained seated for a moment longer, his mind heavy.

He stood slowly, pushing the chair back into place. As he passed Alexander, the older man looked up at him. Their eyes met for a brief moment—an unspoken understanding shared between half brothers.

"I owe you," Lance muttered.

Alexander said nothing, but the faintest nod passed between them.

Lance made his way toward the corridor, passing a pair of guards at the threshold.

As he stepped into the hallway, his headache pulsing dully behind his eyes, one thought rose above the others:

I need to find Panthia.