Peace Through Blade

The sun hovered high above Dragonsvale, casting golden rays across the polished rooftops of the capital and warming the cobbled roads below. It was early afternoon, and for the past two hours, Lance had been searching. Not for a person of status, nor for a knight or noble. No, he was searching for Panthia.

He hadn't asked everyone. He couldn't. Their relationship was hidden in shadow, a secret not even the stone walls of the palace could know. Lance couldn't afford to draw attention. That meant picking carefully, asking only those he trusted.

He'd started with Elric, a young stable hand who sometimes delivered messages between castle staff. Elric had only shrugged, saying he hadn't seen her since the night before. Lance pressed on. He asked one of the older cooks in the back kitchen wing, a woman with warm eyes and soft hands who'd always been kind to Panthia. She looked around first, suspicious of the question, then quietly said, "I saw her heading toward the lower levels early this morning. She looked... unwell."

The lower levels. Lance knew what that meant: the old wine cellars—quiet, cool, and out of the way. He turned without another word, nodded his thanks, and made his way down the servant staircases, the ones no one important used. They spiraled like the throat of a great beast, damp with stone sweat and dimly lit by wall-mounted lanterns.

His boots echoed down the corridor, past barrels and kegs of imported wines, past dusty goblets and old casks stacked like bones of forgotten celebrations. Then he found her.

Panthia was curled up in the far corner, knees tucked to her chest, arms crossed over them, her head bowed low. Her shoulders shook, her sobs muffled by her sleeves. She hadn't heard him enter.

Lance froze.

Seeing her like that—shattered, alone—broke something inside of him.

He moved quickly, his footsteps soft. Dropping to his knees beside her, he reached out and gently pulled her into his arms. Her body stiffened at first in surprise, but then melted into him, the sobs deepening as her face pressed into his chest.

"I've been looking everywhere for you," he whispered, holding her tighter.

She didn't respond, not right away. She only cried, and he let her. Time slowed in that quiet place, the cool air around them a contrast to the warmth of the emotion between them.

Finally, she pulled back slightly, eyes red, lips trembling. "I—I hurt him, Lance. I could've killed him. Gods, I threatened to… and I meant it."

Lance cupped her face, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears. "Panthia, he was trying to kill me. He had a blade at my throat. You saved my life."

She shook her head violently. "But it wasn't just saving you. It was more. I—I felt something… dark. When I held that bow, when I said those words, I wasn't thinking of justice. I was thinking of blood."

Lance swallowed hard. He saw the pain in her, the fear of what she'd become in that moment. "You think I don't understand that?" he said, his voice low. "I've fought in battles. I've taken lives. And every time I do, there's a part of me that feels it—that darkness. It's always there, waiting to grow. But you didn't let it take you. You stopped. You didn't kill him."

Panthia looked away, hugging herself. "But I wanted to."

"And that scares you," he said. "Good. That means you're still you."

She let out a broken laugh, bitter and short. "Still me? The girl hiding in a wine cellar because she almost murdered someone?"

He smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not just a girl hiding in a wine cellar. You're the bravest person I know. You stepped between me and a killer. You didn't hesitate."

She met his eyes. "I don't want to be that kind of brave."

"I know." He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers. "But sometimes that's the only kind we get in a world like this."

Panthia closed her eyes. For a moment, the two of them just breathed in unison. Down here, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

"I don't know what I would've done if something happened to you," she whispered.

"And I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't been there," he replied.

Another pause. The silence felt safer now, like a blanket instead of a burden.

"Promise me something," she said at last.

"Anything."

"Be more careful." She pulled back, her eyes firm despite the wet trails running down her cheeks. "Don't drink like that again. Don't put yourself in that kind of danger."

Lance nodded, guilt welling up behind his ribs. "I promise."

"Because next time I might not be there."

He nodded again, more slowly this time. "I understand."

She reached up and gently touched his cheek. "I know you carry a lot, Lance. The crown, the war, your family... but don't let it crush you. Talk to someone. Talk to me."

"I'm talking to you now," he said, managing a soft smile.

She didn't smile back. "I mean when things get worse. And they will."

He nodded a third time. "I will."

A long breath passed between them. Then Panthia stood, brushing the dust from her skirts. "You should go," she said, glancing toward the stairwell. "If anyone sees you here…"

"I know." Lance lingered, reluctant to leave. "Will you be alright?"

She nodded, eyes still damp but resolute. "I will be. Just… don't do anything reckless. You're not just a prince to me. You're everything."

That hit him harder than any blade.

Without another word, he turned and left, slipping silently through the corridors, avoiding anyone who might ask questions. He didn't look back, because if he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to leave her there at all.

By the time he reached the surface, the sun had dipped slightly in the sky. The warmth on his face felt heavy now.

He had made a promise, He intended to keep it.

---

Morning light filtered gently through the towering windows of the southern palace courtyard, casting golden beams over stone columns and ivy-wrapped arches. The training ground, usually reserved for royal guard sparring, echoed now with the sound of soft wooden clacks and the occasional peal of laughter.

Prince Rowan, second-born son of King Julian, stood barefoot in the sand, a training sword in his hand, his tunic slightly unbuttoned and clinging to him from the late morning heat. Across from him stood Princess Seraphina, her long blond hair braided tightly back, eyes narrowed in focus, mirroring her brother's stance with her own practice blade.

"Your guard's still too high," Rowan noted, adjusting his own stance. "You keep leaving your ribs wide open. Any Luxarian knight worth his salt would skewer you like roast boar."

Seraphina scoffed, jabbing forward. "And any Dragonsvale prince who talks this much in combat would be headless before his monologue ends."

Their wooden swords met with a sharp crack. Rowan deflected the blow and twirled around, tapping her lightly on the shoulder.

"Point to me," he grinned.

"Hardly fair. You've had ten years more practice."

"What?! I'm three years younger than you are."

"Yes, but sense I'm a women they don't allow me much time to train my swordmanship," she replied, mock-wounded. "Though you'd never guess with how serious you've been lately. Since when did my favorite jester turn into a stern-faced soldier?"

Rowan tilted his head and let out a breath, pushing his damp hair back. "Someone had to balance out Lance. He's been doing all the laughing since we were children."

The light-hearted moment dimmed for just a heartbeat at the mention of their elder brother.

"I heard what happened," Seraphina said softly, lowering her sword. "The assassination attempt."

Rowan nodded, his smile faint but genuine. "He's alright. Bruised pride and a hangover from what I hear. Still as reckless as ever."

"Still," she said, touching his arm, "it scared me. The idea of one of us…"

"Don't." Rowan interrupted gently, his voice quiet but firm. "We don't need shadows hanging over today. Not now."

She studied him for a moment, then smiled. "Agreed. Besides, I've got to sharpen my sword skills. Otherwise, I'll embarrass myself next time we spar in front of the guards."

"Or worse," Rowan teased. "You might embarrass me."

With renewed spirit, they resumed their sparring. The clash of their wooden blades echoed through the open yard as their footwork danced through the sand. Rowan corrected her posture when she overextended and made her laugh with ridiculous impressions of their stern combat instructor, Sir Garrin.

"'Keep your feet planted like roots in the soil!'" he said in a booming tone, hunching his shoulders. "'You fight like a drunk fawn!'"

Seraphina laughed, nearly dropping her sword. "Stop! If he hears you, you'll be back to sword drills at dawn for a week."

"Worth it," Rowan winked, dodging her next blow with exaggerated flair.

After nearly an hour, both siblings dropped their swords and sat in the cool shade of a flowering archway overlooking the practice yard. A servant brought them chilled lemon water and small plates of honeyed figs and roasted almonds. They leaned back against the stone wall, catching their breath.

"So," Rowan began, sipping his water, "ready to return the favor?"

Seraphina smirked. "History and politics?"

He groaned. "Sadly."

She pulled a small book from a satchel resting near the wall. "Alright. Tell me, who was the first King of unified Dragonsvale and what treaty solidified his rule?"

Rowan narrowed his eyes. "Easy. King Aldric the Flamebearer. The Treaty of Emberhill. Signed in… uh… 347 YD?"

"362," she corrected, patting his knee. "You're close."

"Close doesn't win battles," he muttered.

Seraphina rolled her eyes. "No, but it does pass council exams."

"Ugh. I hate council exams."

"Because you never study," she teased. "You'd rather be dueling palace guards and sneaking sweetbread from the kitchens."

Rowan grinned. "You make me sound like a rogue."

"You are a rogue," she said with a smirk. "But a charming one."

He leaned back, arms behind his head, and looked up at the drifting clouds above. "Do you ever wonder if things will always be this way?"

"What way?"

"You, me, Lance... training in the yard. Joking about our duties. Sneaking out to the stables at night to race horses."

Seraphina's smile softened. "I hope so. But if not, I'm glad we had it."

He turned to her. "You really are good at this politics thing."

"I know," she said smugly. "Now, next question. What are the three tenets of the Dragonsvale Accord with Zul Kifar?"

Rowan groaned again and covered his face. "You're cruel."

"Discipline, diplomacy, and dual taxes on trade goods," she answered for him.

"Right, right. I was going to say that."

They sat for a while longer, trading questions and jokes until the sun passed its noon peak. A soft breeze stirred the tall banners hanging from the palace balconies. Birds chirped in the high trees along the garden walls.

"You've really grown into yourself," Seraphina said at last, turning toward him. "You're not the same boy who used to hide frogs in my shoes."

Rowan chuckled. "No, that boy was carefree. This one... he's learning the weight of a crown he might never wear."

"But you carry it well," she said. "Even if it's just in Lance's shadow."

Rowan looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he smiled softly. "I don't mind shadows. They mean there's still light nearby."

She blinked, then laughed. "That was actually... poetic."

"Don't tell anyone," he said with a grin, standing and dusting off his tunic. "I have a reputation to protect."

She joined him, brushing off her skirt. "Come on. Let's clean up before the dinner bell. And maybe quiz you a little more."

Rowan groaned again, but his laughter was genuine as they walked off together, arm in arm like they had when they were children.

Today, there were no assassins. No shadows lurking in alleyways or secrets whispered in wine cellars. Just a brother and sister, laughing under the sun, learning to grow in their own ways.

And for now, that was enough.