Peace Through Blade

The morning sun shimmered softly over the sparring yard nestled behind the palace's eastern wall. The clang of steel echoed in the crisp air, mingling with bursts of laughter and the rhythmic grunts of exertion. Eryc Gladion wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, grinning as he locked swords with a girl whose ferocity rivaled his own.

She was tall, graceful, and carried herself with the poised elegance of a noblewoman. She has dark brown hair with colorful hazel eyes. Her name was Alia Renford, a cousin to Lance through his mother's side, and one of the few noblewomen in the realm who took swordsmanship as seriously as lineage. Her eyes gleamed with confidence and something else—something mischievous—as her blade whirled through the air.

Eryc barely managed to parry the strike.

"You trying to kill me?" he asked with a playful grimace, stepping back and shaking his stinging hand.

Alia grinned, her stance never faltering. "You're the one who asked for full speed. Don't cry now, Gladion."

He laughed. "Never. But if you break my ribs like Alexander did, I might cry a little."

Her expression softened with curiosity as they paused in the center of the sand-filled circle. "He really got you that bad?"

Eryc's smile faded slightly. He reached up and tapped his right side, just below the ribs. "Right here. Still aches if I move too fast. He said it wasn't personal. Just a test."

Alia gave a low whistle. "And what exactly did he say during this 'test'?"

Eryc looked toward the horizon for a moment, his tone shifting as he recalled the moment. "He said, 'Nothing in this world is easy. It won't be earned lounging in the sun. Train until you can't feel anything. Because your enemies won't wait for you to rest. They won't care for your excuses. Or your life.'"

Alia let out a breath. "Intense."

"Yeah," Eryc murmured. "And part of me wonders if I'm really cut out for all this."

She stepped closer, tapping her wooden sword against his. "You're Eryc Gladion. Son of Sir Gladion, the most honored knight in the kingdom. You were raised in discipline and humility. Of course you're cut out for this."

He gave her a crooked smile. "That's what scares me. What if I can't live up to him? To the name?"

Alia lowered her weapon, her voice gentle. "You don't have to become your father, Eryc. You just have to become you."

The two stared at each other for a quiet beat, then she smirked. "Besides, you've only been training under Lance for two days, and you're already making progress. That's saying something."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, especially since he nearly broke my shoulder yesterday."

They resumed their sparring, blades clashing in bursts of speed and precision. Alia's footwork was swift, her strikes fluid, but Eryc matched her move for move, having trained tirelessly for years under the watchful eye of his father.

As they trained, a few squires gathered at the edge of the yard, watching the match unfold.

"Eryc's actually keeping up," one of them whispered.

"That's Alia he's sparring with," another added. "She was trained by Rowan and Lance themselves. She's no joke."

The growing crowd only spurred the two fighters further. Alia lunged, and Eryc spun aside, countering with a low strike that nearly caught her leg. She skipped back, breathless.

"Nice!" she called. "Another week and you might actually win a round."

"Another week and you'll be begging for mercy," he shot back.

They finished the session with a mutual nod, swords dropping to their sides as they collapsed onto a wooden bench nearby. Alia uncorked a flask of water and handed it to him.

"You hear about what happened to Lance?" she asked casually.

Eryc frowned. "That assassin attack?"

"Yeah. Weird thing is, no one knew until the next day. Apparently, he got so drunk Panthia had to drag him to his bed. He never told anyone."

Eryc nodded slowly, absorbing the weight of the story. Lance, one of his idols, caught unaware. Not injured, but still—a reminder of how vulnerable even the best could be.

"Makes you think," he muttered.

Alia nudged him with her shoulder. "Makes me think I should train even harder. And keep a dagger under my pillow."

They both laughed.

Later that afternoon, they took a walk through the palace gardens, trading jokes and ridiculous impressions of court nobles. Eryc mimicked a snobbish councilman with such accuracy that Alia nearly collapsed with laughter.

"You're terrible," she gasped.

"I know," he said proudly. "Terribly talented."

They wandered past a statue of Sir Gladion in his prime—stern, noble, his sword planted in the ground before him.

Eryc stopped for a moment, gazing up at it.

"He is an incredible man. So strong and passionate, but humble to. I hope to be like him. "

Alia touched his arm. "Then grow stronger. But don't let it harden you. You're better than that."

He turned to her, eyes soft. "Thanks."

She grinned. "You're lucky I like you, Gladion. Otherwise, I'd have broken both your arms by now."

"Please, you need both hands just to keep up."

They spent the rest of the day in each other's company—training again, this time with laughter between every swing, and sharing simple dreams beneath the sky.

Eryc wanted to be a knight not just known for strength, but for honor.

Alia wanted to prove a noblewoman could do more than dance and smile.

Together, they were fire and wind, light and shadow. And though Eryc still bore doubts in his heart, this day reminded him of what he was fighting for.

Not just a name. Not just glory.

But the people beside him.

The future he believed in.

And the girl who could make even the hardest days feel like the start of something wonderful.

---

The moonlight blanketed the royal gardens in a pale silver hue. Cool night air drifted softly between the hedges, bringing with it the scent of jasmine and damp earth. A few crickets chirped, hidden in the darkness, and the occasional rustle of leaves gave life to the still night.

Lance stood quietly under one of the old elms near the center of the courtyard, arms folded behind his back, his wine-red cloak brushing his boots. He didn't wear armor now—just a loose white tunic tucked into dark trousers. His golden hair fell around his face, damp from a recent wash, and his eyes looked tired despite the calm he tried to wear.

Footsteps echoed across the stone path behind him, slow and deliberate. He didn't need to turn.

"I figured you'd come," he said softly.

"You were never difficult to find," came the voice behind him, rich and sharp like well-aged wine. "Even as a boy, you always ran to the same places when something troubled you."

Lance turned.

Queen Elaria stood beneath the archway leading to the garden, her silhouette tall and commanding even in the dim light. She wore a deep green gown that swept behind her like moss trailing on water. Her black hair was wound into a tight braid atop her head, strands of silver catching the moonlight. She looked younger than she was—her face carefully maintained, elegant, and proud, but her eyes, a piercing steel-blue, held years of scrutiny and judgment.

Her gaze softened when it fell on him.

"You've been avoiding me again."

Lance offered a weak smile. "You know how things have been."

She stepped forward, arms folding neatly across her chest. "There's always something, Lance. The court, the council, your duties as heir... but never enough time for your mother."

He sighed and gestured to the bench beside the old elm. "Walk with me?"

She nodded, and together they moved slowly through the garden, silent for a moment.

"I heard about the assassin," she said at last, voice like silk sliding across steel. "And the drink."

"Everyone heard about the drink," Lance muttered. "But not everyone knows about the assassin."

"I do," she replied, eyes flickering toward him. "Alexander was quick to inform the court the next morning. Typical of him."

He stiffened slightly.

"I don't want to talk about him."

"Neither do I," she said sharply. "But I'm forced to hear his name daily, see him in your father's court, in your shadow, pretending he belongs. I still remember the day Julian brought him here. Filthy little boy with dust on his face and a silence in his eyes. I knew even then he'd rot this family from the inside."

Lance didn't respond immediately. Instead, he traced a finger along the back of the bench, his mind somewhere far from the garden.

"He's stronger than people realize," Lance murmured, almost reluctantly. "He beat Eryc badly the other day in training.

Elaria scoffed. "Strength is nothing without blood. He's no son of mine, and no true prince. He'll never wear a crown, no matter how many boys he bruises in the courtyard."

He looked at her, not angry, not defensive. Just tired. "Mother... I know you never asked for him to be here. But he's still family, even if you don't want him to be."

"I wanted a peaceful home for my son," she snapped, then softened. "You deserved better. You deserved... more. Not a drunken father and a bastard half-brother who takes your victories and poisons your name behind your back."

Lance let out a breath, slow and quiet. He didn't want to argue tonight. The moon was too soft, and the garden too peaceful.

They sat in silence for a moment.

"I miss when you were young," she said suddenly, voice quieter. "When your feet barely reached the floor and you'd sneak into my chambers just to lie beside me. Do you remember?"

He smiled faintly. "You'd hum that lullaby... the old sea song."

She began to hum it then, the notes low and warm. Lance closed his eyes, the melody washing over him like rain on old stone.

"When your father returned from war that first time," she continued, "you were four. You stood at the top of the stairs, clutching your wooden sword, and shouted at him to go away."

He laughed, the memory vivid. "I remember. I didn't recognize him. I thought he was a bandit."

"He stank of blood and sweat," she said, nose wrinkling. "He tried to pick you up, but you bit him."

"Some things never change."

They both chuckled, and for a moment, the sharp edges between them dulled.

Elaria reached out and took his hand gently. Her fingers were cool and delicate, her rings cold against his skin.

"You've grown into something I can be proud of, Lance. No matter how twisted this kingdom becomes."

He glanced sideways at her, brow furrowing.

"Sometimes I wonder if I'm really strong enough for all this," he admitted. "People bow, and smile, and offer gifts, but they don't see me. Not really. I get drunk, and they laugh like it's part of the show. They don't know what it's like to wonder if you'll ever live up to anything. To anyone."

Elaria turned to face him, her expression suddenly fierce.

"You listen to me, Lancelot Dragonsbane," she said, voice firm. "You are the heir. The true-born son of a king. You are more than a boy with a name. You have me, and whatever anyone else says, whatever he says—Julian, Alexander, anyone—you are already more than they'll ever be."

He looked away, jaw tight.

She softened again, her voice low. "Just... don't lose yourself. Not in the drink. Not in guilt. And not in loneliness."

Lance didn't respond. Instead, he stood and offered her his hand. She took it, rising to her feet with the grace of a queen.

"I should go," he said. "Eryc's likely still swinging at trees. I promised I'd meet him in the morning."

She nodded and placed a hand gently on his cheek.

"Then go," she said. "But don't forget where your strength comes from. And don't forget I'm still here. Even if the world forgets me, you won't."

He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.

"I won't," he whispered. "Goodnight, Mother."

She watched him walk away beneath the stars, her fingers curling around the silver pendant at her throat—a symbol of her old house, long forgotten in the halls of power. Her eyes didn't follow the stars or the flowers.

They followed him, her son, her only one left in this cold, poisoned castle.

And though the Queen of the realm had many enemies...

...in that moment, she had one thing left to love.