The sun had barely sank itself beyond the cloud-crested peaks of Miravalia, and still, the warmth of celebration lingered in the air like the tail-end of a melody. It had been just a day since the Mages' Celebration, a grand festivity honoring the victors and initiates of the recent Legion Challenge. The kingdom rejoiced, unaware of the rumbling tensions that brewed beneath the polished stone halls of Eldor and the heavy banners of the Nexum Sanctum (The Mage Quarters).
•••
At the Dragon's Spur, nestled along the eastern ridge like a lion keeping watch, Stanley's room was in disarray.
Jacqueline folded a tunic with meticulous care, her soft hands brushing the edge of a stitched hem. Nicholas sat cross-legged by a half-filled trunk, holding up a rolled scroll and waving it lazily like a fan.
"Do you even know what this is?" Nick asked, peering over it at Stanley.
"Not really," Stanley replied with a half-smirk, reclining deeper into his feather-stuffed cot. "Might be the code of honor or the food menu."
"You're hopeless," Jacqueline murmured with affectionate annoyance, gently stacking folded clothes into the trunk beside her. "Are you really going to let us do all the packing?"
"I'm just... conserving energy," Stanley offered in defense.
"I am not your maid," Jacqueline said, raising an eyebrow.
Nick grinned,while Stanley said,"What's the point of having friends if you can't exploit them?"
Nick chuckled, letting his head drop back against the wall. "Fool."
"Anyways, I'm sure if we leave you to pack yourself, you'll show up at the Sanctum with a spoon, a sock, and the wrong boots," Jacqueline replied to Stanley.
They laughed—soft, easy laughter—the kind only close bonds can make light enough to dance through the air.
Trevor entered the room just then, lugging a small leather satchel and his training spear strapped to his back. He paused by the doorway, observing them for a second.
"So, I'm late to the party?" he asked.
Jacqueline turned. "Only by half an hour."
Trevor dropped the bag and walked in. "Good. I was afraid I'd miss the part where Stanley tries to smuggle a chicken into the Nexum Sanctum."
"I was just telling them how I plan to tame one and use it as a mount," Stanley quipped.
They all shared another round of quiet laughter, the kind that eased the pressure from old wounds.
Suddenly, the heavy door creaked open.
A servant of Dragon's Spur entered, eyes wide but not afraid. His hands were clasped nervously.
They all turned. Behind the servant came a wave of silence, and within it entered the gleaming figure of Princess Evelyn Ian.
The candlelight from the sconces shimmered across her flowing ivory robes. Her braid was tucked behind one ear, her posture regal but calm.
Stanley rose abruptly, startled. His bed was untidy, his floor cluttered, and a young woman—Jacqueline—was in the room with three boys. This wasn't exactly a scene fit for a royal audience.
Evelyn's gaze swept over the clutter. "So this is the room of the boy who swallowed lightening," she said with a raised brow.
"Welcome to my palace of chaos," he said, sarcastically bowing. The others stood, smiling, behind him.
I came to visit Uncle Derek," she added smoothly. "But I figured I'd drop by and check in on an old playmate..."
Stanley blinked. "You still remember those days? I don't think I do vividly."
"I never forget sword fights in the courtyard," she said, her voice softening. "Or the boy who always claimed he'd become stronger than his father." She was talking to Trevor now.
"I still plan to." Trevor's reply came with a small, proud grin.
Stanley nodded, "He's in the study. I'll take you."
He led her through the Dragon's Spur, halls painted with the age of honor and legend. He led her down the spiraling corridor of the Spur, where each stone step echoed with a soft resonance. The air was filled with the scent of burning lavender and aged parchment. The path to his father's study felt long, like walking through memory itself. When they entered, Lord Derek Ardo looked up from his desk, eyes tired but warm.
Derek Ardo's study was carved into the uppermost alcove of the keep, a semi-circular chamber with high-arched windows that opened to the northern wind. Within it, scrolls and weapons shared the same shelf, and near the hearth hung a single relic: a long, ornate sword etched with golden patterns that seemed to hum faintly.
"Uncle Derek," Evelyn greeted, her voice light.
"Evelyn," Lord Ardo said with a smile. "It's been too long you've been here. The Spur missed you." He paused for a moment,then said. "What are you doing here?"
Stanley stood quietly as the two exchanged pleasantries like old friends. It unnerved him slightly—he hadn't realized how close his father and the princess really were. The weight of lineage settled heavily in the air.
Evelyn's eyes caught the blade hanging on the wall. She moved to it slowly, drawn to its beauty. The sword shimmered with an imaginary celestial glow, thin etchings of flame and wind spiraling along its hilt.
"It's beautiful," she murmured. "This beautiful," she whispered, stepping toward it. The blade was pure, untouched by rust or time. The hilt shimmered like white gold, and a blue gem nestled at its center.
Derek followed her eyes. "It's called Embergaze," he said.
"Was it yours?"
"No," he replied. "It belonged to my grandfather. He was the first Ardo to wield it. The sword was made with the strongest metal in Dawnforge by the Lord of Dawnforge hold then."
Stanley stepped closer. "Why's it here then? Why not in the royal armory?"
Derek studied him for a long moment.
"Because," he said, taking the sword down from its place, "it waits for another willing hand. Only a true mage, of spirit and resolve, should unsheathe it. And only one who carries the burden of the kingdom may wield it."
Evelyn's hand hovered over the blade, but she didn't touch it again. Instead, she turned to Stanley, her eyes expectant.
Derek held the sword out to his son.
Stanley blinked. "You want me to—?"
"You've already proven yourself," Derek said. "You fight not for glory but for those who cannot. That is why Embergaze will answer to you."
Stanley reached out and took the blade. It was heavy—not just in weight, but in meaning. He tried to pull it from its sheath. It moved easily, as if recognizing its new bearer.
The blade gleamed like morning fire, singing quietly in the room's hush.
Derek nodded. "It's yours now. Carry it with the memory of our blood, the strength of our name, and the will of those who will look to you and see hope."
Stanley nodded slowly, clutching the sword to his side.
They said nothing more.