Blood soaked the soil of Luxaris.
A crimson tide lapped at the ankles of weary men as they stepped gingerly over the fallen—friends and foes alike, their faces frozen in pain, peace, or terror. Spears jutted from the ground like skeletal trees, and the air stank of iron and ash. The clang of steel had faded into silence, broken only by the moans of the dying and the crunch of boots in the mud.
A man stood amidst the wreckage—tall, motionless, eyes scanning. He wore a jagged black breastplate polished to a muted shine, now slick with blood not his own. His short-messy black hair was matted, his mouth set in a grim line. Those brown eyes were calculating and cold, belonging to a mind honed by strategy and hardened by years of war.
He was general Alexander.
He shifted slightly as three enemy soldiers—Luxarian, by their gilded pauldrons and slender sabers—formed a loose circle around him. Their faces were taut with desperation. This was no glorious charge. This was survival.
One lunged.
Alexander spun—graceful as a dancer, lethal as a reaper. His blade hissed through air and flesh, severing the man's throat in a clean arc. The soldier fell before he knew he was dead.
Before the others could flinch, Alexander unslung the crossbow from his back with smooth efficiency. A click. A whistle. The second soldier dropped, an iron bolt embedded in his eye. Blood sprayed his companion.
Alexander tossed the crossbow aside. It hit the ground with a dull clatter, forgotten.
The third soldier trembled as he raised his sword. Alexander advanced, boots squelching through gore, his long black cloak fluttering like a shadow behind him.
Their blades met—steel clashing with an explosive ring.
The Luxarian fought with the desperate strength of a man who feared death. He slashed, thrust, pivoted. Alexander parried each strike with ruthless precision. The General toyed with him, testing, watching. Then he feinted left, ducked a counter, and buried his blade deep in the soldier's gut. The man gasped, eyes wide, and collapsed into the muck.
Alexander stepped back, breathing steady, blood trickling down his cheek from a shallow cut. His armor gleamed in the sun as screams gave way to silence.
He looked around.
The battle had ended.
In the distance, the banners of Luxaris were crumbling. Their remaining soldiers were throwing down weapons and fleeing toward the hills. Smoke rose from burning siege towers, curling into the pale blue sky like a funeral dirge.
A horse thundered toward him, hooves churning blood and mud. A Dragonsvale rider reined in beside him.
"General Alexander!" the man barked, eyes wide with disbelief. "The enemy is retreating! Usifar of Luxaris sends word—he wishes to discuss terms."
Alexander wiped his blade on a fallen cloak, his face unreadable.
"A deal, now?" he said, his voice low and rasping. "After eight years of slaughter?"
The soldier nodded. "He'll surrender most of the kingdom in exchange for his life."
Alexander laughed, cold and humorless, spitting a thick strand of blood from his lips. It wasn't his.
"About time."
---
One Day Later
The capital city of Dragonsvale, Highreach, pulsed with life.
The war was over, and tonight was the celebration. The King's Square had been transformed into a glittering sea of banners and lanterns. Golden ribbons hung from every tower, music rang through the streets, and nobles and commoners alike danced in the warmth of victory.
Lance of House Dragonsbane arrived late.
He strode through the arched gates wearing a finely cut doublet the color of the summer sky, his sword still buckled at his hip out of habit. Tall, broad-shouldered, and strikingly handsome, with golden-blonde hair tied back in a loose bun, he looked every inch the prince and none of the arrogance.
Ocean-blue eyes scanned the crowd. His mouth curled into a familiar, boyish grin.
"LANCE!"
He turned just in time to catch the flying tackle of his younger brother.
Prince Rowan, two years his junior and already taller than most knights, wrapped him in a bear hug that nearly knocked the wind from his lungs. His dark auburn hair was windswept and wild, his sharp brown eyes alight with mischief.
"You're late!" Rowan said, releasing him. "You missed the part where a drunk knight tried to challenge a bard to a duel. Over a potato pie."
Lance laughed, brushing dust off his tunic. "Tragic. A duel of honor, no doubt."
"Clearly. I almost joined in."
"Don't tempt me. I'd put money on the pie."
The brothers chuckled, drawing smiles from nearby courtiers. Even in peace, Lance and Rowan were a spectacle—two halves of a royal trinity that had earned the love of the realm.
A hush fell over the crowd as the eldest child approached.
Princess Seraphina, heir of House Dragonsbane.
She glided through the party like a moonbeam in silk. Her dress shimmered with silver threads, and her long golden curls cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of light. Seraphina's beauty was legend—known in three kingdoms—but her spirit, optimistic and unspoiled, was what made her shine.
"Lance!" she said, voice as musical as the lyres behind her. "I'm glad you came. The celebration isn't the same without your brooding presence and dry wit."
"Wouldn't miss it," Lance replied, kissing her hand.
"I'm trying to charm the Ambassador of Eastfall into sending us their winter wine," she whispered. "Don't distract me with your cheekbones."
"Perish the thought."
They laughed, and for the first time in years, it felt like the shadow of war had truly lifted.
Nobles mingled. Soldiers drank. Fireworks burst above the castle, painting the night sky in reds and golds. Lance moved among them, speaking to lords, thanking guards, dancing with a giggling baroness who couldn't stop staring into his eyes. His warmth was effortless—never boastful, never distant. For all his titles, he was simply Lance.
He found himself talking to Sir Garrin, the knight commander, and to old Lady Meryl, who once taught him to read. Even the stableboys smiled when he passed.
Everyone, it seemed, loved Prince Lance.
And then the horns sounded.
The king had arrived.
The crowd parted like waves. A hush fell once more.
King Julian IV strode up the marble steps of the dais, clad in midnight armor trimmed with dragonscale. A crimson cloak billowed behind him, and his graying black beard was neatly trimmed. His eyes—steel-gray and sharp as ever—surveyed his people.
Lance looked up at his father, a man who had ruled through fire and blood, who had lost friends and made enemies to keep Dragonsvale whole.
Julian raised a gauntleted hand.
"My people," he began, his voice deep, regal. "Tonight, we celebrate victory. Not the conquest of land… but the survival of honor."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the square.
"For eight years, we fought tyranny. We watched villages burn, sons fall, and dreams wither. But we endured. We endured because we are Dragonsvale—strong as the mountains, unyielding as the wind. No tyrant, no king, no cursed god will ever conquer us."
The crowd roared.
Julian's gaze swept over his family. His daughter, radiant. His youngest son, beaming with pride. And his firstborn son—Lancelot—standing tall, a quiet strength in a world of noise.
"I give thanks to those who bled. To those who led. And to those who never gave up hope. Tonight, Dragonsvale becomes the greatest kingdom in the land. Not because of gold or glory—but because of you."
He raised his sword high.
"To peace!"
The crowd echoed as one.
"TO PEACE! "
---
The celebration was fading into memory.
Where once music and laughter spilled from every corner of the square, now only the low murmurs of parting guests and the occasional clatter of a dropped goblet lingered in the night air. Bonfires smoldered in the distance, their flames flickering like dying stars beneath the vast black sky.
Prince Lancelot Dragonsbane stood near the edge of the grand hall, breathing in the quiet. His royal-blue tunic was stained with wine, his boots scuffed from hours of dancing, and his voice hoarse from endless conversation. The scent of rose oil, sweat, and cooked meats clung to the marble.
He was ready to leave—his limbs heavy with exhaustion and his mind aching from pleasantries—when a familiar voice called from behind him.
"Leaving already, my son?"
Lance turned, surprised to see his father still lingering. King Julian IV stood tall in his dark formal cloak, the gold threading around the neck catching the soft light. His crown had been removed, replaced by the quiet authority of a man who no longer needed one.
Lance bowed his head respectfully. "You outlasted even the drunkest barons, Father."
Julian smirked. "The will of a king is stronger than that of a barrel."
They both laughed, a rare shared moment of ease between sovereign and heir.
"Well?" the king asked, resting his hands behind his back. "Was it a party worthy of a prince?"
Lance tilted his head with a tired grin. "It was a party worthy of a king."
Their laughter echoed down the hall, where only a few servants remained, collecting plates and righting overturned chairs.
"Come," Julian said, gesturing with a tilt of his head. "Walk with me."
Lance followed without hesitation, their boots clicking in unison against the stone. The king led him up a narrow spiral stair, past a pair of armored guards who bowed in silence, until they emerged onto one of the palace's outer balconies.
Before them sprawled Dragonsvale's capital—Highreach—a patchwork of slate rooftops, crooked chimneys, and winding cobbled streets, glowing under the torchlit night. Just beyond the immense outer walls, the lights of the surrounding village shimmered like stars fallen to earth.
Lance leaned on the railing, gazing out in reverent silence. A cool wind brushed against his face.
"Out there," the king said softly, "are the real heroes."
Lance nodded. "The ones who fed the army when there was no grain. Who buried the dead when we could not look upon them. Who held on to hope while we drowned in war."
Julian looked at his son, pride deep in his eyes. "You haven't forgotten."
"Never," Lance replied, voice low and sincere. "I may fight with a blade, but they fight every day to survive."
The king was quiet for a moment, watching the stars twinkle above the village roofs. Then he turned to Lance.
"I want you to go out there tomorrow. Not with guards or banners. No fanfare. Just you. Walk their streets, talk to them. Shake hands. Listen. Show them the prince they've heard stories about is more than just a name in song."
Lance straightened, surprised by the request. "You want me to… live among them?"
"Not live," the king said. "But understand. They are not your subjects—they are your people. And if one day, the crown rests on your brow, they must believe in you as they once believed in me."
Lance nodded slowly, the weight of the words settling on his shoulders. "Of course. I'll leave with the morning light."
Julian smiled faintly, then paused.
"General Alexander will return in three days' time," he said, his voice shifting into something colder. "He marches with the army through the western gates. Be prepared."
At the name, Lance's breath caught.
The wind suddenly felt sharper.
Julian noticed the change instantly. His eyes narrowed, studying his son like a general assessing a hesitant soldier.
"Lance," the king said firmly, "he may be my child, but he is not of our house. A bastard born of war and mistake. He was given a sword and made a name, nothing more."
Lance didn't speak, his gaze locked on the village beyond the walls.
"Do not let fear of him grow roots," Julian said quietly. "He is not your brother. He is a survivor. And survivors will always challenge the world that forgot them."
Lance nodded. "Yes, Father."
The king turned to leave, his black cloak sweeping the floor.
But then he stopped—abruptly.
Lance noticed. "Is something wrong?"
Julian didn't face him. His back remained turned, shoulders stiff.
"Also, Lance," the king said, his voice heavy, distant. "I know you're young… and adventurous."
A long pause.
"Just be careful. Don't overstep your boundaries. Don't make the same mistakes I did."
And with that, he walked away, the sound of his boots fading into the shadows of the castle.
Lance stood there for several minutes, unmoving. The breeze tugged at his cloak. His eyes, still staring into the distant village, clouded with thought.
Does he know about Panthia? he wondered.
He shook the thought away and turned to leave.
The hallways were darker now, lit only by flickering sconces. His footsteps echoed softly as he made his way toward his chambers.
And then, without warning—a memory.
A younger Lance—no older than seven—standing in the main hall, crying silently.
In front of him, two armored soldiers dragged away a boy with black hair and fierce eyes, screaming, fighting to stay. He was only a year older than Lance. He shouted something—Lance's name, maybe—but his voice was drowned out by the soldiers' shouting.
The door slammed shut. Lance remembered the sound.
The scene twisted.
Another memory—darker.
A woman stood atop a wooden platform. Her clothes were ripped from her body. She was beaten, whipped, spit on. People jeered from below, their eyes full of hate and lust. Her face was bruised beyond recognition, but Lance remembered the color of her eyes.
That image had haunted him for years.
He stumbled slightly, colliding with someone.
"Oh!" a voice gasped. "Forgive me, Your Highness."
It was a maid—young, perhaps just past her teens, with curly brown hair and tired eyes. She quickly stepped back, bowing.
"No, forgive me," Lance said at once, recovering his posture. "I wasn't watching where I was going. Seems I've had one too many glasses of wine tonight."
The maid smiled gently. "You still walk straighter than most. Would you like help finding your room?"
Lance returned the smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, thank you. I'm not that drunk. Yet."
They both chuckled. The air between them lightened for a moment before Lance nodded respectfully and continued down the hall.
His thoughts returned, dark and circling.
Alexander.
He could see his face in the memory so clearly—bloody, screaming, defiant.
"I wonder if you've changed," Lance whispered to himself as he reached the doors of his chamber.
He paused with his hand on the handle, eyes distant, haunted.
Then he stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him.