The stone walls of Lance's chamber seemed colder tonight than usual. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the room, dancing over the rough-hewn surfaces of what had once been a crumbling old house, now reforged into a modest home for the king. Despite the recent renovations—fresh oak beams, a reinforced door, clean linen draped over a straw mattress—it still carried the scent of the past: dust, stone, and faint smoke from a long-dead fire.
Lance sat at the edge of his bed, hunched over slightly, shirtless and blood-specked bandages wrapped tightly around his stomach. The wound throbbed with every breath—a long, nasty gash that carved diagonally across his abdomen—but he grit his teeth through it. He couldn't show weakness, not now. Not with so many eyes watching.
He exhaled slowly, lying back onto the mattress. His body ached. His muscles burned with fatigue. But the pain was nothing compared to the exhaustion in his mind. He closed his eyes, letting the silence lull him, and drifted into memory. Only a few days ago, life had felt lighter. No blades to dodge. No burdens to carry. He wasn't forced to be king every second of every day. He could just… exist.
A sudden knock pulled him from the brink of sleep.
Lance sat up slowly, grimacing as the pain in his side protested. "Who is it?" he called out.
A voice answered, hesitant but familiar. "It's Eryc."
Lance relaxed a little and leaned back against the wall behind him. "Come in."
The door creaked open. Eryc stepped inside, the torchlight catching on his short chestnut brown hair and casting a soft glow across his face. He wore a simple tunic and breeches, but his posture was tense, his eyes serious.
"Have you been doing okay, sire?" Eryc asked, his voice uncertain.
Lance gave a small shake of his head. "Just call me Lance. And yeah… I've been feeling a lot better."
It was a lie. A well-practiced one. One he'd told to almost everyone these past few days.
Eryc gave a hesitant nod, then glanced down at the floor. "And your wounds?"
Lance gave a half-hearted shrug. "Healing. Slowly."
Another pause hung between them before Lance tilted his head. "That's not why you're here, is it?"
Eryc looked up, guilt and grief mingling in his expression. "No, it's not. I came to say I'm sorry. For back in the village. For how I acted toward Alexander."
Lance stayed quiet, watching him.
Eryc continued, his hands clenching at his sides. "Because of my arrogance, you had to step in. You got hurt because of me."
Lance opened his mouth to speak, but Eryc wasn't finished.
"And… I'm sorry for my anger. It's just… he showed me my father's severed head. Just—just held it up like it meant nothing. I still can't get that image out of my head. The rage—it hasn't left me."
His fists trembled. His jaw clenched.
Lance nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving the boy. Then he reached to the side of the bed, where a long cloth-wrapped item lay propped against the wall. He stood, suppressing a grunt of pain, and carefully lifted the weapon.
He turned and held it out to Eryc.
The younger knight hesitated before stepping forward. He took the sword with both hands and unraveled the cloth.
His eyes widened.
The blade shimmered in the firelight—dark steel with veins of gold, the edge honed to lethal perfection. The hilt was carved with sigils of his house, and the metal felt heavy with memory.
"This… this was my father's blade," he whispered.
Lance nodded. "It's lined with dragonite. Forged in Dragonsvile, just like Alexander's breastplate. Your father was the only knight in the court who wielded one of these."
Eryc ran his fingers along the flat of the blade, breathless. "Are you sure I should have it?"
Lance stepped closer and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Yes. Your father died protecting me. He stood between me and death without a moment's hesitation. He was a good man—one of the best I've ever known. I've no doubt he's watching over you now."
A tear slipped down Eryc's cheek, unbidden.
Lance let the moment settle before speaking again, his voice softer now. "He would be proud of you. Not just for your strength, but for your humility. For recognizing your mistakes. That takes courage. And because of that… I believe you'll be an even greater knight than your father was."
Eryc swallowed hard, blinking back more tears.
Lance stepped back and looked him square in the eyes. "But I need you to make me a promise. One you've already made before. That you'll become the strongest knight in the kingdom, and that you'll stand by your king's side—not just like your father, but better."
Eryc nodded, this time with conviction. "I promise. I won't fail you."
Lance smiled faintly, releasing his shoulder. "Then what are you still doing here? Get out there and train."
Eryc gave a short, respectful nod, then turned and walked out, clutching the sword like a sacred relic.
When the door shut behind him, Lance sat back down slowly. His stomach flared with pain, but for the first time that day, his heart felt a little lighter.
He laid back against the stone wall, letting the silence return. The torch continued to flicker, shadows dancing across the ceiling.
And for a moment, Lance allowed himself to feel something close to peace.
---
The night air was crisp, the moon casting silver light across the forest camp where soldiers, civilians, and royals alike had been forced to build a temporary home after the fall of the capital. Thorn, the once dirt-covered peasant turned head of food supplies, stood among the makeshift kitchens with sleeves rolled high and eyes sharper than blades.
He had taken this position with a deep and personal vow—to serve with a level of care and dedication that no one, noble or not, had ever seen before. Lance had trusted him, of all people, with a responsibility many wouldn't dare give a former peasant. That faith was everything to Thorn, and he would not let it be misplaced.
The air carried the scent of bread, herbs, and a bubbling stew that would be served to Prince Rowan, Princess Seraphina, and King Lancelot himself. Thorn walked the line of cooks like a general inspecting troops, eyes never resting long on one thing, always scanning.
That's when he saw him.
Roderic, a stocky man in his late twenties with a thick neck and a stubbled jaw, was stirring a pot far too deliberately. Beads of sweat trickled down his face. Thorn narrowed his eyes.
Odd. It wasn't hot tonight. The fires were tame, the breeze constant. Why was Roderic sweating like a pig under the sun?
Thorn stepped closer, arms crossed. "Evening, Roderic. Everything alright?"
Roderic didn't look up. "Fine. Just tired."
Thorn tilted his head. "Tired doesn't make you sweat like that. Not at night."
Still, the man didn't look away from the pot. His stirring was slow, too careful, like he was memorizing the movements.
"What's in the pot?" Thorn asked.
"Stew. Rabbit, herbs, root vegetables," Roderic mumbled. "Same as usual."
Thorn stepped closer. "You sure?"
Roderic finally glanced at him—briefly—then went back to stirring. "Course I'm sure."
There was a strange twitch in his jaw. Thorn's eyes narrowed further.
"How about you try a taste for me?"
Roderic froze for a fraction of a second. Then, slowly, he reached for the ladle. His hand shook slightly. He brought it to his lips and sipped.
He swallowed.
The taste must have been fine, but the sweat on his brow increased. His eyes darted nervously to Thorn, who studied him with growing suspicion.
Why so nervous if the food was clean?
And yet he ate it. Why would a man trying to poison the king willingly eat the same food?
"Alright," Thorn said, scratching his chin. "You don't look well. Go get some rest. I'll take over here."
Roderic hesitated, then gave a tight nod and set the ladle down. "If you say so."
As Roderic turned away, Thorn turned as well. But a strange feeling pricked at the back of his neck—the type of feeling you get when you know something isn't right.
He turned.
Roderic lunged, knife gleaming in his hand.
Thorn ducked instinctively. The blade sliced the air where his head had just been. He tackled the man into the wall of the kitchen tent, knocking over pots and pans. The clash echoed like a gong in the forest.
The two men tumbled to the ground, fists flying. Roderic grunted as Thorn slammed an elbow into his side. The knife skittered across the floor. Thorn tried to reach for it, but Roderic yanked him back by the collar.
They rolled.
Thorn's head slammed against the floor. Stars exploded in his vision. Roderic got on top, fists raised, but Thorn grabbed a nearby pot and smashed it into the side of Roderic's head. The man fell sideways with a grunt.
Thorn scrambled to his feet, but Roderic recovered quickly, snatching the knife back. His eyes burned with fury and desperation.
"You were going to let the king eat that," Thorn snarled.
"You don't understand," Roderic hissed, and charged.
Thorn grabbed a ladle—the only thing in reach—and tried to block the attack. The blade cut through it with ease. Thorn kicked Roderic in the gut, sending him stumbling backward.
Thorn charged and slammed into him, shoulder-first, sending them both crashing through the door of the tent.
Wood splintered.
They hit the dirt outside. Roderic still had the knife.
He scrambled up, panting. Thorn did too, just a few feet away.
The knife glinted in the moonlight.
Thorn clenched his fists. He couldn't rush him. Not like this.
He stepped forward. Roderic mirrored him.
Step. Step.
Thorn feinted left, swung right—but Roderic was ready, slashing and missing Thorn's chest by inches.
Thorn backed up.
Roderic advanced, wild-eyed. "You don't understand! You don't know what he's done!"
Thorn raised his fists. "I don't care. You tried to poison a man who saved our people."
Roderic lunged.
Thorn flinched back.
Then came a loud THUNK.
Roderic's eyes widened, then rolled back as he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
Behind him stood Axel, the towering knight. In his hand was a thick branch, freshly broken from a tree.
"What the hell is going on here?" Axel asked, voice gravelly.
Thorn, panting hard, looked down at the unconscious body. "He tried to poison the king."
Axel raised a brow, looking between Thorn and Roderic. "Then it's good I was passing by."
Thorn looked at the broken door, the overturned pots, and his own bloodied knuckles. He breathed deeply.
He had promised to do his best. And tonight, that meant protecting the king with more than food.