The training yard shifted again. A circle was drawn in the dirt, and the instructor barked,
"Sparring! One round, clean strikes only, no hits to the face. Hold your ground or yield."
Fletcher took his place, adjusting the straps of his leather vest and tightening his grip on the wooden sword. His heart thudded hard in his chest, but he kept his face blank.
"Fletcher Waydell," the instructor called. "Versus… Callen Briswick."
A murmur rippled through the spectators. Callen was a noble boy, son of a minor baron, broad as a gate and thick through the middle. He stepped into the ring with a smug grin, sword resting against his shoulder. His helmet was too tight, pushing his cheeks up like rising dough.
Fletcher swallowed, keeping his focus.
Callen snorted. "This'll be quick."
"Bow," the instructor commanded.
They bowed.
"Begin!"
Callen came in heavy, swinging wide and hard, no finesse, just brute strength.
Fletcher danced back, letting the blow whiff past him. He didn't try to meet strength with strength, that would be foolish. Instead, he sidestepped again, keeping his shield raised and eyes locked on Callen's footing. Another charge. This time Fletcher deflected with his shield and jabbed forward, not to strike hard, but to break rhythm.
Callen stumbled slightly.
"Come on, don't be scared!" he growled.
Fletcher wasn't scared. He was patient.
Callen charged again, sword high, shield down.
Fletcher ducked and lunged, tapping the boy's side with a clean hit before darting away.
"Point!" the instructor called.
The crowd let out an impressed cheer.
Sapphire exhaled softly, her fingers tight around the wooden rail. Her heart swelled.
Callen grew red, humiliated. He roared and charged sloppily.
Fletcher spun low, sidestepped, and smacked the flat of his sword against the back of Callen's knee.
The bigger boy dropped to the dirt with a thud.
"Point! Match over!"
Callen let out a frustrated groan, but the rules were clear.
Fletcher stood tall, breathing fast but steady, his face unreadable.
Sapphire couldn't help herself.
The moment the knight raised Fletcher's arm and declared him the winner of the sparring round, she was already moving.
"You did it, Fletcher!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.
Heads turned, nobles raised brows, a few whispered, clearly disapproving of her presence, of her breeches, of her volume.
She didn't care.
Fletcher turned at the sound of her voice, eyes wide, still catching his breath. She ran to him, boots skidding a little in the dirt, and threw her arms around him before he could react.
He stood stiff for a heartbeat, then slowly hugged her back.
"You were amazing," she whispered. "That footwork? The strike? You were brilliant."
He pulled back, flushed but beaming just a little. "You saw that?"
"I saw everything." She smoothed his ruffled hair. "I knew you had it in you."
Some of the noble parents exchanged amused or scandalized looks, and the instructor cleared his throat loudly, but Sapphire just gave them a pointed glare.
Fletcher grinned.
Then he whispered, "That was for you. For the handkerchief."
She smiled back. "Well, Sir Fletcher… you earned it."
"You know what? I'm going to treat you to a proper meal after this. You deserve it."
Fletcher's eyes lit up, the hint of a shy smile breaking through.
"You mean it?"
"Absolutely. A feast fit for a knight in training."
She winked, making Fletcher laugh softly as the crowd's chatter resumed around them.
***
The heavy oak doors of Lord Hugh's manor creaked closed behind the last of the Lords, sealing the chamber in a cloak of candlelit shadows. The sprawling hall, adorned with ancient tapestries and flickering sconces, seemed to pulse with centuries of unspoken power. Tonight, it would witness the plotting of fate itself.
Lord Hugh, the host, sat at the head of the long obsidian table, his sharp eyes scanning the faces that bore the weight of the kingdom's survival. Around him, the Lords assembled: Lord Typhon, the master of taxation and levies; Lord Cassian, the shrewd dealmaker and old enemy to Hugh; Lord Rhydell, the enigmatic half-masked envoy to foreign realms; Lord Kael, the venomous snake-bearer with his serpentine companion coiling around his arm; Lord Cain, the dwarf playboy whose charm was as dangerous as any blade; and Lord Zen, the reticent second son with a dark complexion and an even darker mind. Lord Damien, the mute and observant blade. He didn't speak, didn't have to, just agreed.
The air was thick with tension, as thick as the dread pooling in each heart.
Lord Hugh raised a hand, silencing the murmurs.
"We are here to deliberate the grave threats that shadow our kind: the creeping barrenness, the unrelenting drought, and the political isolation we face. Our ancient alliances crumble as foreign powers seek to sever us from influence and knowledge. Each issue festers like a wound upon our lands. We must act swiftly, yet with cunning."
Lord Typhon, his voice a gravelly rumble, leaned forward. "The drought has sapped our reservoirs and crops. The coffers are strained from taxing the people heavily, yet the people grow restless. We must balance revenue with relief."
Lord Zen, ever the silent observer, began quietly clipping his nails with a golden cutter, a habit when deep in thought. His voice finally broke the murmurs, cold and precise. "We possess knowledge of fertility rites and weather manipulation, but our access is limited. Our isolation deepens; the more we are cut off, the harder it is to find solutions."
Lord Kael's serpent coiled tighter. "And if we do not break this isolation?"
Lord Typhon's gaze darkened. "Then the drought will worsen, the people will starve, and our power will crumble."
The Lords exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity settling like a shroud.
Lord Hugh lifted his hand once more. "We propose a delicate plan. A delegation, disguised as merchants and diplomats, will approach potential allies beyond our borders in secret. We will restore alliances quietly, secure knowledge, and bring our kind back into the fold without alerting our enemies."
Lord Rhydell nodded. "I will oversee this mission personally."
"Very well," Lord Cassian said with a thin smile. "Meanwhile, I will accelerate trade negotiations to fund these efforts. The drought and alchemical research require gold."
Lord Cain raised his goblet. "And I will ensure our social connections remain strong. Our enemies must never suspect weakness."
Lord Kael's serpent flicked its tongue, eyes gleaming with malice. "Taxation is but a temporary fix. The true solution lies in the old sciences, alchemy. If we harness the elixirs of fertility and weather, we could restore what nature has withdrawn."
Lord Rhydell, his half-mask reflecting the candlelight in cold shards, nodded thoughtfully. "I have sent envoys beyond our borders, seeking the alchemists of the Western realms. They are secretive, but their knowledge is unparalleled. However, our political isolation complicates this."
"Indeed," Lord Typhon agreed. "Our isolation threatens trade, military support, and, crucially, the flow of alchemical knowledge."
Lord Cassian's sharp gaze cut across the room. "Our enemies work to sever us from the wider world, introducing 'civilization' on their terms. We must not let this happen."
Lord Cain chuckled darkly, swirling wine in his goblet. "Perhaps we need to remind them of the cost of defiance. Strategic liaisons and subtle seductions can go far where armies cannot."
Laughter echoed briefly but was quelled by Lord Hugh's stern voice. "This is no game of frivolity. The threats to our kind are existential."
Lord Kael's serpent hissed softly as he added, "The alchemists must be found and persuaded, or coerced."
Lord Zen's sharp nails clicked against the table. "Time is against us. The barrenness spreads, the people suffer, and our kingdom's stability wavers. We must act with unity."
Lord Hugh's voice was resolute, sealing their pact. "These plans will be taken to the king. Though he is preoccupied with the upcoming ball and matters of court, he must be made to understand that our survival depends on these actions."
The Lords rose, their faces etched with the burden of the night. They understood well: failure would mean extinction, not just of their reign, but of their very kind.
As they filed from the chamber, Lord Zen paused, his golden nail cutter glinting ominously in the candlelight, a silent reminder that even in darkness, every stroke shaped the future.