The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, casting a deep indigo veil over the land. The air was colder now, carrying the weight of war and loss. The soldiers marched with the somber hush of men who had seen too much and yet knew there was more to come. Among them rode Lance, his armor still stained with dust and dried blood. Every hoofbeat was a reminder of the cost they paid to survive another day.
Ahead, the civilian population that had been moved forward was now visible. Tired faces looked up as the army rejoined them. Children clung to their mothers, eyes wide with fear and awe. Lance's horse weaved through the line until he reached Axel, who was quietly taking a head count.
"Numbers?" Lance asked, his voice low but firm.
Axel looked up from his parchment. His eyes were tired, sunken from lack of sleep and the strain of command. "Forty-two dead," he said.
Lance let the number settle in his chest. "Twenty of them being archers."
Axel nodded grimly. "Too many."
Lance exhaled sharply through his nose. "Far too many."
There was a pause between them. The silence wasn't awkward, just heavy.
Axel glanced toward the back of the formation. "I don't think it's a good idea to bring that Zul kifar in with us."
Lance's eyes followed his line of sight. The prisoner walked under heavy guard, hands bound, eyes forward but silent. His expression unreadable.
"Maybe not," Lance said, "but he doesn't pose a threat while guarded, and without weapons. If he has something to offer, information maybe, I'd be a fool to discard that."
"Possibly," Axel replied, his voice thick with doubt.
Lance smirked and looked ahead. "You worry too much, Axel."
Axel frowned. "Sometimes I think you don't worry enough."
That earned a chuckle from Lance. He gently kicked his horse forward and rode off.
His next stop was further back. Panthia rode in silence, her eyes fixed somewhere on the ground ahead. Her bow was slung over her back, her quiver lighter than it had been that morning. She didn't notice Lance until he was beside her.
"You alright?" Lance asked softly.
Panthia looked at him. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Yes."
She paused. "In the heat of battle... it's hard to tell. If I killed anyone. But I probably did."
Her gaze dropped to her hands.
Lance softened. "It's alright. You don't have to be an archer. You can stick with the civilians next time."
She shook her head. "No. It's for you, Lance. It's all for you."
That stopped him cold. The weight of her words struck harder than any blade. He didn't know how to respond. He opened his mouth, but nothing came. So he just nodded, offered her a tight smile, and rode away.
Toward the front of the army now, the wind was stronger. Rowan rode ahead, his red cloak fluttering slightly in the breeze. He turned as Lance approached.
"There he is," Rowan said with a grin. "The great war king, returned to the peasants and priests."
Lance gave him a wry smile. "You did good out there, brother."
Rowan chuckled. "You mean I didn't die. Which, frankly, is a miracle given the odds."
"You've gotten better," Lance said.
"That's what surviving half a dozen battles does to you," Rowan replied. "Either you learn or you get cut in half. I prefer learning."
They rode in silence for a while, watching the road stretch ahead toward Harshaw.
Lance broke the quiet. "Do you think we can trust them? Harshaw?"
Rowan tilted his head. "If you mean their lord, I trust him about as far as I can throw a horse."
"And the people?"
"Scared. Hungry. Tired. They'll follow whoever protects them best."
"Which would be us, for now," Lance said.
"For now," Rowan echoed.
Lance looked at his brother. "We'll have to be careful. If Harshaw turns, we could be trapped."
Rowan nodded. "Then we don't let our guard down. We keep the civilians safe. Keep the archers well-fed. And pray to the gods Julian actually left us something in that city worth using."
Lance smiled faintly. The thought of his father stirred something sour in his stomach.
"We'll figure it out," he said. "We always do."
"Till the day we don't," Rowan replied. "Then we die."
Lance gave him a side glance. "Always the optimist."
Rowan grinned. "Someone has to keep your feet on the ground while your head floats off into the clouds."
The brothers rode in silence for a while, their army slowly winding down the road toward Harshaw. Behind them, the survivors of a bloody skirmish. Ahead of them, uncertainty.
But for now, they had survived. For now, they moved together.
---
The afternoon sun bathed the village of Harshaw in a warm golden hue, casting long shadows across its narrow cobbled streets and white-stone buildings. The banners of Dragonsvale flapped lazily in the soft breeze, the dark dragon flying around a blade. It was a day of peace, though beneath the surface, tensions brewed like a storm waiting to break.
Christian, a young noble of twenty summers, walked gracefully through the village square. He was tall and lean, with neatly trimmed dark blonde hair, sharp hazel eyes, and a strong jawline that hinted at his noble heritage. He wore a deep blue tunic with silver embroidery at the cuffs and collar, the symbol of Dragonsvale stitched proudly on his chest. His gait was confident, but his expression open and warm.
"Morning, Lady Brenna," Christian said with a gentle nod as he passed a kindly woman selling flowers at a wooden stall. She blushed slightly and smiled.
"Good morning, Lord Christian. Off to the Great House again?"
"Indeed," he replied. "I imagine today will be... interesting."
A few paces further, he stopped to help a young boy pick up spilled apples from the ground, smiling warmly as the child thanked him. Around him, villagers and minor nobles alike greeted him with respect and admiration. It was no secret that many saw Christian as the village's future leader, even though his uncle still held the seat of power.
The Great House loomed ahead, built of dark stone and ironwood, a relic of Harshaw's independence. Though the village lay within the borders of Dragonsvale, it was governed independently by its own leader, bearing the title of High Regent. A strange compromise made generations ago that gave Harshaw a degree of autonomy, even under the larger nation's shadow.
Christian arrived at the wide iron doors of the Great House, greeted by two guards in heavy leather armor.
"Lord Christian," one of them said with a nod, pushing the doors open.
Inside, the scent of roasting meat and spiced wine filled the air. The halls were adorned with banners and paintings of Harshaw's long history. At the far end stood Gregory the Second, High Regent of Harshaw, and Christian's uncle.
Gregory was a man of imposing presence, tall and broad-shouldered, with gray-streaked black hair and a trimmed beard. His piercing steel-blue eyes missed nothing, and his robes of deep crimson made him appear more like a warlord than a ruler. Despite being fifty-four, he carried himself with the vigor of a younger man. Most unsettling, however, was the faint but ever-present smirk that played across his lips, as though he found amusement in secrets only he understood.
"Ah, Christian," Gregory said, his voice booming. "Fashionably late, as always."
"Only enough to build anticipation, Uncle," Christian replied with a charming grin, bowing respectfully.
Gregory's laugh echoed off the stone walls. "Come in, boy. The feast begins soon. Tonight, we celebrate."
Christian joined the gathering nobles in the main hall, where tables had been arranged in a great horseshoe around a raised platform. Musicians played lively tunes on flutes and lyres while servants moved through the room with trays of honeyed bread, glazed meats, and mulled cider.
Nobles raised their goblets, exchanging jokes and political gossip. Christian mingled with ease, his presence softening the harsh edge of the nobility. He spoke with Lord Elric, a rotund man with a booming laugh; then Lady Camira, who complimented his manners with flirtatious tones; and even young Alaric, a minor lord's son barely older than sixteen, eager to prove himself.
The feast was lively. Laughter echoed through the Great House as dancers performed in the center of the hall. At one point, a group of children was brought in to act out an old folk tale about a dragon and a cunning farmer, much to the amusement of the guests.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and torches were lit along the walls, Gregory stood from his seat on the raised platform, clapping his hands for silence. The music dimmed, and all eyes turned to him.
"My friends, brothers, and fellow lords of Harshaw," Gregory began, his voice calm but commanding. "Tonight we dine and drink in peace. For now."
The room grew quieter, expectant.
"But beyond our lands, war rises. A rebellion they call it. A man named Alexander. A man of... ambition."
Christian kept his expression neutral, though his ears perked at the name.
"The new king, lance, marches toward us as we speak. They say he leads a great host, but whether it be an army or a rabble remains to be seen."
The nobles murmured.
"We will receive him, as we must. Harshaw is no stranger to diplomacy," Gregory said. "But diplomacy, my dear nobles, is a sword with two edges."
His eyes flicked briefly toward Christian, who caught the glance.
"This Lance," Gregory continued, his tone almost amused, "has already left blood in his wake. But let him come. We will greet him with our wine, our words... and if needed, with our steel."
There it was again—that smile. That subtle, dark smile that curved Gregory's lips. A few nobles chuckled, others simply nodded. But Christian felt a tightness in his chest. He knew that smile too well. Gregory was not a man who planned blindly.
After a moment of silence, Christian stood from his place near the high table. "My lords and ladies," he said with a raised goblet, "May peace yet guide our hand. And if not peace, then may Harshaw stand unshaken."
Cheers rose up in the hall. The tension softened, but it never truly vanished.
As the feast carried on into the night, Christian sat quietly for a while, watching his uncle with unreadable eyes. He knew Harshaw was entering a new chapter. The arrival of Lance would test not just their defenses, but their very identity.
And Christian would be caught in the middle of it all.