The great hall of Zarethrone echoed with the sound of hurried boots and whispered dread.
A man knelt at the foot of the throne, robes torn, face streaked with blood and ash. His voice trembled as he spoke not from fear of the crown, but from the memory of what he had fled.
"They came at dawn," he said. Black banners. No name. No honor. Just fire, steel, and slaughter. My lord they left none but the slow and the silent. My village burns behind me. I beg of you to send help. We are dying.
King Aldric leaned forward, eyes narrowed. The court fell silent.
The man's words hung heavy in the chamber, like the scent of smoke that still clung to his cloak.
Zarethrone was vast. Its people proud. But even vast kingdoms had borders too far to guard at all times.
"You ask much," the King said, his voice deep and measured. And I have no men to spare.
My knights are spread thin across the western ridges and the southern watch. The peace is fragile, and I will not gamble Zarethrone's strength for a village I cannot defend.
The man bowed his head, chest heaving with the weight of loss. Hope flickered in his eyes and began to die.
Until a voice rose from the side of the hall.
"Then I'll go."
All eyes turned to the speaker.
Prince Kaelith stepped forward from beneath the carved stone pillars, his silver cloak trailing behind him like a banner of light. His jaw was set, his gaze unwavering.
"I will go in Zarethrone's name," he said. And I will not go alone.
The court erupted in murmurs. The King's brow furrowed.
"Kaelith…"
Send a few Knight, Kaelith said. Just a handful of us. We ride at dawn. We scout. We defend. And we return.
The King studied his son's face the same fire he'd once carried in his youth, now burning in Kaelith's words.
A moment passed.
King Aldric exhaled."Then choose your men.
"Kaelith bowed. "I already have."
At the edge of the hall, Hale shifted from his place against the wall, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, but he stepped forward without a word.
Elion, a young swordsman with a quiet voice and swift, precise hands that hummed with arcane energy, followed close behind.
Lysaro, the golden knight the King's chosen blade nodded once, solemn and proud.
And beside them, the last to move was Rellan, youngest of the high guards, his loyalty unshaken by fear. And the other four Knights.
Together, they bowed before the crown and formed the heart of Zarethron's hope.
Later That Night Torches lined the outer stables as the group gathered their gear. Horses were saddled, maps unfurled. The village, Darwisha, lay four days to the east by rough terrain.
Kaelith tightened the straps of his armor, his eyes distant, his breath calm.
Hale approached him quietly, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by something steadier and respectful.
"You don't have to prove anything," Hale said. You're already the prince. You don't need to be a martyr, too.
Kaelith didn't look at him. I'm not proving anything. I'm doing what's right.
Hale watched him for a moment. Then, without warning, he smirked faintly.
"Then I'll make sure you don't die trying."
They didn't speak of the other night. Of what had broken.
But something new sat between them now not silence.
Solidarity.
At the Gates of Zarethron At first light, they all rode out.
Kaelith at the front, his banner catching the wind.
Hale rode beside him, blades strapped tight.
Elion Sword constantly scanning.
Lysaro rode tall, steady, and unshaken, his shield gleaming gold.
And Rellan brought up the rear, his youthful eyes watching everything.
The gates opened.
Zathrone's people lined the walls to watch them go not as nobles, not as royals, not as soldiers.
But as saviors.
As hope.
As dawn spread across the kingdom, they disappeared into it.
They rode for hours under an overcast sky. The kingdom gave way to wild plains, wind tugging at their cloaks, hooves pounding the dirt like war drums.
Kaelith rode ahead, silent. His jaw was tense. He hadn't looked back at Hale once.
Hale kept his distance, riding behind Elion. He watched the prince's back like he always did but today, not with mischief or desire. Just silence. Guilt pressed like armor on his chest.
That night, they made camp near a crumbling watchtower. Tents were pitched, fires lit. Lysaro sharpened his blade, Elion vanished into the trees to scout.
Kaelith sat alone, his gaze fixed on the flames.
Hale approached quietly, carrying a flask.
"Wine," he offered, kneeling beside him. "It's not royal, but it's warm."
Kaelith didn't answer at first. Then, "You don't have to serve me when we're out here."
"I'm not serving," Hale replied. I just thought you might want something warm.
Another pause.
Finally, Kaelith accepted the flask, took a sip, then handed it back.
"You don't have to keep trying," he said. Whatever you're doing.
I'm not sure what I'm doing, Hale admitted. But I do know... I don't like seeing you look at me like that. Like I'm a stranger.
Kaelith's eyes flicked to him, unreadable in the firelight.
"You punished him too hard," the Prince said quietly.
"I know."
"You enjoyed it."
"I know."
They sat in silence again, nothing but the crackle of flames and distant wind.
"I don't know what you are anymore," Kaelith murmured.
Hale turned, voice low and firm. I'm still myself. I just lost myself for a moment. But I never lost you. Prince.
Kaelith didn't respond. But when he rose and stepped into his tent, he didn't say "leave."
And Hale followed.
The campfire burned low, casting a soft orange glow across the darkened clearing. Most of the camp was silent now soldiers curled in bedrolls, the sounds of sleep mingling with the distant hush of wind in the trees.
But not everyone slept.
Two knights, both strong, and both loyal to the crown, had slipped away from the camp under the guise of patrol. Armor left behind, they moved quietly between the trees, hearts pounding louder than their footsteps.
They didn't speak.
By the time they reached the edge of the forest clearing, the hunger in their eyes said everything. One grabbed the other, fingers locking into the back of his neck, lips crashing together with weeks no, months of buried want.
Breathless.
Urgent.
Clothes were tugged, pulled aside not gently. Tunics undone, belts loosed, hands roaming with desperation as backs hit bark and mouths parted for air only when absolutely necessary.
I shouldn't want this, one whispered, voice rough, forehead pressed to the other's.
But you do, came the answer, just as low, just as dangerous.
Their bodies met again, a clash of heat and need. Skin against skin, grinding, gasping, biting back moans that threatened to give them away. Fingers dug into hips. Teeth grazed throats. And when one of them thrust forward, hard and deep, the other arched into it, gasping a name like a curse and a prayer.
The trees bore witness to their rhythm slow at first, then faster, more reckless, more demanding. Every muffled groan, every stifled cry melted into the night. The leaves whispered overhead like they knew this secret like they'd seen it before.
And when they finally gave in when release hit them like lightning, they clung to each other, trembling, spent, and still hungry for something they couldn't name.
After, they didn't speak right away. Just heavy breathing and sweat-soaked skin.
But as they dressed and quietly returned to camp, one of them reached out in the dark and touched the other's hand just for a moment.
Not just lust.
Not just rebellion.
Something burning beneath armor and oaths.