The summer sun hung high over Dragonsvale, bathing the kingdom in a golden warmth that clung to the skin like silk. A gentle breeze passed through the open market just beyond the great walls of Highreach, bringing with it the smells of roasting meats, crushed herbs, and sweat-soaked linen.
It was a beautiful day—undeniably so.
After twelve years of war, the very air felt different now. Lighter. As though the land itself had exhaled a long-held breath. No watchtowers rang with alarm. No smoke stained the skies. No mothers wept into the fields where their sons had fallen.
Peace. It still felt strange in Lance's bones.
He walked quietly among his people, without escort or banner. No crown adorned his brow. His simple tunic was a dusty white, the fabric loose, his sword left behind in the palace. The only sign of nobility was the way people instinctively stepped back, nodded, or bowed slightly when they recognized him.
But Lance didn't command respect. He earned it.
Stalls lined the streets, bursting with bright fruits and fabrics. Children darted between carts, laughing with the kind of joy that couldn't be taught. Merchants barked prices over each other, desperate to out-haggle the next. A baker held up a tray of fresh honeyed bread, shouting that it would melt on the tongue like a kiss. Laughter followed his claim.
At the edge of the square, a blacksmith swung his hammer, iron ringing out as sparks flew into the daylight. His brow was drenched, his arms thick and covered in old scars. And just beyond him, leaning against a cracked stone wall, were two men Lance hadn't seen in over a month—but knew instantly.
"Don't tell me you're both still alive," Lance called out, grinning.
The shorter one turned first. Tan-skinned, with curly dark hair tucked beneath a linen cap, he wore a loose brown shirt and thick leather apron. His arms were strong, but his smile was stronger.
"Lance!" he shouted, arms wide. "I thought you forgot the peasants existed!"
"Did you not see me kiss your mother's hand two weeks ago?" Lance replied, already approaching. "She still makes the best stew in the kingdom."
"She told everyone," the man laughed. "Won't let us hear the end of it."
This was Thorn, the son of a potato farmer. Stubborn, dry-witted, always barefoot unless forced to wear boots. Lance had known him since they were boys—back when they'd sneak out past the orchard walls to swim in the river with no names.
The second man was taller, broader in the chest. His hair was tied back in a low knot, his hands blackened from the forge. His name was Eddric, and he had been a smith's apprentice since he could lift a hammer. Quieter than Thorn, but when he did speak, his words landed like bricks.
"You look thinner," Eddric said with a smirk. "Castle food that bad?"
Lance placed a hand on his stomach in mock offense. "I'll have you know I'm on a royal diet of roasted boar, fire-brewed mead, and stress."
"You forgot flattery and late-night speeches," Thorn added.
"Those are just appetizers."
They all laughed, and for a few minutes, Lance felt like any other nineteen-year-old. No crown. No politics. Just three boys walking the stone paths of the village, watching the wind flutter banners made of patched cloth.
As they strolled, Thorn pointed out a woman spinning thread while rocking a baby with her foot. Eddric paused to help a vendor right a cart of apples that had tipped. Lance greeted each person with the same genuine smile—never too proud, never too guarded.
"You know," Thorn said as they turned down a quieter street, "it's mad out here. Half the market ran out of flour this morning. That's how many people are coming and going."
"It's good business," Lance replied, stepping aside for a passing cart. "After so many years of fear, the people are eager to live again. Travel. Trade. Rebuild."
"I'm for it," Eddric said. "But it's strange. Seeing Luxarians here."
Lance nodded. They passed two thin men in patched robes, one of them clearly marked by the sunburst tattoo of Luxaris. They kept their eyes down, silent.
"There's no law against trade," Lance said softly.
"No," Thorn agreed. "Just hard feelings."
They reached the base of the small chapel that overlooked the far fields, where golden barley swayed gently in the breeze. Chickens clucked nearby, and a group of kids played with carved wooden swords in the dirt.
Lance was just about to say his goodbyes when Thorn suddenly turned and asked:
"Was it worth it?"
The words struck like a hammer in the silence.
Lance blinked. "What?"
"The war," Thorn said. His voice wasn't accusatory—just… tired. Curious. "Was it worth it?"
A hush seemed to settle around them. A few nearby villagers turned their heads ever so slightly, pretending not to listen. Even the breeze stilled.
Lance looked at his friend for a long moment. He could see the calluses on Thorn's hands. The dirt under his fingernails. The same hands that once tossed stones into a lake beside his.
He let out a quiet breath and shook his head.
"No," he said. "No amount of land is worth the lives we lost."
He looked out toward the field, his voice low and steady. "Families shattered. Children made orphans. Lovers buried. I've walked through camps where men cried for mothers long gone, and I've seen soldiers stab each other over stale bread. No, it wasn't worth it."
A pause.
"But it wasn't the fault of Dragonsvale. Or its people. It was the pride and arrogance of Usifar—a man who envied what he could not control and let it consume his kingdom."
He turned back to Thorn, then to Eddric.
"But we will move forward. That is the way of the dragons' people. Not because we forget, but because we remember."
For a moment, no one said a word. It was as if the world itself had paused to hear him.
Then Thorn gave a slow nod.
"That's all I wanted to hear."
The tension faded. Breath returned to the street. The children resumed their play.
Lance smiled faintly. "You've gotten bold, Thorn. I like it."
"You'd be surprised what war does to a farmer's patience."
They all chuckled again, the moment slipping into memory.
As they walked back toward the square, Lance stopped at a vendor selling carved wooden pendants. He picked one shaped like a winged dragon and handed it to a wide-eyed little girl who couldn't be older than six. She smiled shyly and ran off toward her parents.
"She'll remember that," Eddric said.
"I hope she remembers better things," Lance replied.
Eventually, Lance parted ways with his friends, promising to return before the month's end. As he walked alone again, the streets felt familiar and full—not just of people, but of promise.
At the edge of the village, just before the stone road curved back toward the capital gates, he looked back one last time.
Banners waved in the sun. Hammers rang. Laughter chased the wind.
Dragonsvale was alive.
And though ghosts lingered in its past, Lance believed—at least for today—that peace could hold.
---
The wind had died down by the time Lance made it to the towering gates of the capital. The great stone walls cast looming shadows under the moonlight, towering over the cobblestone road like silent guardians. The city within was quiet, hushed, as if even the stones understood the weight of the hour. But Lance wasn't headed to any public road, nor to the palace that gleamed in the heart of Dragonsvale. His steps veered to the side—toward the old, forgotten entrance to the underground.
The entrance was subtle, hidden behind a moss-covered stone wall that jutted into a forgotten alleyway. With practiced hands, Lance pulled back a rusted metal grate and slipped through a narrow passage, the iron groaning behind him as it shut. Torchlight became a memory as he descended into the dark, damp tunnels beneath the capital.
These tunnels were built during the Age of Rebirth—designed as an escape route should war ever reach the capital's heart. Few entrances led down, but even fewer led up. The exits were near impossible to find unless you knew exactly where to look, and most were sealed shut with ancient locks that only the royal family could open. The tunnels were scarcely guarded—there was simply no need. Even the guardsmen conducting inspections rarely ventured deeper than the first few corridors. The capital was considered secure, and the tunnels nothing more than a relic of old times.
But Lance wasn't here for security. Nor was he here on inspection.
He was here for her.
Far beneath the capital, beyond the reach of any patrolling torchlight, lay a hidden corridor—one that connected directly to the palace. It was known only to the royal family, untouched even by guards and never mentioned aloud. It had been passed down like a whisper through generations, protected with silence, sealed not by locks but by secrecy.
And waiting in that tunnel… was Panthia.
Lance's boots echoed softly as he neared the end of the path, the dim glow of a hidden lantern casting long shadows. Then he saw her. Standing with her back against the ancient stone, lit softly in the orange haze, stood a figure that made his heart still.
She was breathtaking.
Panthia stood no taller than 5'4, but her presence had always towered above the world in his eyes. Her curly red hair spilled past her shoulders like firelight trapped in silk. Green eyes shimmered like morning dew on spring grass, wide and alive. A constellation of freckles danced across her nose and cheeks, giving her an almost ethereal charm. Her frame curved like an hourglass beneath the fitted palace maid garb, and in this place—hidden from eyes and judgment—she looked more like a goddess than a servant.
"Lance!" she gasped.
He didn't even have time to open his arms. She was already in them.
Their lips met with the force of months of longing, a kiss not of lust, but of need. The walls of nobility and duty, of roles and stations, crumbled between them. In this place, there were no crowns or robes—just Lance and Panthia. Just two hearts daring the world to punish them for beating as one.
When they parted, breathless, she rested her forehead against his. "I missed you, my love," she whispered.
"I missed you more than you'll ever know," Lance replied.
They sat down against the cool stone, hand in hand. For a while, silence stretched between them, warm and peaceful.
"Has anyone been troubling you in the palace?" Lance asked gently.
Panthia shook her head. "No one has dared. Lady Yvette has kept her eye on me since the last time... but other than that, nothing unusual. I keep my head down, serve quietly, and smile. The usual performance."
"You shouldn't have to perform," he said, his voice low.
"It's the only way I get to see you," she replied, then nudged his shoulder teasingly. "And besides, I'm quite the actress when I want to be."
He chuckled, then studied her. "I've always admired that about you. You've got this quiet fire—always have. Even as kids, when you were too small to carry a tray, you'd glare at the steward like you were ready to burn down the kitchen if he said anything rude."
Panthia laughed. "You remember that?"
"Of course," he said. "You've always been able to read people—especially me. You always see through me."
She reached over and gently traced her fingers along his cheek. "That's because I know you, Lance. Not the prince. Not the heir. You."
His eyes softened, but a cold glint flickered in them—an old, buried thing trying to rise.
Panthia caught it instantly. Her expression changed, worried now. "What is it? That look in your eye... it's not like you."
Lance hesitated. Then he spoke.
"Alexander is returning."
She blinked. "Your stepbrother?"
He nodded slowly, eyes staring past her into the dark.
"Why does that bother you?" she asked softly.
He looked down, unsure. "I... I don't know. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's guilt. I have memories of him—dark ones. He was born with the cruelest hand fate could offer. Alone, hated, scarred by the choices of others. But now... now he's a genius general. The best soldier in Dragonsvale's history."
Panthia tilted her head. "But why would that bother you, my love? Your brother has carved his place in the world despite the horror he came from. That should be something to admire."
"I know," Lance replied, his voice distant. "I do admire it. But... it still bothers me. It's like a shadow in the back of my mind I can't shake. I want to see the man he's become. I want to look him in the eye. But something deep in me is... afraid."
Panthia leaned in and pulled him into a tight hug. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together. You're not alone."
For a while, they said nothing, letting their warmth speak for them.
Eventually, Panthia sighed. "I should return before I'm missed. Morning will come sooner than we think."
He nodded reluctantly and helped her up. "Just a little longer."
She smiled, leaning in to kiss him one final time—a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of longing and promise.
Then, like a wisp in the dark, she disappeared into the secret corridor toward the palace.
Lance turned and walked the way he came, back through the tunnel's cold breath.
But as he walked, a memory surfaced—vivid, bright, and unbidden.
Panthia, as a child.
She was just a small thing back then, her hair a wild mess of red curls, her laughter echoing through this very tunnel. Her mother, also a maid, had raised her in the castle by the queen's permission—a rare and unexplained mercy from Lance's otherwise distant mother. Perhaps she'd simply liked Panthia's mother. Or perhaps she'd seen something in the child that reminded her of a happier time.
Panthia had always been sweet with Lance, even when they were children of two different worlds. She could read him better than any knight, advisor, or nobleman. Even back then, she knew when he was lying, when he was hurting, when he was pretending to be strong.
She had been his anchor long before he realized what that meant.
They'd spent days exploring this tunnel, pretending to be adventurers or lost royalty. It was their world—away from expectations, away from judgment.
But things changed.
After Alexander's existence was revealed to the public—after the whispers and the gossip about the king's affair became a wildfire—Lance's father hardened. His stance toward "peasants" became cruel, cutting off any notion of mingling between class lines. Lance remembered the cold conversation. His father's voice had been sharper than steel.
"If I ever find you loving one of them, you will doom her life... and the child's, if there is one."
But Lance didn't care.
Panthia was worth everything.
He'd loved her since he was a boy with muddy boots and scraped knees. And that love had only grown with him—deeper, stronger, defiant.
He would die before giving her up.