A day after the political meeting.
The morning sun filtered softly through the narrow stained-glass windows of the war chamber, casting dappled hues of gold and crimson upon the stone floor. The great oak table was surrounded by advisors, generals, and high-ranking knights of Dragonsvale. At the head of the table stood Lance, his silver-trimmed cloak swaying slightly as he turned to speak with one of the oldest and most revered figures in the room: Sir Gladion.
Gladion was a tall, broad-shouldered man, perhaps in his late fifties, with streaks of silver woven through his thick black hair that fell to his shoulders. His beard was neatly trimmed, framing a face etched with the quiet scars of war. He wore a deep navy tunic trimmed with the sigil of House Gladion—a lion clutching a sword—emblazoned across his chest. His eyes were sharp and discerning, an icy gray that seemed to cut through falsehoods and hesitation alike. Though age had touched his features, his posture remained as firm as an oaken pillar.
Sir Gladion had earned his legend through decades of service. He was one of the few men alive who had fought in the Border Wars and lived to tell of it. He had slain over two hundred men in open battle and commanded legions that had defended Dragonsvale against invading hordes. His swordplay was considered nearly unparalleled, save perhaps for General Alexander himself. Whispers among the court often debated who would win in a duel between the two.
Yet, despite his status, Gladion's voice was humble when he leaned toward Lance.
"Your Highness," he began, his tone as calm as the stillness before a storm, "there is something that has gnawed at my mind."
Lance tilted his head with a curious look. "Speak freely, Sir Gladion."
The knight laid a large hand on a scroll spread across the table, pointing to a portion of the map that displayed the southern marshlands.
"The Kingdom of Zul Kifar," he said, drawing a soft murmur from the other advisors.
Lance raised a brow. "Zul Kifar?"
"Aye," Gladion continued. "Ruled by the reclusive Ai'lar. A place nestled deep in the rot and fog of the Mourned Swamps. Their armies were never a direct threat to our own, but their tactics..."
Lance nodded slowly. "Guerrilla warfare."
"Exactly," said Gladion. "They use the land itself as a weapon. Poisoned quagmires, collapsing bog trails, concealed platforms for archers... And yet, despite their involvement in the Marsh Alliance with us, there have been strange sightings."
"Strange how?"
"Their army was supposed to have disbanded after the final border engagement," Gladion said, gesturing to a marked location on the map. "But scouts report entire units from Zul Kifar still in motion, traveling alongside General Alexander on his return journey. Ai'lar himself is rumored to be with them."
The room quieted at the implication.
Lance narrowed his eyes. "Ai'lar doesn't leave his swamps."
"Precisely. Not for decades. Not since the Massacre at Narmaw Point. And now he walks with Alexander on open road, toward Dragonsvale."
The implications hung heavy in the room.
"Keep your scouts close," Lance said finally. "And your sword closer."
Gladion gave a respectful bow. "There is another matter I wished to bring to your attention."
Lance tilted his head.
"My son," said the knight. "He is a strong boy. Disciplined. But he does not learn from me the way I hoped he would."
Lance blinked in surprise.
"You are Sir Gladion. Your son should be proud to learn from one of the finest warriors in our kingdom."
"And yet," Gladion said with a tired chuckle, "he sees me as his father, not his commander. You, however... he sees in you a hero."
Lance shifted uncomfortably.
"You flatter me."
"I do not. He listens to you more than me. He mimics your style, studies your duels. I would be honored if you would take some time to train him. Teach him."
Lance smiled warmly. "It would be an honor."
---
Later that afternoon, on the practice grounds beyond the barracks, Lance waited beneath the tall stone arches of the sparring court. The sun had risen high and bathed the yard in warm light. The clang of steel echoed from distant corners of the castle.
Approaching with practiced steps was Sir Gladion's son. A young man, perhaps sixteen, with a lean, wiry frame that had only just begun to fill out with muscle. He had his father's sharp gray eyes, though softer in expression. His hair was a tousled mane of chestnut brown, cut short on the sides but grown out at the crown, brushed back from a youthful, determined face.
"Your Highness," the boy said with a respectful bow.
"Call me Lance," he said with a smile, extending a wooden practice sword. "You're Gladion's son, huh?"
"Eryk," the boy replied, gripping the hilt. "Eryk Gladion."
Lance appraised him. "You carry yourself well. Confident, but not arrogant."
"My father says confidence without discipline is as good as a blade with no edge."
Lance nodded. "Wise man. Now let's see how you move."
They circled. Lance stood relaxed, while Eryk held his blade at the ready—stance firm, breathing measured. He lunged first. Lance parried effortlessly.
"Good form," Lance said. "But don't commit so much weight to your front foot."
Eryk adjusted, nodded, and came again—a wide horizontal cut. Lance ducked, countered with a light tap to Eryk's ribs.
"You're fast," Eryk muttered.
"You're better than most squires I've seen," Lance admitted. "But you think like a soldier, not a duelist. Swordplay isn't just who swings harder. It's who thinks faster."
Eryk nodded, sweat already beading along his brow.
They moved again. This time, Eryk feinted left and spun for a quick downward strike. Lance caught the move, blocked it, and stepped in to disarm him, knocking the blade free.
Eryk let out a frustrated breath. "I thought that would work."
Lance grinned. "It was good. You just telegraphed it too early. Try again."
And so they went, for nearly an hour. Eryk learned quickly, adapting each time. Lance was patient, encouraging but sharp with his critiques. He demonstrated footwork techniques, balance shifts, and even unconventional attacks that confused and outmaneuvered most trained knights.
By the end, Eryk was exhausted, shirt soaked in sweat, but his eyes glowed with determination.
"You're sharp," Lance said finally. "And humble. That's rare."
Eryk looked up. "I want to protect this kingdom. My father gave everything for it. I want to be strong enough to stand beside him... and you."
Lance placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Then keep training like this every day, and you'll surpass us both."
From a shaded arch nearby, Sir Gladion watched silently, a small but proud smile on his weathered face. The training had only just begun but he knew his son was in good hands.
---
Many hours later.
The air atop the mountain was thin, still, and sharp with the scent of pine and ash. It brushed cold against the cheeks of soldiers nestled in tents and around campfires, murmuring in low voices as the stars began to emerge above them like tiny embers. Horses snorted in the background, their reins tied loosely to weathered posts. Cookfires sizzled. Boots scraped the stony dirt. But apart from the usual rhythm of a resting army, a profound stillness clung to the peak.
General Alexander stood on a rocky outcrop that jutted forward like a blade, staring across the vast horizon where, faint and low in the distance, the kingdom of Dragonsvale loomed. Its towers were barely visible, faint shadows behind the line of mist and moonlight, but he knew they were there. He could almost see the walls, the spires, the smoke from chimneys—and the people.
He wore his signature ebony breastplate, dark as the void, with a cloak of the same tone trailing behind him like a shroud. His hair was black and unkempt, tousled from wind and war. His brown eyes held a strange contradiction—a deep, somber void like forgotten memories buried too long, yet behind that, a glimmer of dangerous calculation. He did not blink often. He did not fidget. Every breath he took, every shift in posture, felt like it had been measured, counted, and weighed.
Footsteps approached. Not many dared to disturb Alexander while he brooded, but this man was no soldier.
"She be lookin' quiet from here, eh?" said the voice, thick with an accent born from the swamplands of Zul Kifar. "Like a sleepin' beast. Peaceful 'til ya jab it."
Alexander turned his head slightly. Ai'lar stood beside him now, arms folded behind his back. The Zul Kifari warlord was a hardened figure—tanned skin weathered by sun and steam, buzz-cut hair a shade duller than its original black, and a scar that ran from the corner of his top lip across his right cheek and curved upward toward his ear. He wore light, layered leather armor stained green and brown with the swamp's colors, making him appear more predator than man.
His hazel eyes sparkled—not with warmth, but interest.
"It's beautiful," Ai'lar continued, his accent distinct and musical, full of sliding vowels and dropped consonants. "So much green land. Such tall castles. Y'people must eat well, fight well, aye? What's it like? Dragonsvale? I've never been this close."
Alexander's eyes stayed on the horizon. "A kingdom built on legacy. Our customs are rigid, our expectations suffocating. Honor, duty, tradition. All things taught before a child learns his own name."
Ai'lar chuckled. "Sounds like y'folk be tight in the spine."
Alexander didn't smile. "And what of Zul Kifar?"
"Ahh," Ai'lar said with a sigh, rocking back on his heels. "We ain't so stiff, nah. We live by nature's mood. The swamp teaches us patience... and pain. You step wrong, it eats ya. So we learn. Adapt. We ain't ones for straight lines and open roads. We hide, strike, vanish. Our customs, well... they shaped by the mud an' what crawls beneath it. We don't crown kings. We follow strength. Not just the strength of sword, but of thought." He tapped his temple. "A sharp mind saves more men than sharp steel."
Alexander nodded once. "That much, I've seen."
For a moment, they both stood in silence, watching the lights of Dragonsvale flicker in the far distance.
Behind them, the camp buzzed with quiet activity. Soldiers huddled in groups, laughing softly, others oiling weapons or tending to their armor. A few sparred under torchlight, while some, too weary to do anything else, simply slept against rocks or under carts. The horses remained restless, but the men did not seem anxious—only exhausted and waiting.
Ai'lar glanced back toward the camp. "We leavin' at first light, yeh?"
Alexander gave a slight nod. "Yes. We've earned rest, but the road waits for no man."
Ai'lar looked up at the stars, then back at the general. "Funny thing, Alexander. You never speak of home like a man missin' it."
Alexander said nothing.
Ai'lar shrugged. "Ain't my place to pry. Just curious, is all."
With a soft clink of armor, the Zul Kifari warlord turned and descended the rocks, the sound of his footsteps fading into the murmur of the camp.
Alexander remained.
He stood motionless, cloak whispering in the wind, eyes unblinking as the kingdom of his birth shimmered in the moonlight.
His lips parted. Barely audible, he murmured to himself:
"I wish I knew more of my people's customs…"
He clenched his right hand into a fist. Leather creaked under the pressure.
"But I had that all cruelly hooked away from me when you sent me to war at the age of eight... Father."
The word lingered on his tongue, bitter.
He exhaled slowly and narrowed his eyes.
The lights of Dragonsvale flickered, unaware, as the shadow of its returning son stared up at it—not with nostalgia, but with calculation.
And something else darker still.
The stars above blinked on, one by one, as the mountain held its breath.
And Alexander did not move.