The dense green canopy of the Hollowed Boughs filtered the sunlight into wavering patches on the mossy forest floor. Birdsong, distant and varied, echoed among the massive, ancient trees whose bark was knotted like the wrinkles of time itself. This forest—dense and overgrown—was known for swallowing armies whole and hiding the cries of lost men beneath the rustle of its leaves. It had already been three days since the final meeting at Dragonsvale, and two since word had reached them that Alexander's army was on the move.
But they had an advantage—Alexander's force was much larger, and thus slower. Time was not an ally, but a weapon that had yet to be thrown.
At the front of the long procession, Lance rode atop a large black destrier, its hooves muffled by the forest floor but its presence proud. He wore his father's armor, now his own: sleek black plate with trim forged from dragonite, glinting a faint blue-gold beneath the scattered rays of sun. Upon his chest was the royal crest—a coiled dragon wrapped around a sword. His new longsword sat sheathed in a polished guard at his waist, and a red cape fluttered behind him like a dying flame. The makeshift crown atop his head, though not the true Crown of Dragonsvale, shimmered with gold and rare inlaid metals, a placeholder for the burden he now carried.
Behind him, soldiers marched in organized ranks, weapons sheathed but eyes vigilant. Civilians traveled in the middle of the group, protected on all sides, talking in low tones or walking in silence, some pulling carts filled with salvaged belongings. Horses were sparse—only the necessary held saddles. Those who could walk, did. This wasn't a parade. It was an exodus.
Panthia jogged up beside Lance on foot, bow bouncing gently on her back. She wore mismatched armor, barely adjusted to her hourglass figure. Her red curls were tied behind her head, and her emerald eyes burned with stubborn resolve. She glanced up at Lance and said nothing at first, jogging silently beside his horse.
Lance saw her, and for a moment his stoic expression cracked. He nearly halted his horse.
"Why the hell are you wearing armor, Panthia?" he asked, his voice low but unmistakably concerned.
Panthia looked up, cheeks slightly flushed from exertion, and kept pace. "Lance, I can't do this anymore."
He blinked. "Can't do what?"
"I can't sit back and watch you kill yourself trying to hold all this together," she replied, voice tight with emotion. "You put on this face, act like you're made of iron, but I see it. I know it hurts you. You didn't ask to be king. You didn't want your family dead. You didn't want any of this. But you do it anyway."
He looked at her sharply. "And what, now you think strapping on armor and picking up a bow fixes that?"
"No," she said. "It doesn't fix it. But maybe it helps. I can help."
Lance frowned. "You said you were giving up the bow. It terrifies you. Killing someone terrifies you."
Panthia looked away, lips pressed. Then, softly, she said, "It still does. But you think I don't see what you carry? You didn't choose this, but you carry it anyway. Well, maybe I can carry something too. If I can help keep you alive, help keep someone else alive, I'll do it. I have to."
Lance stared ahead, silent. The trees passed them slowly.
"You don't have to do this, Panthia," he muttered. "It's not necessary."
She met his gaze with quiet defiance. "It is, Lance. I'm not doing this for me."
He sighed, the weight of too much responsibility crushing his shoulders. "Fine," he said. "But if we get into combat, you stay by me. You do not leave my vision. You understand?"
She nodded. "I won't. I promise."
With that, she fell back, weaving between horses and guards until she was once again within the civilian mix.
Moments later, hooves clopped beside him. Rowan pulled up on his own horse, dressed in black and bronze armor, his grin as casual as ever.
"So," Rowan drawled, glancing over at his brother. "You and the redhead are arguing already? That's got to be a record, even for you."
Lance smirked faintly. "It's not an argument. Just... worry."
"Ah, yes. The crown makes you noble and broody," Rowan teased, pulling an apple from his saddlebag and taking a loud bite. "You've got the whole troubled-hero look going. Add a scar across the eye and you'd be irresistible."
"You planning on giving me one?" Lance asked dryly.
Rowan laughed. "Nah, I like your face too much. But don't tempt me. Anyway, this is weird, huh? All this. Marching through ancient trees like some fairy tale. Feels like we should be looking for witches and cursed frogs."
"I'll let you know if I find one," Lance said.
Rowan grinned, then grew slightly more serious. "You holding up?"
Lance paused, then said, "I don't have time not to."
"That ain't an answer," Rowan said, but didn't push further. They rode in silence for a while, before a sound of hooves behind them drew their attention.
Thorn and Axel approached, their horses moving at an easy trot.
Thorn, tall and grizzled, had traded his chef's apron for a plated cuirass. Axel rode beside him, older and bigger, his armor cleaner but his eyes harder than days before. Since the poisoning attempt, when Thorn had beaten the traitor and Axel saved Thorn from getting stabbed, they'd become fast friends.
"King," Thorn said with a small bow of his head.
"Thorn," Lance replied. "How's the food situation?"
Thorn shifted in his saddle. "Enough to get us to Harshaw. But if we stop for more than a day, we'll be cutting it close. Rations are being watched closely."
Lance nodded. "Understood. We keep moving, no matter what."
He turned to Axel. "And the troops?"
Axel smiled faintly. "Proud, your grace. They walk with their heads high. They know they stand equal beside nobles now. You gave them that. You've done good."
Lance blinked, then nodded. "Thank you."
There was a pause. Then Rowan clapped Thorn on the shoulder. "So, Thorn. You still sneaking bacon from the rations?"
"Only when you're not looking," Thorn replied, smirking.
"He tried to bribe me with bread," Axel said. "Didn't work, but it was good bread."
"Hey," Thorn said. "That bread saved your life. Don't disrespect it."
The four men chuckled, the tension easing just a little beneath the ancient trees. Around them, the sounds of their people carried on—the clinking of armor, the hushed voices of the weary, and the slow, steady march of a nation in retreat, or perhaps rebirth.
But the forest held its breath.
And somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled faintly.
The road to Harshaw had only begun.
---
Panthia walked slowly, her armor faintly clinking with every step. Her head was bowed, her long red hair tied back behind her shoulders. In her hands, a worn, silver cross dangled from a leather strap. She pressed her forehead against it, lips moving in a silent prayer. Her eyes were closed, lashes damp, yet her expression was peaceful.
"Lord above," she whispered under her breath, almost too quiet for even the wind to hear. "Please give Lance the strength he needs to lead. Heal his wounds, those on his body... and those in his heart. And give me strength too, that I might protect him with all I am. Watch over us both, and watch over every Dragon here."
She paused, letting the silence fill her before looking up at the sky. Her green eyes shimmered. "I don't ask this for glory or power... but because he is good. Because they all deserve peace."
With a deep breath, Panthia stepped toward the center of traveling army. Her hand fell from the cross to her side. She stood still for a moment, then closed her eyes again. From her lips came a low, soft note, trembling at first, but steady. A song. One older than most living in Dragonsvale. A song her mother had sung. A song about a king.
She began to sing:
"He rode out on a crimson dawn, with crown laid on the dust. A traitor claimed the throne that morn, with steel and bitter trust. The king cast out, his name disgraced, the Dragons did not cheer. But still he walked through flame and waste, through blood and sweat and fear."
Heads turned, Conversations faded, even the children stopped playing. Her voice grew stronger.
"He bore no army at his back, just scars and weathered hands. He wandered through the shadows black, forgotten by his lands. But fire burns where honor bleeds, and dragons never yield. He carved his path with wounded creed, no sword and no shield."
Someone else joined her—an older man. Then another, a girl clutching bread. Slowly, steadily, more voices rose to meet hers.
"He came again to take his place, his eyes like burning stone. The traitor laughed, but lost the race, and died upon his throne. But greater still the tale they sing, not of the war or flame— But how the heart of Dragonsvale still beat within his name."
Panthia's voice faded just enough for the people's chorus to shine through. But her heart, heavy as it was, had risen in her chest. For a moment, she did not feel alone.
From the front of the marching army, Lance heard it. The melody washed over him like rain on fire. His hand rested at his stomach beneath his breastplate, the wound pulsing with a dull ache again. He winced, sucking in a breath. The pain felt worse than before, as if festering just beneath the surface.
He grit his teeth. He couldn't let the others see.
But then he paused. That song…
It wasn't just a song. It was his people. It was her voice. And he knew the story it told.
A king banished, stripped of title and worth, yet returned, not for vengeance alone—but for his people.
He didn't feel worthy. Not of that song, not of their voices, not of their love.
Alexander had bested him.
Not just with the sword.
Alexander had waged war for twelve years. Fought beasts. Broken armys. Lance couldn't match that—not yet.
And Panthia… Just yesterday she'd sworn to never fire an arrow again. Yet now she wore armor and sang to give him courage. Why?
Thorn had nearly died fending off poison meant for him. How many more would fall if he failed?
Was he worth it?
Would their time, their lives, their hearts—be better spent on someone stronger? Someone more deserving?
His thoughts tumbled into silence as the song reached its final verse. The people's voices, once trembling, now surged like a tide. And at the peak of the song, came the king's final words, echoing through the stone halls of memory, repeated by every voice:
"They broke my bones, they stole my crown, and still I did not die. For kings aren't forged in silken robes, but flame and battlecry. You'll never know the worth you bear while drowning in defeat— Until the fire you carry forth burns brighter than retreat."
The words struck Lance like a spear through fog. They cut through the doubt. Through the fear.
He clenched his jaw, pulling his hand away from the wound. Blood would not decide this war. Doubt would not crown a king.
His people believed in him.
She believed in him.
He had no right to cast aside that trust. No right to question their love.
He didn't have to be Alexander.
He had to be Lance.
With a breath, he stood taller. Not healed. Not certain. But no longer hiding.
The people sang for their king.
And their king would answer.