Part I : Destination Guild
The familiar, chaotic roar of the Guild hall was just beginning to stir when Faelan and his companion stepped through the doors.
Faelan walked with a weary but content stride, but the man beside him—though dressed in the grimy, ill-fitting clothes of a down-on-his-luck sellsword—moved with an ingrained, fluid grace that was utterly at odds with his appearance
Lyra looked up from her breakfast, a sarcastic smirk already playing on her lips as she saw Faelan.
"I thought you only liked Aristocratic twinks".
Faelan grinned, guiding the man toward their table. "Don't let the clothes fool you. He's got a noble heart."
As they drew closer, Lyra's playful expression faltered.
Her eyes narrowed, not on the man's face, but on the almost imperceptible, elegant way his hand rested on the pommel of the sword Faelan had given him.
It was a gesture she knew as well as her own reflection. Her smirk vanished.
"Ali?" The name was a sharp, incredulous whisper.
Before the sound had fully left her lips,
Alistair was in motion. He crossed the remaining distance in a single, fluid step, his hand clamping gently but firmly over her mouth.
"Honestly, Lyra," he hissed, his voice a low, theatrical murmur meant only for her. "What is the point of this elaborate, and frankly quite itchy, disguise if you're going to bellow my name to the entire Guild?"
Lyra pulled his hand away, her shock giving way to a wide, genuine grin. "What in the hells are you doing here? Got tired of playing lord?"
"A king can get bored of his castle," Alistair replied smoothly, his eyes sparkling. "And I thought it was high time I paid a visit to my favorite queen."
The compliment landed, and a slow, dangerous smile spread across Lyra's face. "Oh, am I a queen now?" she purred, her voice a low, teasing rumble. "You'll have to do better than that to earn a private audience. This queen has... very high standards."
"So, now that you're here, how about we see if a decade behind a desk has turned all that muscle to pudding? Let's see how much you remember."
Alistair stretched his arms with a theatrical groan, "which monstrous beast am I to be pitted against?"
Lyra's grin returned, sharp and conspiratorial. "Those two."
Alistair's face fell into a mask of comical disappointment as he looked at the children. "Oh. Just them?"
Part II : Old Wounds
The open ground beyond Lake Stillwater was bathed in the crisp morning light. As they reached their usual spot, Alistair unbuckled the sword belt and handed it back to Faelan.
"Here," he said. "I think I can manage two children without a live blade. I'd rather not scar their pretty faces by accident."
"You're sure?" Lyra asked, a knowing glint in her eye. "They fight dirty. They'll be aiming to draw blood."
"I think I'll survive," Alistair replied with a confident smirk, walking toward his position.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Lyra called after him.
Lyra, Faelan, and a silent, book-absorbed Aeris settled under the shade of the solitary oak. The stage was set. As Alistair faced the two children, Faelan finally turned to Lyra.
"So," he began, his voice low and serious. "You had something to discuss?"
Lyra's gaze was fixed on the impending duel, her expression unreadable. "We saw her in the Southern Expanse," she said, her voice tight. "She's returned."
A cold stillness fell over Faelan. He didn't need to ask who. "Are you sure it's her?" he asked, his own voice dropping to a near-whisper.
Across the field, the fight began.
Alistair, expecting a clumsy rush, was instead met with a synchronized pincer attack, forcing him onto the defensive.
"The scar," Lyra murmured, her eyes tracking the fight but her mind a thousand miles away. "The old sword wound by her left eye. It's her."
The weight of a name hung unspoken between them. Brina.
Faelan's jaw tightened. "Does Brimor know?"
"No," Lyra said, shaking her head. "I gave him the egg fragment. He was like a child with a new toy. I couldn't… I couldn't take that from him. Not yet."
Faelan watched as Ingrid used a sudden earthen ramp to launch Arthur into an aerial attack, a move of stunning synergy that forced Alistair to conjure a shimmering shield of force. The lord was no longer smiling; he was focused, surprised.
"Then we have to go back," Faelan said, the statement a vow. "For Brina. We finish what we started."
"No." The word was heavy, final.
Lyra finally tore her gaze from the fight and looked at him, her eyes holding a weary depth he hadn't seen before. "Dragons, Fae, they're just beasts. They act on instinct—territory, hunger, fear. There's no malice. No intent. Hating a force of nature is a sure way to early grave."
Faelan stared, bewildered. "That's not the Lyra I remember. The Lyra I remember would have been the first one charging back up that cliff, sword drawn."
Her gaze drifted back to the field, where Alistair, now thoroughly impressed, was being systematically outmaneuvered by two children working in perfect, deadly harmony. A faint, sad smile touched her lips.
"Times have changed, Fae," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of her new reality. "I have commitments now. I can't afford to be that person anymore."
Faelan followed her gaze.
He saw the two children, fighting with a skill and ferocity that was both terrifying and beautiful.
He finally understood. The reckless adventurer was gone, replaced by a leader.
"Alright, Boss," he conceded, the words a quiet surrender. "Whatever you say goes."
Part III : A Lord's Lesson
Alistair had assumed this would be a simple lesson, a chance to stretch old muscles against enthusiastic but unrefined opponents.
The assumption died the moment Arthur exploded forward, a blur of motion that was less a boy's charge and more a predator's strike.
The lazy confidence vanished from Alistair's face, replaced by the sharp, honed instincts of a veteran.
With an effortless grace that belied his decade of diplomacy, he used a whisper of wind magic to launch himself backwards, landing silently atop a rising pillar of earth that he'd pulled from the ground.
He stood there, arms crossed, a king surveying his domain.
He hadn't accounted for their synergy.
Ingrid didn't hesitate.
Even as Alistair ascended, the ground before her swelled, forming a perfect, smooth ramp aimed directly at him.
Arthur's feet found the rising earth without breaking stride, launching him into a soaring aerial assault.
Alistair's eyes widened with genuine surprise, and a shimmering shield of force materialized just in time to meet Arthur's descending blade with a deafening CRACK of impact
But it was a feint.
Even as Arthur soared, Ingrid was a storm of focused action at the pillar's base.
A torrent of conjured water softened the packed earth around its foundation.
Her rock hammer materialized a second later, its descent accelerated by a vicious blast of wind to add torque. The pillar groaned, then shattered.
Alistair simply smiled.
He let his own wind magic catch him, carrying him in a gentle, controlled descent to the ground some distance away.
The three of them now stood at the points of a triangle, the children breathing heavily, Alistair looking entirely unruffled.
"I see now why Faelan is so taken with you, Ingrid," Alistair said, his voice laced with impressed amusement. "But raw power is not enough."
A sword of solid rock, a perfect, earthen replica of Arthur's own, formed in his hand .
He closed the distance between himself and Arthur in a heartbeat, his conjured blade meeting Arthur's steel with a grating shriek.
The attack was a distraction.
As anticipated, a volley of sharp frost shards hissed from Ingrid's position, only to shatter harmlessly against another of Alistair's shimmering shields.
She followed her volley, lunging with the twin daggers Arthur had given her, knowing the moment his shield fell, he would be vulnerable .
She underestimated him.
Alistair didn't drop his shield; he spun. A vortex of wind and dust erupted around him, a defensive cyclone that was also a weapon.
The churning gale caught both children, flaying their exposed skin with a thousand tiny cuts before tossing them away like dolls.
"I don't understand," Alistair called out, his voice carrying easily over the dissipating wind. He looked directly at Ingrid. "Earth, water, wind... why are you fighting with your hands tied behind your back? Where is your fire?"
Ingrid's jaw tightened, the recommendation landing like an insult.
But before she could retort, Arthur was already back in motion, his blade once again meeting Alistair's.
He was more fluid now, weaving the wind magic Brimor had drilled into him with Tybalt's sword forms, using small Zephyr Pushes to redirect his momentum in mid-air and earthen walls for defense .
Alistair's kicks still landed, but they lacked the bone-jarring force of Thorgar's, and Arthur fought through the pain.
Seeing Arthur being slowly overwhelmed, Ingrid slammed her palms to the ground.
An earthen cage erupted around Alistair, trapping him.
He simply placed a hand on the bars, a confident smile playing on his lips. "You know this is my affinity, don't you?"
The ground groaned.
The cage didn't fall; it transformed.
Battlements clawed their way into the sky, walls thickened, and cannons of pure rock swiveled into position.
In seconds, Alistair stood atop a miniature fortress, looking down at them like a bored god.
The cannons opened fire, unleashing a barrage of rock pellets that flew with bone-shattering velocity.
Arthur was a cornered animal, his sword a blur as he deflected what he could, his hastily erected earth walls crumbling under the relentless assault.
His mana reserves, still a shallow puddle, were draining at an alarming rate .
Ingrid, however, was a ghost.
Her training at Pond Annoy had honed her reflexes to a razor's edge.
Her slender frame weaved and dodged through the storm of pellets with an impossible grace, but she couldn't close the distance.
Arthur caught Ingrid's eye across the battlefield. A silent question. A sharp, almost imperceptible nod in return.
Ingrid raised a colossal stone pillar into the air, a massive, obvious target.
Alistair's attention snapped to it, redirecting the cannons to blast its rising peak.
The moment the barrage shifted, Ingrid unleashed her true attack.
Two immense dragons of pure fire erupted from her palms, roaring toward Alistair's fortress .
He was forced to conjure a massive shield to absorb the continuous, searing assault.
But Arthur wasn't on the pillar.
He had used the distraction to ghost along the fortress's flank.
With lightning pace, he scaled the wall, his final strike a blur of steel and wind magic.
Alistair, his attention split, parried with his free hand.
Arthur's sword was knocked wide, but as it flew past, Alistair felt a sharp, stinging sensation on his ear. He was surprised; the blade hadn't come within a foot of him.
He dropped his spells.
The fortress crumbled back into the earth.
Ingrid, seeing his guard down, let her fire dragons dissipate.
Alistair touched his earlobe, his fingers coming away stained with a smear of blood.
"How...?" he asked, genuinely bewildered. "The blade was nowhere near me."
"I traced a thin blade of wind along the edge of my sword," Arthur explained, his chest heaving. "To extend its reach."
Alistair stared for a moment, then broke into a wide, impressed grin.
"That's brilliant. That's not something you can teach. That's true battle instinct." He then turned to Ingrid. "And you. I was beginning to think I wouldn't get to see that fire of yours. Life would be much easier if you led with your strengths."
As Lyra, Faelan, and Aeris approached, Lyra saw the blood on Alistair's ear.
"Told you they fight dirty," she said, shaking his head with a proud smirk.
Aeris was already there, a soft green light glowing from her palm as she sealed the small wound.
"It's good to stretch the old muscles," Alistair laughed, then looked at the two exhausted children. "Be proud. You did well. Now, where are we going for lunch?"
"Apologies, my lord," Ingrid said, her formal tone returning. "Our training for the day is not yet complete."
Alistair's smile was warm. "I understand. And please, no need for such formality between us."
"Yes, my lord," Faelan added, bowing with theatrical mockery. "Perhaps I will stay and offer some swordplay wisdom to this young prodigy."
Alistair let out a soft, melodic laugh that seemed to captivate everyone present. Lyra and Faelan, standing close, exchanged a look—a silent, instantaneous conversation that passed between them in a heartbeat. A shared, frustrated thought surfaced, and they spoke in a near-perfect, hushed unison, their voices laced with a dangerous, familiar heat.
"Gods, that smile... If only the children weren't here..."
They both shared a private, hesitant laugh at their own synchronized thought.
The others didn't catch what they said. Alistair, confused, asked, "What?"
"Nothing," they replied in unison again, the unspoken desire now a secret joke between them.
Lyra strode forward, looping her arm through Alistair's, her full bosom pressing against his bicep as she gave him a radiant smile. "I suppose that leaves just us for lunch."
Arthur felt a hot blush creep up his neck at the casual intimacy.
"What about Aeris?" Alistair asked.
"I will oversee their training," the elf replied in her usual dispassionate tone, "in case they injure themselves further."
"Very well," Alistair said.
"Shall we go, my lord?" Lyra purred, her smile widening.
Alistair drew himself up, attempting a stern, noble expression that was utterly betrayed by the soft amusement in his eyes. "Lead the way, my lady."
The two of them walked off toward the line of restaurants on the far side of Lake Stillwater, leaving a blushing prince, a stoic mage, and two bemused veterans in the quiet of the training field.