The sun had only just begun to rise, casting a pale golden light across the pink walls of Elena's bedroom. A soft breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the scent of morning dew and city bread ovens.
When Mariel—the middle-aged maid with kind eyes—pushed open the door to begin her usual cheerful wake-up routine, she paused at the sight before her.
Elena was already awake.
The little girl stood by the window, resting her arms on the sill, gazing silently out into the quiet streets of Jarustum.
Mariel's smile softened. "Good morning, little princess."
Elena blinked, then turned and offered a faint smile. "Good morning, Mariel."
Her voice was calm, but not its usual playful self.
Mariel stepped closer and studied her for a moment, but said nothing. She simply reached for the brush and helped the girl wash up and change. Elena picked out a simple but nice outfit—a soft white blouse with light green trim, and clean, folded trousers. She didn't ask for ribbons today, and she didn't spin around to see how the fabric fluttered.
There was no skipping on the way to the dining hall either.
She walked slowly beside Mariel, her hands clasped together in front of her, her steps small and careful.
By the time they reached the hallway that opened into the dining room, Mariel finally spoke.
"You're awfully quiet today, miss."
Elena glanced up, then looked away again.
"I'm just…" she mumbled, "a little nervous."
Mariel nodded slowly. "Is something the matter?"
The little girl hesitated before answering, her voice small.
"My brother… Lance… He's coming today."
Mariel blinked, then smiled gently. "Oh… I see. That explains it." She gave a small nod. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"
Elena nodded, but it was a slow, uncertain one.
"I think so," she whispered. "But… what if he doesn't remember me? Or what if he's changed? It's been so long. What if I'm different now and he doesn't like me anymore?"
Mariel stopped walking and knelt down slightly to meet the girl's eyes.
"Elena," she said softly, brushing a bit of hair from her face. "He's your big brother. And you're still you—a sweet, bright, kind little girl who's been through more than most grown-ups could handle."
Elena stared at her, eyes glassy.
"And if he's the kind of brother you remember," Mariel continued with a smile, "then he's going to be so proud of you. I know I am."
That pulled a breathy little laugh out of the girl.
"I look alright, right?" Elena asked, straightening her blouse.
Mariel chuckled and stood back up. "You look lovely. Like a little lady of the court."
And together, they resumed the walk to breakfast—Elena still quiet, but now carrying something warmer in her chest than just anxiety.
Hope.
When Elena stepped into the dining hall with Mariel, the warm scent of baked bread and honeyed tea welcomed her, and so did the two familiar figures already seated at the table.
"Good morning, Uncle Rannold. Good morning, Aunt Haseena," she said politely, offering them a smile like she'd been taught—though a hint of nervousness slipped into her voice.
"Good morning, dear," Haseena said, smiling softly.
Rannold gave a small wave. "Good morning, Princess."
But even as he smiled, Elena could tell something was off.
The merchant mayor looked… uneasy. His fingers drummed softly against the edge of his cup, and he kept casting glances toward the clock on the wall and the window as if expecting someone at any moment.
It confused her.
After all, it was just her brother who was coming. Just Lance.
Shouldn't Lance be the nervous one?
From what she remembered, Lance was just a city guard—nothing too important. Rannold was a whole mayor. With staff and responsibilities and a house bigger than any she'd seen before.
If anything, he should be calm.
Unless…
Elena tilted her head slightly and decided to ask, her voice hesitant but curious.
"Uncle Rannold… why do you look nervous? I thought it was only Lance visiting today?"
Rannold froze for a moment.
Then slowly turned to look at her.
He blinked.
Then facepalmed, muttering under his breath, "Ah… that's right. She doesn't know…"
He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, brushing imaginary crumbs from his vest.
"Elena," he began carefully, "your brother isn't… just a city guard."
She stared back, confused. "He's not?"
Rannold smiled awkwardly, and then—his tone growing just a touch more dramatic, the way merchants often spoke when about to make a sale—he said:
"Your older brother, Lance… is a Pillar of the Kingdom."
Elena's eyes widened.
"A… pillar?"
Haseena chuckled gently and nodded. "One of the few protectors who serve directly under the throne. Heroes known across the lands."
Rannold leaned forward, smiling now with pride.
"Your brother isn't just Lance. He's Lance of Justice. The very same one Al-Bark speaks about. One of the most respected fighters in the realm. The Lance that criminals fear and children dream of meeting."
Elena's mouth hung open, stunned.
Her brother… that Lance?
The legendary one?
She didn't know what to say.
Only one thought rang in her head now—
He really is coming today...?
And he was no longer just her big brother…
He was a hero.
Elena's eyes lit up like lanterns, her confusion giving way to wide-eyed excitement.
"Wait—wait! Who's Lance of Justice?" she asked, practically bouncing in place. "I've never heard of him! And he's my brother?! That Lance?!"
Haseena laughed, a soft, melodic sound as she sipped her tea. "Yes, dear. Your Lance."
Rannold chuckled as well, shaking his head in amusement. "It's not surprising you haven't heard of him, honestly. The title 'Lance of Justice' only started being used a few years ago. He earned quite a name for himself across Al-Bark and even some parts of Decartium, but the stories are still spreading."
He leaned forward a bit, resting his elbows on the table.
"But make no mistake—he's a Pillar of the Kingdom, Elena. One of Al-Bark's chosen champions. They say he could go toe-to-toe with someone like the Blue Lightning of Decartium."
Elena blinked. "The… blue what?"
Rannold grinned. "A famous Pillar from the neighboring kingdom. Very powerful. Very fast. But even he'd have trouble against your brother."
Elena didn't fully understand what that meant… but it sounded impressive. And if people like Uncle Rannold were saying it, it had to be true.
Her lips curled into a bright, proud smile.
Her brother.
Not someone else's. Not a stranger's.
The Lance that everyone respected and admired…
He was hers.
And he was coming today to visit.
Breakfast passed in a flash.
Elena barely touched her eggs between wide-eyed questions and excited gasps as Rannold recounted tale after tale of the Lance of Justice—her Lance.
She leaned forward with every word, hanging onto his stories like they were fairy tales brought to life. About the time Lance had stopped an entire caravan of slave traffickers on his own. About how he'd dueled a rogue Art User who threatened a noble estate and brought him down without killing him. About how even the name Lance of Justice made bandits flee in some parts of Al-Bark.
By the time Rannold leaned back with a satisfied chuckle, his tea gone cold beside him, Elena's eyes were practically glowing.
"So when is he coming? When? When?" she asked, bouncing in her seat.
"In the afternoon," Rannold said with a small grin. "He'll arrive at the west gate before sundown. Plenty of time."
Elena's face lit up with renewed energy.
"Well then," she declared proudly, puffing her chest a little, "I'll go back to the market! They still need their Inspector Princess, after all!"
Rannold raised a brow. "You sure? You could rest if you want, wait for him in peace."
She shook her head firmly. "Nope! If my brother's a symbol of justice, then I'll be the same—for the market! I won't run from my duty!"
Haseena couldn't help but smile at the fire in the little girl's voice. "Very well then, brave one. Go protect the people."
And off she went.
...
That morning, Elena hit the streets once more, accompanied by a new pair of guards. One was middle-aged, his beard trimmed to his chin and his expression tired, and the other was younger, probably just over twenty, with dark circles under his eyes and a slouch that screamed "too early."
They looked a little rougher than the cheerful guards from yesterday.
But none of that mattered to Elena.
She bounced ahead of them on the cobblestone streets, humming and skipping like her shoes were filled with feathers. The sun was warm, and the market's scent of herbs and meat pies drifted toward them on the breeze.
"I bet you didn't know," she said, barely able to contain herself, "but something very special is happening today!"
The middle-aged guard grunted, "Oh? What's that?"
Elena opened her mouth, her hands already rising in dramatic flair to declare the arrival of Lance of Justice himself—her brother! Her blood!
But she froze, remembered something.
"Let's keep this between us for now," Rannold had said. "You'll get to surprise him properly if fewer people know he's coming."
She bit her tongue, cheeks puffing out, and instead forced a grin. "It's a secret. But it's huge! Like, bigger-than-a-whale huge!"
The younger guard blinked, then chuckled softly. "Well, now I am curious."
"Too bad," Elena said proudly. "It's classified Inspector Princess information."
The older guard gave a tired huff that almost sounded like a laugh.
And so, flanked by her two grumpy-but-softening escorts, the Inspector Princess of Jarustum once more took to the market…
Ready to defend justice.
Until the real Lance arrived.
The market was already alive with sound and movement by the time they arrived.
Vendors called out their wares—fresh bread, herbs, jewelry, firewood—while children darted between carts and dogs barked after wagons. It was chaos. Beautiful, colorful chaos.
And Elena loved it.
She marched through the main lane with her hands on her hips, eyes scanning the stalls like a general inspecting her troops. The two guards trailed behind her, looking more amused by the minute.
Her first stop was the jewelry cart, where an old woman was arguing with a bearded vendor.
"I'm telling you," the woman snapped, "this isn't real sapphire! I can feel it!"
"It is!" the man huffed, crossing his arms. "My supplier guaranteed it!"
Elena stepped forward, hands behind her back and a practiced frown on her face. "Inspector Princess, reporting for duty."
The two adults blinked down at her.
The vendor sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Great… it's the kid."
But the old woman clapped her hands. "Maybe you'll listen."
Elena approached the table, eyeing the deep-blue pendant in question. It was shiny, and it looked fancy—but she remembered something from one of the books in Rannold's library.
She reached forward, gently pressed her thumb against the stone, and then squinted.
"…May I borrow your water bucket?" she asked one of the guards, pointing to a vendor nearby.
The middle-aged guard raised a brow, but complied. Elena dipped the pendant in the cold water for a few seconds, then held it up to the light.
The surface now looked slightly faded.
"Not a real sapphire," she said simply. "The real ones don't lose color when wet."
The old woman beamed.
"I knew it! Hah! A fraud!"
The vendor's face flushed red. "It's not fraud! I—I was tricked! I swear!"
The guards stepped forward then, gently diffusing the tension and noting the man's name. They'd report it to the city ledger and mark the supplier as suspect.
Elena, meanwhile, gave the necklace back to the old woman.
"Next time," she said with a tiny grin, "try the heat test too. Real sapphire doesn't heat up fast."
The woman chuckled. "I'll remember that, little one."
As she and the guards walked away, the younger one muttered, "Where does she learn this stuff?"
Elena grinned, proud and beaming. "Inspector secrets."
And just like that, the market had one less fraud…
Thanks to the Princess of Inspection.
The rest of the morning passed like a breeze.
Elena, the proud Inspector Princess, made her rounds with unwavering enthusiasm. From settling disputes over fish weights to helping a baker retrieve a stolen loaf from a sneaky raccoon-like creature, she was everywhere—small in size, but sharp as a tack.
Vendors smiled when they saw her coming, some even waving ahead of time. Children whispered her name like she was a storybook heroine, and more than once, someone clapped when she solved a tricky problem with her curious mind and calm questions.
Even the guards—grumpy as they were at first—began to soften. They exchanged glances behind her back, sharing quiet chuckles whenever she declared "case closed" or crossed her arms in imitation of a royal investigator.
By midday, the sun hung high, and the cobbled market buzzed in golden warmth.
The older guard nudged the younger one as they approached a modest stall near the fountain plaza. It had a short line, and above it, steam rose in swirling shapes—spices and scents mixed with faint trails of shimmering blue.
A sign read: Art-Fried Crystal Cakes – Crunchy Outside, Melted Spark Inside!
The vendor was an elderly woman in a tall hat with silver embroidery. She wore gloves and used Fire Crystals to toast the outer shell of what looked like glowing pastry orbs, each radiating gentle pulses of heat.
"We figured," said the younger guard with a smirk, "you deserved a prize today."
Elena blinked, eyes wide. "A… what?"
"A reward," said the older one, pulling out a few coins. "For all your hard work."
Elena opened her mouth, the instinct to politely decline already on her tongue.
Then she saw the cakes—perfect spheres of flaky, golden crust, lightly crackling as the art-infused filling inside bubbled faintly, colored like starlight.
She looked back at the guards.
Then at the cakes.
Then back at them again.
"…Okay," she said (reluctantly), trying very hard not to smile too wide.
The guards chuckled, and the vendor handed her one with a gentle, "Be careful, little spark. It's warm."
Elena took a bite, and her eyes lit up like fireworks.
Delicious.
As they sat near the fountain with warm Art-Fried Crystal Cakes in hand, Elena swung her legs over the stone bench, cheeks puffed as she chewed another bite, the sweet melted core still steaming slightly.
Then she looked up at the two guards beside her, curiosity shining in her eyes.
"So…" she began, "have you guys ever done anything cool? Like—like saved a village? Or solved a real case? Like a real one, not just market squabbles?"
The younger guard leaned back and stretched with a yawn. "I do real investigations all the time, Princess. Once, I found out which guard kept stealing bread from the garrison's pantry. Took me two whole days."
Elena groaned, tilting her head. "That doesn't count…"
He smirked. "You didn't say it had to be exciting."
Before Elena could fire back, the older guard gave the younger one a light punch on the shoulder—not too hard, just enough to jolt him.
"Hey," he said with a grin, "watch your tone. Gotta defend the Inspector Princess's honor."
Elena nodded quickly, arms crossed with a satisfied smirk.
But then, as the laughter faded, the older guard's smile lowered a little. He stared ahead quietly, turning the half-eaten cake in his hand as if it had suddenly gotten heavier.
"Well," he said after a moment, "I did something once. A long time ago. Before I got old and slow."
That got Elena's attention. Her eyes locked onto him.
The man's voice turned thoughtful.
"I fought in the Monster War. When it was still going on."
The younger guard stiffened slightly, his joking demeanor vanishing.
"You mean the one with the Half-Animal Kingdom?" Elena asked quietly, eyes wide.
He nodded. "Yeah. That one. Back when most of us were pulled out of our posts and pushed to the frontlines. Didn't matter if you were a city guard or farm watch—if you could hold a weapon, they needed you."
He looked into the distance, jaw tightening a little.
"That war lasted a whole year. Blood, smoke, and teeth. The Monster Kingdom allied with the Half-Animal Kingdom, turned against us—against Al-Bark and Decartium. The frontlines stretched through the forests and mountains. It wasn't about land. It wasn't about gold. It was about survival."
Elena was silent, her small hands clutching the now-cool cake.
The guard took a slow breath and looked back at her with a small, tired smile.
"Let's just say… I've seen enough to know that peace, even the kind we have now, is worth protecting. Even if it means dealing with carrot taxes and overweighed fish."
The younger guard glanced at him, then muttered, "Didn't know you fought there, old man."
"I don't talk about it," the older one replied simply.
Elena, unusually quiet, looked down at her cake, then up at the man who had once marched through the Monster War.
"…Thank you," she said softly.
The old guard raised his brows, surprised—then smiled.
"Anytime, Princess."
They were still eating, the soft hum of the market filling the air, when the young guard suddenly tensed. His body stiffened mid-bite, and his eyes narrowed toward a commotion near a fruit vendor at the far end of the plaza.
He slowly reached for his sword hilt.
"Old man," he said under his breath. "Trouble."
The older guard followed his gaze. There, standing rigid with wild eyes and a firm grip on a steel-tipped spear, was a young woman. Her cloak was ragged, and she held the spear low but firm, its edge gleaming near the trembling vendor.
Elena's breath caught.
The warmth from her cake vanished in an instant, replaced by a cold that wrapped around her chest and squeezed.
Fear gripped her.
Not the little pretend fear she'd had in her games. No. This was real. This was sharp and heavy and paralyzing.
She barely noticed the older guard crouch slightly, eyes locked on the woman.
"Princess," he said quietly, firmly, without turning to her, "Stay here. Don't move."
She nodded numbly, still clutching her cake.
The younger guard shifted nervously, sweat already forming at his brow.
"She looks ready to strike," he whispered. "What if she's a—?"
"Listen," the older man interrupted, voice calm but commanding. "Go talk to her. Slowly. Don't draw your weapon unless you have to. Keep her attention, ask what she wants. Buy me some time."
The young guard blinked. "Wait, me? What are you—?"
The older one smirked faintly, rolling his shoulders. "I'll circle around from the other side. Once she's distracted, I'll move in and take her down quick. No blood, if I can help it."
The younger one looked like he wanted to protest—but one look at the girl's trembling hands, the terrified vendor behind her, and the way people were beginning to clear the area made him swallow hard and nod.
"Alright," he muttered, and began walking.
Elena watched in silence, heart pounding, as her small corner of the world—just moments ago full of giggles and crystal cakes—was suddenly gripped by danger.
She couldn't move.
All she could do was watch… and hope her guards could handle it.
The young guard moved first, carefully weaving through the thinning crowd, his hand off his sword to avoid alarming anyone further. Elena couldn't hear what he was saying—the distance was too great, the market noise too much—but she saw his lips move, calm but deliberate.
The woman turned her head slowly, still gripping her spear tightly. She said something back. Her stance didn't relax, but her eyes flicked toward him. She was listening. That gave Elena hope.
But it didn't last.
From behind the scattering crowd, Elena caught a movement—a flash of iron and gray cloak.
The older guard.
He was crouched low, sword drawn in his right hand, silently stepping between stalls. His eyes were locked on the woman. Elena's heart began to race again.
Then—
He lunged.
A swift blur of motion cut across the plaza. His blade sliced through the wooden shaft of the woman's spear with a sharp crack, sending splinters into the air. The top half clattered to the stone.
The woman gasped, stumbled back—but she was quick.
From her belt, she drew a dagger and flung it at him in one fluid motion.
Elena let out a tiny scream, but the older guard twisted, bracing his sword across his chest just in time. The dagger slammed into the flat of his blade, sending sparks flying. He took the hit, grunting, but stayed upright.
The young guard?
He froze.
Eyes wide, he just stood there as chaos broke loose around him. People screamed and scattered. Merchants ducked under their stalls. The vendor, sensing the danger had turned on someone else, bolted away, tripping over a basket in his haste but not looking back.
The woman reached for another weapon, but her hesitation gave the older guard the edge. He stepped forward—
And Elena, still rooted to her bench, watched with her small fists clenched and her breath caught halfway up her throat.
The market, her safe little kingdom, was now a battlefield.
Elena's eyes widened as the woman turned and ran, dodging the older guard's swing with a speed that felt almost inhuman. She darted straight toward the young guard, still frozen in place like a statue of fear.
"Move…" Elena whispered, but her voice was too small, too distant.
The woman reached him in a heartbeat.
A hard kick to his gut sent him crashing to the ground, breath knocked clean from his lungs. Before he could even gasp, she had grabbed his sword—and in the next moment, the steel was pressed to his throat.
Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by screams as people ran. Stalls were overturned, baskets of fruit spilled. Somewhere, someone cried out to the guards, but none had arrived yet.
Elena couldn't breathe.
She couldn't even think.
The older guard stood still, sword in hand, body tense like a coiled spring. His voice came low and steady, trying to speak to her, calm her, defuse the moment. But the woman only shook her head, again and again, wild hair falling over her bloodshot eyes.
She didn't want to listen.
She didn't believe there was any way out.
And then—It happened.
Her body jerked violently. She looked down.
A white lance had pierced straight through her chest.
There was no warning. No sound. Just the cold gleam of the shaft and the red blooming across her shirt.
She gagged—once, twice—then collapsed to her knees, the blade dropping from her fingers as her lifeblood hit the cobblestones in thick, crimson drops.
The young guard stared up at her, too shocked to move.
The older guard didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, kicked the sword away from the woman's twitching hand, and grabbed the younger man by the collar, yanking him back with a rough growl.
"Move, damn it!"
Elena stood frozen, staring at the body.
The woman… was dead.
Elena's breath hitched.
Death was no stranger to her anymore. She had seen it before—when her village was scorched by fire and shadow, when Eric of the Black Tower cut down her mother with an Air Lance.
She'd heard the screams. Smelled the smoke.
And two days after, she'd survived the bandits, watched men die in brutal skirmishes as Captain Boros's guards fought to save her.
But this—
This was different.
Even if she had witnessed worse… she was still just a little girl. And watching the blood pool beneath the dead woman's body made her chest tighten until it ached.
Elena turned away from the corpse, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.
Then, slowly, carefully, she looked around—searching.
Someone had thrown that lance. A perfect strike like that… they had to be close by.
Her eyes darted across the crowd, past the retreating backs of panicked merchants, past the overturned carts and scattered fruit.
And then—
She saw him.
A man.
Standing calmly at the edge of the market, only now lowering his arm from the throw.
He looked to be in his late twenties, maybe a bit younger. His green hair was short and messy, a familiar shade, and his green eyes gleamed under the sunlight like deep-cut emeralds.
His armor—white, with elegant black designs sweeping across the shoulders and chest—shone like something out of a fairytale. On one side of his plated breastplate was a symbol: a black flag blooming with dark roses, etched in careful detail.
It was beautiful. Regal.
Legendary.
But Elena saw none of that.
Because her gaze wasn't drawn to the armor or the emblem.
Her eyes locked on his face.
And everything else disappeared.
"…Lance?"
The word slipped from her lips, so soft it barely formed. Her chest fluttered, pain and joy crashing like waves inside her.
It was him.
Her brother.
But… how?
Why was he here?
How could he be the one who…?
Her mind swirled with questions, but none reached her lips.
She just stood there, eyes wide, staring.
It was him.
It was really him.
The young man—Lance—walked forward with calm, measured steps, the soft clink of his white-and-black armor echoing faintly between the hushed murmurs of the shaken market.
He didn't seem to notice her.
Not yet.
Elena's heart pounded in her chest, her small hands curled into fists at her sides. It was him, she knew it was—but… why didn't he look her way?
The old guard turned just as Lance approached, and his eyes widened in sudden recognition—not of the face, no. But of the armor.
His back straightened immediately, and with practiced motion, the old guard raised a firm salute, voice ringing out in surprise and respect: "Sir!"
The emblem had spoken louder than any introduction ever could.
The black roses—the symbol of Al-Bark's Royal Guard, the personal protectors of the king himself.They were the best of the best, whispered about in stories and legends.
And now, standing in the marketplace in front of her, one of them was Lance.
Her brother.
Lance gave the old guard a small smile and said something—Elena couldn't hear it clearly—but it was enough. The old man's tense posture softened ever so slightly, like the weight of the moment had eased.
But the young guard beside him?
He didn't relax.
His eyes were locked on the woman's corpse, wide and shaken. His hand trembled slightly by his side. He looked pale, almost sick.
Then, the old guard leaned close to him, pointing—
At Elena.
He said something—quiet and firm.
Whatever it was, it snapped the young man from his frozen state. He blinked, nodded stiffly, and began walking toward her, hesitant but obedient.
Elena didn't move.
Her eyes stayed on Lance, her breath caught in her throat, her legs too stiff to run.
He still hadn't looked at her.
But he would.
Soon.
And that "soon" materialized in the very next second.
Lance's eyes followed the young guard's movement, his gaze trailing curiously toward whatever—or whoever—the old man had pointed at.
Then he saw her.
He froze.
His entire expression shifted in an instant—cool composure crumbling into something raw, something human.
Shock.
His eyes widened. His lips parted.
And for a heartbeat, he didn't move—
Then his body did.
Like something had snapped inside him, Lance moved, faster than anyone in the market could have reacted, faster than the young guard walking toward her, faster than Elena could even process.
His armor clinked with urgency, boots hitting the stone path hard as he ran toward her, the shock on his face unmistakable. Not the polished, distant look of a Royal Guard, but the stunned panic of a man who'd just seen a ghost.
He reached her.
And then—
He stopped.
Just a step away.
Elena still hadn't moved. She stood there, her small frame stiff, arms at her sides, frozen like she had been the moment she saw the lance strike the woman.
Lance didn't speak.
Neither did she.
The two siblings stared at each other—one small, in everyday clothes and scuffed shoes, the other in legendary armor, dust on his boots and blood on his gloves.
Eyes locked.
Breath shallow.
In that long, suspended silence… They saw everything in each other's eyes—
Grief.
Hope.
Fear.
Love.
And disbelief that the other was truly standing there.
He hesitated.
His lips moved slightly—uncertain, like he wasn't sure if speaking would break the illusion standing before him. But then he finally whispered, voice rough with disbelief:
"Elly…?"
His tone cracked gently around the name. "Is that really you…?"
For another heartbeat, Elena just stared. Her lower lip trembled, but her feet moved before she could think. In a burst of motion, she lunged forward, throwing herself into his chest and wrapping her small arms around him as tightly as she could.
The sudden weight made Lance stumble half a step back.
He froze.
Stunned.
But only for a second.
Then he ducked low, arms closing around her with trembling urgency, pulling her close, holding her like she might vanish again if he let go.
His face buried in her hair. Her small frame pressed against the cold armor. No words.
Just raw, overwhelming relief.
The young and old guards watched in stunned silence, their mouths slightly ajar, the market square still in disarray behind them.
And then came the reinforcements.
Around ten heavily armed guards spilled into the area, weapons drawn, expressions grim. They shouted for people to clear out, pushing the crowds away from the scene, their eyes immediately catching on the corpse at the center of the disturbance—
The woman, still lying still, the white lance impaled through her body.
But what caught their attention next…
Was the man in glinting royal armor, wrapped in an embrace with the small girl every citizen in the city had come to call the Princess of Jarustum.
The Lance of Justice, with a child in his arms.
And for a moment… no one spoke.
...
Elena sat quietly on the wooden bench, her legs dangling just above the cobbled ground. Beside her, sitting just as still, was a figure she hadn't expected to meet until later in the day—certainly not like this.
Her small hands were wrapped tightly around his gloved ones, holding on as if he might disappear the moment she loosened her grip.
And he… he held hers back just as tightly.
They didn't speak.
Not yet.
After the long, desperate hug they had exchanged, there didn't seem to be words ready to fill the silence. Instead, they both looked out at the marketplace, now slowly settling back into a broken rhythm—as if nothing had happened.
Elena's gaze drifted to the far end, where she saw the old and young guards talking in hushed tones to the ten fully armed men who had arrived just minutes ago. Two of the newcomers were already lifting the woman's body onto a stretcher, the white lance still lodged clean through her chest.
Vendors across the market stood behind their stalls, their expressions ranging from wary to resigned. Some looked down at their scattered wares, inspecting if anything had gone missing during the panic. A few silently packed up, their hands shaking as they closed shop early, the weight of what they'd witnessed too much to bear for one more sale.
And yet, others… resumed.
As if this too was part of a normal day in Al-Bark. As if danger, blood, and death could be brushed away with a broom and a sigh.
Their voices called out again, advertising fruits, spices, and bread with practiced cheer. One even shouted Elena's name in greeting—only to quiet when he saw who was sitting beside her.
She didn't reply.
Not yet.
Not while her fingers still clung to her brother's, and not while her thoughts were tangled between relief, fear, and all the things she wanted to say but couldn't yet form.
She just held on.
And he let her.
Lance cleared his throat softly beside her.
Elena blinked and looked up, her fingers still locked with his, and saw the familiar small smile tug at his lips—worn and tired, but genuine.
"You've grown taller," he said with a light chuckle, his voice warm, trying to brush aside the heaviness that still lingered in the air. "And stronger too. Your grip's like iron."
The little girl stared at him for a moment, her face unreadable—then a small giggle slipped out, and she gave a proud nod.
"That's because I'm the market's Inspector Princess," she said matter-of-factly, puffing out her chest just a little. "I have to be strong."
Lance raised an eyebrow, smiling wider. He didn't ask what that meant—he just nodded as if it made perfect sense.
At that moment, one of the armored guards jogged toward them, stopping a respectful few steps away. The man looked nervous, cradling something in his hands—the white lance, now cleaned of blood and gleaming under the sun.
"Sir," the guard said carefully, offering it out with both hands. "We… we need your statement, about what happened. If you could come with—"
Before he finished, Lance stood, gently pulling his hand away from Elena's grasp. He took the lance back, inspecting it with a quick flick of his eyes before letting it rest against the bench.
"I'll submit a full report to the Jarustum Guard later," Lance said simply, voice calm but carrying weight.
If it had been anyone else, the guard would've insisted. Would've said procedure couldn't be bent. Would've ordered them to come now.
But this wasn't just anyone.
This was a Royal Guard—one of the Pillars of Al-Bark.
A man who stood beside the king himself.
The guard nodded, "Understood, Sir."
And just like that… he backed away.
Lance sat back down beside his little sister, resting the lance gently against the bench once more. He glanced at her, his expression softer now, the weight of earlier events set aside—at least for the moment.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.
Elena looked up at him, then out at the marketplace—at the vendors, the distant crowd, the spot where the woman had fallen—and shook her head.
"I… I'm not sure how I feel."
Lance didn't push. He just nodded, as if he understood completely. And in truth, he did.
He followed her gaze for a moment, then pointed subtly at the two guards nearby—the old one and the young, still visibly shaken. "Were they the ones assigned to escort you today?"
Elena gave a small nod.
"Alright," Lance said, rising once more and brushing the dust from his armor. "Wait here a sec."
Elena watched curiously as her brother walked over to the pair. She couldn't hear what was being said, but she saw the old guard nod respectfully and the young one shift awkwardly, still unsure where to place his thoughts after everything. Lance gave them both a few words, nodded, then turned and made his way back to her.
"Come on," he said, holding out a hand to her. "Let's walk around a bit. Talk."
She blinked. "Where?"
"Nowhere far," he replied with a reassuring smile. "I spoke to your guards. I'm your escort now."
He gave her a wink and added playfully, "And besides, I'm way stronger than them anyway. Best escort in the kingdom for the little princess."
Elena giggled, reaching for his hand as she stood. "Don't brag!"
"I'm not bragging," he grinned. "It's just a fact."
...
The quiet street they walked down was a far cry from the bustling chaos of the market. The cobbled path stretched between low brick buildings and shaded alleys, the scent of bread and flowers drifting lazily in the afternoon breeze.
A few people passed by—shopkeepers, errand runners, curious children—and each time their eyes caught the black rose emblem gleaming on Lance's pristine white armor, they slowed.
Muttered words like "That's one of them…" or "Is that the Lance of Justice?" followed in their wake, whispered with awe, caution, or reverence.
Elena held his hand tightly, swinging it slightly as she walked beside him, eyes thoughtful. Then she looked up and broke the silence.
"Why didn't you ever tell me you were this famous?"
Lance glanced down and smiled, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "Because I wasn't… not back then. I only became 'super famous' after—"
He paused.
"After the last time I saw you. Two years ago."
Elena's steps slowed.
Two years.
It had been two whole years since he'd come to visit. Two years since he had hugged her goodbye with that promise—that next time, he'd take her with him.
She didn't know what to say.
Lance sighed. His hand squeezed hers gently. "I should've come back sooner," he said. "I should've visited… even if… even if that man was still around. I let it stop me. And I'm sorry."
Elena didn't look at him, but she spoke softly. "It's okay. I know… even if I'm little, I know you hated Father."
Her voice was steady, even though it felt strange to say it aloud.
Lance opened his mouth but stopped again. That old bitterness tried to rise—but it was buried under something heavier now. Grief, perhaps. Or regret.
Then Elena looked up at him, her voice even quieter this time. "He died. Last year."
Lance froze mid-step.
He turned his head slowly toward her. "What…? I thought he died during the Black Fire. I thought—" His voice cracked slightly.
"I thought he died with… with…"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to.
Elena just nodded. "No. Just Mom… just her…"
And her voice trailed off too.
The name surfaced unbidden—
Eric.
That cold, cruel face. That awful voice. The monstrous smirk as he called out the name that had once meant everything to her.
Lance.
Not her brother—no, never him. But the weapon, the Air Lance, the technique that killed their mother.
Killed her with his name.
Elena's heart clenched. She glanced at her brother, his face calm and unreadable as they walked, then quickly looked away.
She couldn't tell him.
She wouldn't.
Lance hadn't asked for that. He hadn't done it. He didn't even know.
And she would never say it—not that his name had been used like that.
Not when it would hurt him too. Not when he'd already lost so much.
They walked in silence for a few long steps, the breeze rustling through the emptying street, broken only by distant chatter and the sound of boots against stone.
Then, softly, Lance spoke.
"…What happened?"
His voice wasn't firm or demanding—just cautious, careful.
"If… If you're okay with it. You don't have to tell me now. Not if it's too much."
Elena squeezed his hand gently, then shook her head.
"No," she said quietly. "Now's okay."
Lance looked down at her, then gave a silent nod, and together they kept walking.
She began to speak, her voice a whisper in the warm afternoon light.
"It happened at night… The Black Tower came. Arts Users. They didn't say anything, they didn't ask anything… they just attacked. Burned the houses. Killed everyone."
She paused, eyes unfocused, staring not at the street, but at a memory.
"They killed Mom too…"
Her voice cracked slightly, and Lance's hand twitched.
"She… she died protecting me. I remember her pushing me… yelling at me to run. But I didn't get far. One of them hit me with something, I think, and everything went dark."
She swallowed.
"When I woke up… I was in a cage. Hanging way up high in some trees. Bandits had taken me—and other people too. Prisoners."
Her voice dropped, trembling slightly.
Lance said nothing. He just kept walking slowly beside her, his gloved hand never once letting go of hers.
Elena kept walking, her voice steady, but quieter now—like each word carried the weight of a memory she hadn't spoken aloud until now.
"There was an old man in the cage with me," she said. "He was kind… really kind. His name was Varian. He used to be a soldier in Solfia."
She smiled faintly. "He told me stories sometimes. About battles, and dumb commanders, and how warm Solfia could be in spring. He protected me."
Her steps slowed a little. "Then… Captain Boros came. With city guards. There was a big fight. Lots of yelling. Steel clashing everywhere."
She stopped for a moment, her eyes lowered, a tight knot forming in her throat.
"One of the bandits… he came at me. I was small, and he thought—" she cut herself off and swallowed hard, her hand tightening around Lance's.
"But Varian—he didn't let him. He fought him. Killed him."
A pause. Her breath caught.
"But he… Varian… he died too."
She blinked back the wetness starting to form at the corners of her eyes.
"Then they took me here. To this city. And the mayor… he saw me, talked to me. Said I could stay with him… just for a while… until…"
She turned her head, finally looking up at him.
"…Until you came."
Lance's pace had slowed to a crawl. His face was turned slightly away, but not before she saw it.
The guilt. The sorrow. The way his jaw clenched and eyes hardened—not in anger at her story, but at himself. At everything.
Lance's voice finally broke the silence, low and strained, the words heavy on his tongue.
"…It was my fault."
Elena looked up at him, confused, but didn't interrupt.
"I wasn't even in the kingdom when the Black Fire happened," he said. "I was off in the west, near the borderlands, helping push back a monster. Big one. Took a whole squad of us to bring it down."
His jaw clenched tightly, eyes burning ahead, not daring to meet hers.
"But it doesn't matter. I should've been there. I should've been home. If I had been…" His fists tightened. "I failed you. I failed Mom."
He stopped walking for a moment, and Elena halted beside him, watching.
"No…" he muttered. "Even before that."
His voice darkened.
"Even if Mom begged me not to get involved… even if she said to just let it go… I shouldn't have listened. I should've done something. Anything."
He looked down, his fists trembling.
"I shouldn't have just left. I knew what he was like. I knew what he could do. But I left anyway."
His voice cracked.
"That was stupid. I should've just—"
He froze mid-sentence, eyes darting toward Elena.
She stared at him quietly, then asked, softly, "Kill him?"
Lance didn't answer. Not at first. His eyes fell. A long silence hung between them before he finally shook his head.
"…No. Not kill him."
His voice was quieter now, almost like he was speaking to himself.
"But I should've done something. Locked him away. Forced him out. Or at the very least… taken you and Mom away from him. Far away."
He inhaled sharply, the words catching in his throat.
"But I didn't. I let it happen. I let it all happen. And it led to this. To…"
His voice faltered, and he looked away again, shoulders heavy with guilt.
"To everything."
Elena shook her head slowly, gripping his hand again.
"No," she whispered, her voice gentle but firm. "It wasn't your fault."
But Lance only shook his head, his jaw set.
"…It was."
They walked in silence again.
The cobbled road curved beside a quiet fountain, long out of use, moss creeping up its edges. A soft breeze carried the smells of city life—fresh bread, burnt coal, bitter steel—but none of that reached either of them. Not truly.
Lance sat on the fountain's rim and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His white armor glinted in the light, but his face was cast in shadow.
Elena stood beside him, her small hand still holding his.
Then his voice came, rough and low.
"…I wasn't there when you needed me."
She blinked up at him.
"I wasn't there for Mom either. I was never there. Not when it counted." He looked ahead, eyes distant. "I ran away, Elly. I told myself I was chasing strength, chasing something better. But I was running. From him. From what our house was."
Elena's grip on his hand tightened, but she didn't speak.
"You know what hurts most?" he continued, his voice trembling. "It's that I knew. I knew what he was. I knew what he did. And I still left. Even when Mom begged me not to speak, even when she said to wait, to let it go…" He choked down something in his throat. "I should've ignored her. I should've dragged you both out. Reported him. Fought him. Imprisoned him. Anything. Anything but leave."
His fists clenched on his knees.
"I thought… I thought if I got stronger, I could come back one day and fix everything. But I was too late. I was—" his voice cracked. "I was too late. And because of that, you're standing here without a mother. Because of me."
He turned to her then, eyes wide and bloodshot, pain carving every line on his face.
"Say it, Elly. Say it's my fault. Because it is. I could've changed it. I should've changed it."
Elena stared at him, tears welling in her eyes. Not for her own pain this time, but for the man beside her. For the brother who blamed himself for every wrong thing that happened.
She took a step forward and reached up to hold his cheeks in her small hands, pulling his face toward her.
"No," she said quietly. "No, it's not your fault."
Lance opened his mouth, but she didn't let him speak.
"It's the Black Tower's fault. They're the ones who burned our village. They're the ones who killed Mom. Not you."
She took a deep breath, voice shaking.
"And Father—he chose to be a monster. You didn't make him that way. You didn't give him permission. He did what he did. He hurt us."
She looked down now.
"And Mom… she…"
Her throat closed for a moment. But she pushed forward.
"She made a mistake too. A big one. She kept saying everything would be fine if we just stayed quiet. She told you not to speak up. Told you not to act."
Elena's eyes met his again, fierce now, despite the tears.
"She was kind. She was brave. But she was wrong. And you were just a kid, Lance. You weren't supposed to fix everything."
Lance's breath hitched, stunned silent.
"I used to think the world was simple," Elena said softly, her voice small. "Like, there's good guys and bad guys… and the good guys always win."
She looked down at her feet, swinging them slightly above the ground as she sat beside him.
"But then… everything happened. And it's not like that. It's all… messy and weird and bad things happen to good people. Even when you do nothing wrong…"
Lance lowered his gaze, but said nothing.
Elena fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. "Mom was good. And kind. And she still—"
She stopped, her breath hitching. "So… I dunno. I guess… being good isn't always enough…"
That's when Lance turned away from her, standing up suddenly, his shoulders tense. He clenched his fists so tight his gauntlets creaked.
"I'm strong now," he muttered. "I'm stronger than I ever dreamed I'd be. I can outrun monsters, outfight assassins. I trained with Al-Bark's best. I bled. I killed. I clawed my way to being one of the Royal Guard. People salute me now."
He shook his head violently.
"And it means nothing."
Elena looked up at him, wide-eyed.
"Back in the Royal Court, I see it all," he went on, louder now. "I see people lie, cheat, steal. I see nobles who smile while destroying families. I see monsters in silk. I hear them laugh. I know what they're doing—everyone does—and still I can't do anything. I can't speak out. I can't stop them."
He let out a bitter laugh.
"I have all this power, and I can't even protect the ones I love. I couldn't save you from our father. I couldn't save Mom. I wasn't there when the village burned. I wasn't there when you cried alone in a cage!"
His voice cracked then, and he turned his back to her fully, as if ashamed to even let her see his face.
"I'm strong, Elly. Stronger than almost anyone in the kingdom. And I still couldn't do a damn thing…"
There was silence for a few moments.
Then, her voice came again, tiny but firm.
"That's not true."
Lance didn't respond.
"You were there today," she said. "You came."
Still, he said nothing.
Elena slid off the bench, walked to him slowly, and hugged him from behind, wrapping her little arms around his waist.
"You were there for me."
Lance stared ahead, unmoving.
She rested her cheek against the back of his armor. "Even if you didn't save everything... you saved something. You saved me."
He closed his eyes.
And for just a moment, the pain in his chest eased—only just a little—but it was enough.
Lance shook his head slowly, not to deny her words, but to deny himself any right to them. Elena stayed where she was, her arms still loosely wrapped around his waist from behind, her cheek pressed against the cold plate of his armor. She didn't speak again. She didn't know what to say anymore.
That's when a voice called out behind them—firm, clear, and a little cautious.
"Lance?"
Elena turned around instinctively and saw a young woman standing a few paces away. She looked to be in her twenties, with short, sharp blonde hair and striking green eyes. She wore a suit of white plate armor not unlike Lance's, but hers bore the same black emblem—black roses wrapped around a flag, the symbol of the Royal Guard.
Another one… Elena realized, her grip loosening.
The woman's expression was calm, but her eyes betrayed concern. She wasn't looking at Elena—only at Lance.
The young man turned around, almost too quickly, and just like that, his expression changed. A practiced smile formed, one Elena could tell was fake.
"Sofia," he said, his voice lighter, more composed than a moment ago. "I'm fine. Really. No need to worry."
Sofia stared at him for another second before giving a short nod. Her gaze flicked to the small figure beside him—Elena—her expression unreadable now.
Lance followed her eyes and smiled more genuinely this time.
He gently placed a hand on Elena's head. "This," he said, "is my little sister. Elena."
Sofia's eyes widened ever so slightly, then softened.
"And this," Lance continued, looking down at Elena, "is Sofia. Another Pillar of Al-Bark. People call her the Rose of Justice. She's a Royal Guard like me and… well…" He hesitated, his smile growing a touch more awkward. "She's also my fiancée."
Elena blinked at that.
Sofia gave a small, graceful nod, her lips curling into a faint smile.
"It's nice to finally meet you," she said, her voice calm and clear, with a strength that seemed to bloom quietly rather than demand attention.
Elena didn't reply right away. She looked between the two of them, a storm of new questions rising in her eyes.
A brother she hadn't seen in two years, now returned as a legendary warrior. And with him, someone even more unknown.
It was all… a lot.
But somehow, Elena felt her tiny fingers curl tighter around her brother's hand again.
...
The three of them walked quietly through the cobbled streets toward Mayor Rannold's home. The city had begun to settle—vendors were closing shop, lights were starting to flicker on through windows, and the sun was dipping low, casting golden streaks across the rooftops.
Elena held tightly onto Lance's arm, her small steps quickening every now and then to match his longer strides. Beside them, Sofia walked with practiced poise, her white plate armor gleaming faintly in the fading light. Despite the weight of the day, her expression remained composed, though the concern hadn't fully left her eyes.
Trying to lighten the mood, Sofia turned to Elena with a smile and asked a question about her favorite food. Then her favorite animal. Then what color she liked best. Each question was asked gently, patiently, like Sofia was trying to sift through the silence with silk threads.
Elena answered—quietly at first, then a bit more comfortably as she realized how kind the young woman was. But even then, her mind kept drifting. Her brother's arm was warm under her grip, real and solid, yet still… something felt distant. His presence was there, but his heart—his mind—was clearly still somewhere else.
Sofia kept trying, asking what kind of dresses Elena liked, whether she preferred dolls or books, even what name she would give a pet if she had one.
Elena replied politely, offering small smiles and nods, but her voice never held the same spark it usually did. It was obvious she wasn't really into the questions. Not because they weren't fun—but because today wasn't like every other day.
Her thoughts kept circling back to earlier—Lance's guilt, his pain, her own sadness, the tangled mess they had just barely begun to unravel.
Lance, for his part, chuckled softly at a few of Sofia's remarks, but he was quiet. His jokes came in brief flickers, clearly made out of habit more than real cheer. His eyes barely lifted from the road. Even when he spoke, it was with that distant tone of someone only halfway there.
It didn't escape Sofia's notice.
She smiled nonetheless, as if trying to fill in the spaces they left behind. As if hoping that, somehow, by being the steady bridge between them, she could close the growing distance neither of them had quite learned how to cross yet.
But despite her best efforts, it didn't work.
Some wounds weren't ready to close just yet. Some silences couldn't be mended by kindness alone.
Still, they walked on together—three figures against the slowly dimming sky—toward the mayor's house, toward the next chapter of a reunion that was only just beginning.
And soon enough, they made it to the mansion.
Two guards stood at attention at the front gate. When they saw the familiar little figure skipping beside two armored giants, they smiled—until their eyes fully registered who was walking with her.
Their smiles vanished, replaced by stunned expressions as they stiffened upright.
Royal Guards.
Not just ordinary soldiers or even high-ranking officers—no, these were the elite. The best of the best the Kingdom of Al-Bark had to offer. Warriors who stood at the very top, whose names were whispered in awe even beyond the borders. They were said to rival the Pillars of Decartium—the Fierce Lion, the Bear Skinner, and others who had carved legends of their own.
And now two of them—Lance of Justice and the Rose of Justice, Sofia—were casually strolling up to the mayor's residence with the city's little princess between them.
The guards saluted at once, fists to chest.
Lance and Sofia only offered small nods in return, smiling politely, neither boastful nor prideful, just... practiced, like it wasn't the first time people stared.
Without a word, the gates opened for them. The mayor's orders had already reached the guards ahead of time, warning them to expect important guests—though even so, seeing them in person was another matter entirely.
As the three stepped past the gates and into the mayor's mansion, the guards behind them exchanged quiet glances, still processing what they'd just seen.
For Elena, it was the usual way home. But today... it felt like something more.
...
The knock on the door echoed softly through the wide entrance hall of the mayor's mansion. Moments later, it creaked open to reveal a maid in a crisp uniform, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of the royal crests on Lance and Sofia's armor. Still, she quickly dipped into a respectful posture.
"Welcome, Sir Lance, Lady Sofia," she said politely, before glancing down at Elena and softening. "And young miss Elena. Please, come in."
The maid turned smoothly on her heel and led them through the spacious entryway. As she guided them toward the waiting room, she subtly motioned to another maid arranging a vase of flowers nearby. The second woman straightened and nodded before hurrying off to fetch the Mayor and his wife.
The first maid said as she opened the waiting room door for them. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."
They stepped inside a warm, cozy chamber lined with bookshelves and modest art. A low table sat in the center, already set with a silver tray of tea and a small plate of biscuits.
Elena settled herself on one of the armchairs, legs swinging slightly above the floor. Lance and Sofia took their seats beside her.
Mariel moved gracefully, pouring tea into delicate cups for each of them. "Would you like sugar?" she asked as she held out the small bowl with silver tongs.
Sofia gave a light shake of her head. "No sugar for me, thank you."
Lance, reaching forward with a quiet sigh, took two cubes and dropped them into his cup. Elena, mimicking him, added the same.
The light clink of sugar hitting porcelain was followed by a faint giggle. Sofia raised an eyebrow with the faintest smirk, her gaze softening at the sight of the two. "Matching sweet teeth, huh?"
Elena grinned sheepishly. Lance shrugged, sipping his tea. "Guess it runs in the family."
As they sipped their tea in the quiet glow of the room, it was Elena who finally broke the silence—not with a reply or a laugh, but with a soft question.
"So… how did you meet my brother?"
Her voice was gentle, curious. The kind of question only a little sister could ask with such innocence and weight.
Lance froze mid-sip. His eyes widened slightly before narrowing into a resigned grimace, and a faint red flushed across his cheeks.
Elena blinked. Then grinned.
He's blushing?
In all her memories of Lance—stern, smiling, tired, even teary-eyed—embarrassed had never been one of them. This was something new, and it made her giggle behind her cup.
Sofia caught the reaction instantly, and let out a low chuckle of her own. "Oh dear, look at him," she teased, leaning back with a sly smile. "You're not used to seeing him like this, huh?"
Elena shook her head eagerly. "Never!"
Lance sighed, but there was a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.
"Well," Sofia said, stretching the word with an amused lilt, "we met a few times on missions. Official stuff, mostly. There was one time we stood by the King's side while he spoke to some envoy. Might've been from Decartium. Or Solfia. Or one of the smaller kingdoms that act like they matter."
She paused, eyes flicking upward in thought. "Oh! But there was a Dwarven envoy once—from the city to the south."
Elena's eyes lit up. "Ohhh! Really?"
Sofia grinned at Elena's wide-eyed wonder. "Yep. Short and grumpy, but polite. From the Dwarven City down south—came all the way with polished boots and a beard that could trip a horse."
Elena let out a soft "Ohh…", eyes full of awe.
Sofia chuckled. "We didn't really talk much back then, your brother and I. Just a few nods here and there. But I started to like him."
Lance raised an eyebrow, setting his cup down. "Started? You stared at me like I was a puzzle you couldn't solve."
"I did not!" Sofia huffed, but her smirk betrayed her. "I was being observant."
"You counted how many times I blinked in a meeting."
"Exactly. Observant."
Elena burst into laughter, nearly spilling her tea. The sight of her serious older brother and this sharp lady bantering like schoolkids was almost too much.
Sofia straightened a bit, turning to Elena with playful dignity. "Anyway, I decided I liked him enough to do something about it. So I asked my father to ask him for his hand in marriage."
Lance nearly choked on his biscuit. "I still think you proposed backwards."
Sofia grinned, victorious. "And you still said yes."
Elena giggled even harder, clutching her sides. "Wait, so you proposed?!"
Sofia raised her cup proudly. "He didn't stand a chance."
Lance shook his head, mock-defeated. "Out-strategized by my own future wife."
"And now," Sofia finished sweetly, leaning back with a satisfied sigh, "here we are."
Elena rocked her feet gently beneath the chair, her smile lingering from the teasing. But then, a flicker of hesitation crossed her face. She looked between the two adults, fingers curling around her teacup.
"So… when's the wedding going to be?" she asked quietly. "And… when did you get engaged?"
Lance leaned back slightly, his gaze thoughtful. "About a month and a half ago," he said. "Shortly before I got word about you."
Sofia nodded, setting her cup down gently. "We're planning to get married next month, if all goes well. We've been trying to organize everything while still working, which is a terrible idea, by the way."
Lance gave a short scoff and rolled his eyes. "She's trying to plan a grand festival. I said I wanted something simple—just a few close people, a quiet ceremony. But nooo."
Sofia crossed her arms with mock sternness. "Excuse you, my father insists it has to be big. 'It's my daughter's wedding, it should be remembered,' he said."
"And because it's between two Royal Guards," Lance added with a groan, "now it has to be some grand state-level celebration."
Sofia chuckled, shaking her head. "Even the King's going to be there."
Elena's eyes went wide. "The King?!"
Lance burst into laughter at her stunned expression. "Yep. That's the face I made too."
Sofia leaned toward Elena with a warm smile. "Don't tease the cute princess," she said, giving Lance a soft nudge.
Then she added with a mischievous glint, "Oh—and apparently, the Green Fox is coming too."
Elena nearly slipped out of her chair. "THE Green Fox?!"
Both Lance and Sofia laughed out loud as Elena scrambled to keep her balance, her eyes even wider than before.
Lance wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. "Careful, you'll knock the table over."
"I—I—he's real?!" Elena gasped.
Sofia winked. "Very real. And apparently very fond of expensive food."
The laughter in the room bubbled up again, light and full of warmth. For a few moments, the horrors of the past felt like distant shadows behind the light of family, love, and silly surprises.
Their conversation carried on for a while—soft laughter, playful teasing, and the kind of quiet joy that had long been absent from Elena's days.
It was during one of those moments—Elena reaching for a second biscuit while Sofia scolded Lance for dipping his too long—that the door opened gently.
Mariel stepped in, and announced, "Mayor Rannold and Lady Haseena."
The mayor entered first, tall and composed in his formal dark robes, with his wife Haseena beside him, graceful in her deep green gown and layered jewelry. Both wore polite smiles, though their movements were just a touch too careful, their posture too perfect.
"Sir Lance. Lady Sofia," Rannold said with a nod deeper than custom strictly required. "An honor to host you both in our home."
Haseena mirrored his words with a quiet, "Welcome to Jarustum, Pillars of Al-Bark."
Lance stood to greet them, nodding respectfully. "Thank you, Mayor. You've taken good care of my sister. I'm grateful."
Sofia added a warm, "We've heard nothing but praise about your city and its kindness."
Despite the kind words, tension lingered in the mayor's eyes. In Al-Bark, strength determined rank—not bloodlines or titles. And while Rannold may have governed a city, neither he nor his family could match the status of Lance or Sofia, both elite Royal Guards—Pillars of the kingdom. Even the King, after all, ruled through strength.
Still, the conversation remained smooth. Haseena spoke about how much Elena had brightened the city. Rannold listened more than he spoke, carefully weighing his words. And throughout it all, Elena sat between them, sipping her tea and watching her brother speak with people of power as if they were equals.
Soon, they rose and were guided toward the dining hall.
The long table was already set when they arrived, filled with a spread of roasted meats, spiced rice, vegetables soaked in rich sauces, and bowls of fresh fruit.
Dinner was more relaxed than expected. Haseena proved surprisingly witty, and Rannold eventually loosened up once Lance made a dry joke about sword drills and sore backs. Sofia shared a lighthearted story about accidentally breaking a ceremonial spear during a parade, which got even Rannold to chuckle.
Elena sat with a plate full of too many things and not enough space, caught between her brother's proud presence, Sofia's teasing charm, and the warm hum of shared laughter.
For the first time in what felt like years, she felt it again.
Warmth.
Not the kind from tea or food, but the kind that came from people—caring people—surrounding her, speaking gently, laughing honestly, and treating her like she belonged.
She held onto that feeling quietly, secretly, as if afraid it might vanish if she named it out loud.
...
Night had settled over Jarustum like a heavy, comforting blanket. The stars shimmered above, quiet and distant, while the moon hung low and full, casting the city in soft silver light.
Inside the mayor's mansion, the halls had quieted. Servants had retired to their quarters, save for a few guards patrolling with quiet steps and wary eyes. Sofia had long since gone to her room, and Mayor Rannold and Lady Haseena had done the same, their doors closed behind them with the gentle hush of protocol.
But not everyone had gone to bed.
Two figures sat atop the sloped rooftop of the mansion, legs dangling over the edge, the warm hum of distant crickets the only sound beside their quiet breathing.
Lance glanced at his little sister beside him, then looked out at the silver-lit city.
"You think the mayor's gonna be mad about this?" he asked, lips curled in a crooked grin.
Elena grinned back. "Probably."
Lance chuckled under his breath.
Elena hugged her knees and looked up. "I sneak up here sometimes… when I can't sleep. It's quiet. Peaceful."
He followed her gaze to the moon, its glow catching in her green hair and eyes.
"It's really beautiful," he said quietly.
She nodded. "I wanted to show it to you."
The words were simple, but they landed heavy in his chest.
He glanced sideways again, this time not hiding the emotion behind his eyes. There was so much he wanted to say. Sorry for being gone. Sorry for being late. Sorry for not knowing.
But Elena didn't need apologies—not now. Not while the moon shone just for them.
So he just said, "Thanks for bringing me."
And they sat together in silence, the kind that didn't need filling, watching the moon and feeling—for once—like they were exactly where they were supposed to be.
The silence lingered a little longer, gentle and calm beneath the silver glow of the moon. Then, Elena's voice broke through, soft and uncertain.
"So… what now?"
Lance blinked, turning his head slightly. "What do you mean?"
She hugged her knees tighter, eyes still on the sky. "I mean… now that you're here. Now that we're together again. What happens next?"
Lance exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm… not sure."
He leaned back, resting his weight on his palms, gaze drifting upward.
"I'd love to take you with me. Live together. Really, I would," he said, his voice low and honest. "But being a Royal Guard… I'm not home often. I spend most of my time on missions, traveling, guarding the palace. Honestly, I don't even know why I still own a house at this point."
Elena giggled softly at that. "So then… what?"
Lance touched his chin, brows furrowing. "I don't know," he admitted again. "I could ask someone I trust to look after you. There are people I know—good people."
He paused.
"Or…" he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, "I could try to get you into the Royal Palace. To live there."
Elena's head snapped toward him, eyes wide in disbelief. "Wait—what? Is that even allowed?!"
Lance chuckled. "Yeah. Some Royal Guards do that. If they've got close family—siblings, parents, even cousins sometimes—they can live inside the palace grounds. It's not common, but it's not forbidden either. Especially not for someone like me."
Her jaw dropped. "Live in the Royal Palace?"
He nodded. "I'd need to talk to a few people, make sure it's the right setup. But it's possible."
Elena blinked, then slowly turned her gaze back to the moon, her heart thudding in shock. She went quiet for a little while, the moonlight playing gently across her face as she thought.
Then, softly, she said, "I love it here… in Jarustum."
Lance glanced her way.
"Uncle Rannold and Aunt Haseena—they're really nice to me. They take care of me, and they listen." She smiled faintly. "And I'm also the Inspector Princess of the market."
Lance blinked. "The what now?"
"The Inspector Princess!" she repeated proudly, lifting her chin.
He burst into laughter. "You gave yourself a title?"
"I earned it," she huffed, crossing her arms.
"Ohhh, forgive me, your highness," he teased, giving her an exaggerated bow.
She narrowed her eyes at him, trying not to smile. "Careful, Sir Royal Guard. I outrank you in market jurisdiction."
That finally got both of them laughing, a warm, free sound that floated into the night air.
When the laughter faded into a peaceful hush, Lance looked at her more seriously. "What do you want, Elena?"
The question made her blink. She wasn't used to being asked like that—genuinely, respectfully. Like her thoughts mattered.
She looked down at her hands for a moment, then back at him. "If… if possible, I want to stay here. In Jarustum. With Uncle Rannold and Aunt Haseena. It's quiet. And safe. And I feel… like I belong here."
He nodded slowly, listening intently.
"But…" she added, jabbing a finger in his direction, "you have to visit. At least once or twice a month. And you have to bring Big Sis Sofia."
Lance snorted. "Knowing her, I won't have a choice. Once I'm married, I'm probably not going anywhere without her."
Elena grinned wide.
Lance looked back up at the moon, thoughtful again. "I wonder if Rannold would be okay with that arrangement…"
Then he shrugged. "It works for me. I'll ask him tomorrow, see how it goes."
Elena's face lit up. "I wanna be there when you ask!"
He smiled and reached over, ruffling her hair gently. "Alright, Inspector Princess. We'll ask together."
She leaned against him a little, resting her head against his side.
And for the first time in a long, long while, she felt like she was choosing her life—not surviving it.
...
The next morning arrived with golden light streaming through the high windows of the mayor's mansion. Breakfast was a quiet but pleasant affair—fresh bread, honeyed dates, goat cheese, and hot tea.
Lance stretched as he set his cup down. "We're heading out for a bit. Thought we'd explore the city."
Sofia nodded, adjusting the gloves on her hands. "We'll be back before evening. Don't cause too much trouble while we're gone."
Elena grinned. "I'll be doing my daily duty, thank you very much."
Rannold chuckled into his tea. "Ah yes. The Inspector Princess on patrol."
He didn't mention anything yet about Lance's plans for Elena—perhaps giving him the space to bring it up when ready.
But Haseena lingered as Elena slipped off her chair.
She knelt a little, brushing a hand over the girl's hair gently. "So… you're really going to leave soon?"
Elena blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"I just…" Haseena hesitated, smiling softly. "It's been so lovely having you here, little one. You've brought light into this house. If you do leave… will you come visit us again sometime?"
Elena stared at her, stunned. She hadn't realized just how much affection had grown between them. Her chest tightened in that warm, aching way.
"I…" She looked down for a second, then smiled playfully. "I'll tell you later. It's a secret for now."
Haseena blinked, confused, then giggled. "Oh? A secret, is it?"
Elena nodded firmly, her little hands on her hips. "A very important one."
The older woman chuckled and gave her a soft hug. "Alright then. I'll be waiting."
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Elena, flanked by two guards, made her usual rounds in the market—inspecting fruit stalls for suspiciously soft pears, declaring one chicken unusually grumpy, and helping a little boy find his lost toy dagger. Merchants greeted her like royalty, children waved excitedly, and one vendor even gave her a ribbon "to match the title."
By midday, she was back at the mansion, cheeks a little flushed from the summer sun, and a proud skip in her step.
As she passed through the entryway, she spotted them—Lance and Sofia, already back and dusting off their boots.
"You're back!" she called out.
Lance looked up and smiled. "So's the market's fiercest inspector."
Sofia crossed her arms and gave a mock-serious nod. "Did you solve any crimes today?"
Elena lifted her chin. "Several. All in a day's work."
The three shared a laugh as they headed toward lunch.
...
Lunch was a comfortable affair—warm dishes shared across a long polished table, the clink of cutlery mixing with occasional laughter. Elena recounted the mystery of the missing carrot basket with theatrical flair, and even Sofia joined in teasing her about her "elite deduction skills."
But then, Lance cleared his throat softly.
The sound was subtle, but it carried. The room quieted almost immediately. All eyes turned to him.
He looked to Rannold first, his tone calm but layered with something deeper. "I wanted to thank you. For taking care of Elena this past month. I know I said it last night, but… it's not just formality."
His eyes held steady. "Truly, thank you. From the bottom of my heart."
The mayor blinked, surprised by the sincerity, before a slow, warm smile grew across his face. "It was no trouble at all," he said, his voice equally genuine. "In fact… we've loved having her. That little inspector princess has brought light into this old house."
Across the table, Haseena nodded, smiling fondly. "We never had children of our own," she said softly. "But… she feels like family."
Elena, cheeks flushing red, quickly looked down at her plate. "S-stop saying stuff like that…"
Lance chuckled lightly, watching her squirm. Then his face turned a little more serious again. "That's actually… why I want to ask something."
Rannold straightened. "Of course. Whatever you need, I'll do what I can."
Lance took a breath. "Would you… consider taking care of Elena? Long term, I mean."
The words fell into the room like a stone into still water.
Silence followed, not awkward, but heavy with meaning.
Rannold and Haseena both turned to him at the same time, wide-eyed. They didn't speak right away—just stared, as if uncertain they'd heard correctly.
Lance didn't rush to fill the silence. He let the weight of his words settle.
Across from him, Elena sat still, glancing between the adults, her fingers lightly gripping her fork.
It was clear: this wasn't just a favor. It was trust. It was family.
Rannold turned slowly to his wife.
Haseena met his eyes with a soft, trembling smile, and gave a small, sure nod.
He looked back to Lance, then shifted his gaze toward the little girl seated across from him. "Elena," he said gently, his voice warm but serious, "is that what you want?"
Elena's eyes widened slightly as the attention fell on her. Her cheeks went crimson, and for a second, she looked like she might shrink into her chair. But then she sat up straighter, her hands gripping the edge of the table. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but steady.
"Y-Yes," she said. "I… I love it here."
She turned to glance at her brother, her expression both proud and understanding. "Lance can't take care of me. He's busy being a Royal Guard, and I know that. He's doing important stuff."
Then she looked back at Rannold and Haseena. "But here, I feel… safe. And happy. Like I belong. Like I'm part of something. Like… family. So if it's okay… I want to stay here. With you and Aunt Haseena."
There was a moment of silence.
Then Haseena turned away quickly, raising a napkin to her face. "Forgive me," she murmured, brushing at the tears forming in her eyes.
A smile broke across Lance's face, soft and full of quiet pride. Sofia too.
Rannold chuckled lightly, his own eyes a little misty as he looked down at the table, then back at Elena.
"Yes," he said, his voice thick but certain. "Yes, Elena. I would love that. Truly."
He reached across the table, placing a hand over Haseena's. "My wife… she can't bear children. It's something we made peace with long ago. But we always dreamed—always hoped—for a cutesy little princess to spoil."
He smiled wider, eyes glistening now. "And you? You're more than anything we ever wished for."
Elena stared at him, lips trembling, and then slowly nodded with a glowing, shy smile.
The table was quiet for a long moment. Not from awkwardness—but from the overwhelming feeling that something right had just taken shape.
Family. Chosen, not by blood—but by love.
—End of Chapter.