The king's thoughts lingered on Alexis' defiant eyes, reading far more than his nephew dared to show. That silent challenge, the unspoken I will not bow, was a thorn lodged deep in his pride.
Alexis thought himself clever—thought he could walk the edge between loyalty and rebellion—but the king would remind him who held the reins. No nephew, no matter how skilled, would be allowed to stand as his equal.
When Alexis turned to leave, the king's lips curled into a smile that never touched his gaze. It was a cold smile, meant only for the empty air between them.
Within the hour, he summoned a squad of the crown's most loyal knights—black-plated, silent, and swift—into the inner courtyard. They stood like carved obsidian, their breath steaming in the cold as the king's words cut through the dawn mist:
"Ride ahead to Eldara. Strike down any Eastern soldier you find, within or near their borders. No quarter."
The order was sealed with his personal crest. No room for hesitation. No room for mercy. It was a move designed not only to provoke the East, but to leave Alexis with no choice—either he fell in line, or he'd arrive too late to stop the spark from becoming a wildfire.
They rode before dawn, shadows on steel, their mission hidden from the rest of the court.
And perhaps, the king thought, Alexis would remember that he was not untouchable—that the throne's will could move faster and strike harder than any solitary knight.
When the news reached Alexis, it came not from the court but from the shadows.
A young operative in a tattered cloak slipped into his quarters, his breath quick from the climb through the servant's halls. He pressed a folded scrap of parchment into Alexis's palm.
"My Lord…" The boy's voice was barely more than a whisper. "They've already been sent. Your uncle's black guard. Riding for Eldara under sealed orders. They'll be there before you."
The air thinned around Alexis. For a moment, he heard nothing but the rush of blood in his ears.
He swore, the sound sharp and vicious enough to make the boy flinch. He knew exactly what this meant.
If the black guard clashed with Eastern soldiers—even a single arrow loosed—Ro and the Eastern Alliance would be at war before anyone could call it back. And it would not be a short war.
It would be the kind of war that ground down kingdoms into dust, that left maps redrawn in blood. Years—maybe decades—of fields burned, cities emptied, and borders lined with graves. And once the wound was opened, it would never close cleanly.
Alexis crossed the room in three strides, snatching up a map from his table and rolling it with quick, precise movements.
"Tell Captain Drevan he's in command of the main host," he ordered. "He takes them to Eldara and holds them just inside the border. He doesn't advance without my word. Not one step."
The boy nodded, wide-eyed.
"I'll take a smaller squad ahead," Alexis continued, already buckling his travel harness. "We ride light. No banners. No armor bright enough to blind a crow. We reach Eldara before the black guard… or before they do something we can't undo."
In the quiet that followed, memories rose unbidden, cruel in their clarity.
He was small again, no more than seven, his hands red from the cold as he tried to steady the weight of a training sword. His father stood behind him in the palace yard, correcting his stance with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Peace is the blade's truest purpose," his father had told him. "The sword is not for glory, Alexis—it is for the day when bloodshed can be stopped before it begins."
Another memory: running through the garden with wooden swords, the sound of his father's laugh carrying over the hedges. Later, sitting by the fire, his father's voice softer, almost tired: A kingdom's people are its heart. Protect them, even if it costs you the crown.
Now those words felt like a weight in his chest. His father had taught him to protect peace. His uncle was teaching him how quickly peace could be killed.
And Alexis could not—would not—stand idle and watch the continent bleed just to prove the throne's will.
He paused, his breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat, his hand brushing against the hidden weight beneath his tunic.
The cold silver of the koi pendant met his fingers—two fish intertwined, forever chasing each other's tails in a dance older than crowns and borders.
Hiral.
The name moved through him like a whisper in a storm, a soundless echo pressing against the walls of his resolve.
It wasn't just a name—it was a tether, a thousand moments braided into something that no war should be allowed to cut.
He closed his fist around the pendant, the metal biting into his palm until it hurt. That pain was easier to bear than the vision forming in his mind.
If the black guard had already drawn blood… if the Eastern army answered with steel… then fate might place him and Hiral on the same killing field.
Not as shadows in a moonlit cliff edge, not as rivals in jest, but as soldiers with nothing between them but the roar of battle.
No words. No shared glances. No chance to say stop. Only the ring of steel meeting steel until one of them fell.
The thought hollowed him from the inside.
His mind—traitor that it was—dragged him back to the deck of a ship on a gentler day. The sea had been calm, a rare stretch of mirrored blue beneath a wide, forgiving sky.
Hiral had sat cross-legged on the railing, hair stirring in the salt wind, a half-smile playing at his lips as he spoke of far-off harbors and the taste of foreign wines.
Alexis had laughed—truly laughed—until his ribs ached, leaning back against the mast with the warmth of the sun on his face and the sound of gulls overhead.
For those hours, they had been no one and nothing but themselves. No crown. No duty. No line to be crossed. Just the sea between them and the horizon.
Now, that same horizon seemed darker. It was no longer a promise of freedom—it was the thin, uncertain edge before the drop into a war neither of them had asked for.
Alexis let the pendant fall back against his chest, where it lay heavy as an anchor. He turned to his waiting horse and mounted in one fluid motion, though his gut still felt leaden.
"Ride," he told his men, voice like drawn steel. "We're racing to avoid war."
And in his heart, another unspoken vow burned—one meant for no ears but his own: I will not meet you with a blade, Hiral. Not if I can stop it.