The morning sun rose reluctantly, casting a dull amber glow over the clearing outside the camp. It brought no warmth—only the buzz of unease. The soft crunch of gravel under Lance's boots was accompanied by shouts in the distance. His brows furrowed as he turned the corner of a large supply tent, stepping into a tense commotion.
Two men stood locked in argument, voices taut with anger and authority. Axel, fists clenched at his sides, stood nose to nose with Nightingale, whose hand hovered above the hilt of his sword, though he hadn't drawn it.
"What's the problem?" Lance called, striding toward them.
The words halted both men mid-breath. They immediately turned, bowing their heads respectfully.
"Good morning, sire," Nightingale greeted, voice stiff.
Lance waved off the formality, irritation lining his tone. "Enough of that. What happened?"
Axel turned and jabbed a thick, calloused finger at a man bound to a post near the center of the camp. The prisoner's face was beaten, his tunic torn and stained with blood. Yet something about him felt familiar—something that made Lance's stomach twist in a slow knot.
"This bastard tried to poison you," Axel growled. "Thorn caught him before he could do it. They fought. I stepped in and finished it."
The name finally made Lance focus on the man's features. Roderic. One of the kitchen hands—someone Lance had only seen in passing, never spoken to. He didn't look like a killer. But poison didn't require a killer's courage—only a coward's resolve.
"Thorn," Lance muttered, before the man himself emerged from behind the supply tent.
Thorn looked ragged, bruises already purpling his jaw and cheek. His knuckles were cracked open, still raw. Yet his eyes held the same calm they always did—quiet, hardened, and unshaken.
"I made him try the food," Thorn said bluntly. "He's poisoned."
Lance's heart sank. "Are you alright?"
Thorn offered a bruised smile. "Of course, sire."
"Go see the healers," Lance said, motioning him off with a flick of his fingers.
Thorn nodded once and limped off, pride refusing to let him show the full extent of his pain.
Lance turned back toward Axel and Nightingale, and his eyes finally settled on Roderic. The man was slumped forward, eyes fixed on the dirt, lips pressed tightly together. He was shivering slightly—not from cold, but from the poison already gnawing at his insides.
"Then what's the argument?" Lance asked.
Axel turned, face still flushed with fury. "What to do with this traitorous bastard. I say we take off his head in front of everyone. Let it be known that betrayal comes at a cost."
Nightingale's arms were crossed. "And I say we let the poison finish the work. He chose it. Let him suffer the consequences."
Lance crossed his arms and slowly approached Roderic. "And what do you say?" he asked quietly.
Roderic said nothing. His jaw trembled slightly, but his silence was defiant—not fearful.
Lance stood there for a long moment, watching the man with a gaze sharp and unreadable. He could feel the eyes of both men behind him, waiting for a royal command. He could almost hear their thoughts—one waiting for blood, the other for justice.
"I won't let him rot slowly," Lance finally said. "And I won't turn his death into a spectacle. Word travels fast. By now, half the camp knows what happened. That's enough."
He turned back to his commanders. "Take two archers. Escort him into the woods. Make it quick. Bury him deep."
Axel nodded firmly, grabbing Roderic's arm and pulling him to his feet. Roderic groaned but didn't resist. For the first time, he raised his head and looked Lance directly in the eye.
No hatred. No fear. Only acknowledgment.
Lance nodded once in return.
As Axel began hauling him off, Nightingale made to follow, but Lance held out a hand.
"Nightingale. Stay."
The older man turned back, confused. "Yes, sire?"
Lance stepped forward, his tone softening. He placed a hand on Nightingale's shoulder.
"I heard what you did the night of the betrayal," he said. "You saved a lot of lives. Including mine."
Nightingale blinked. "I don't know that I saved everyone, sire."
"You saved enough," Lance replied. "And you gave us a chance."
For a moment, there was silence between them, heavy and sincere. Then Nightingale gave a quiet nod and turned to leave, disappearing into the slowly stirring camp.
Lance remained standing, staring out toward the tree line, where Roderic would meet his end. The camp buzzed around him—soldiers sharpening weapons, tents rustling, fires crackling—but he heard none of it.
His thoughts turned inward.
---
It had all happened so quickly, yet so perfectly timed.
Nightingale had received word of Alexander's betrayal nearly an hour before the final meeting. A whisper from one of his personal scouts, trusted and discreet. It had confirmed what Nightingale feared: the plan was real. The betrayal was in motion.
Alexander didn't have full control of the capital yet—too much of the army still pledged allegiance to the true crown. He couldn't make a move on the palace openly without suspicion. But once the final gathering concluded, and Lance was isolated, he'd strike. It would be too late.
So Nightingale had acted first.
He gathered the royal guards who remained loyal. He sent warnings to the villagers they could trust. He told no one outside his circle of command.
Then he turned to the ancient tunnels beneath the palace—the secret ones, known only to commanders and royalty. If Lance could escape through them, they had a chance. The throne could live on.
As Alexander's forces made their move, the village erupted in chaos. Fights broke out in the streets. It wasn't war yet—but it was the start.
Nightingale had expected the worst. He had seen many battles. But none like this.
By the time Lance and the others emerged from the tunnels, the royal palace was gone behind them, and a kingdom teetered on the edge.
And it was all thanks to Nightingale, commander of the guards.
A man who had risked everything—not for power, but for duty.
---
Lance exhaled slowly, pulling himself back to the present. The wind was crisp, brushing against his cheek like a ghost's whisper.
He would not forget what Nightingale did. Nor what Thorn had suffered.
Nor that betrayal could come in the form of a simple bowl of stew.
The weight of the crown pressed harder on his shoulders now—but his spine held straight.
There was still a kingdom to reclaim.
And he would not fall.
---
The morning sun had climbed late into the sky by the time Lance found himself standing outside the flap of his sister Seraphina's tent. The camp was a low hum of activity beyond him, their people busy with preparations. Word had spread like wildfire: they would depart within two hours for the small village of Harshaw. Nestled deep within the heart of the Dragonsvale Kingdom, Harshaw was more than a waypoint—it was a symbol of hope. If they could reach it in time, if they could rally its people, it might become their foothold against Alexander's growing power.
The king took a breath, steadying himself before he stepped through the tent's entry.
Inside, the space was dim, warmed by the soft glow of hanging lanterns and the faint aroma of dried herbs. Seraphina stood near the back, her long, blond braid trailing down her back. She turned the moment she heard the flap rustle.
"Lance!" she called, and before he could reply, she rushed to him, throwing her arms around his torso.
He stiffened for half a second, caught off-guard, then melted into the hug. Her arms clung tightly to his broad frame. "It's been a hard time, hasn't it?"
He nodded, voice low. "It has. But we must stay strong."
Seraphina stepped back, her hands still resting lightly on his arms, eyes studying his face as if searching for cracks beneath the surface. Then her expression changed, and a flicker of something mischievous softened her features. "That's why I called you here."
Lance cocked his head. "What do you mean?"
She turned, kneeling down to the floor and reaching beneath her cot. With a slight grunt, she dragged out a long, wide chest made of aged oak. Its surface was scuffed and cracked, but the iron latches gleamed as though recently polished.
"I wanted to wait until your wounds were better," she said, her voice cautious, thoughtful. "I didn't want you to feel pressured to wear it while you were still healing."
Confusion furrowed Lance's brow. He crouched down beside her, helping slide the box into full view. Together they lifted the heavy lid, and the sight that greeted him sent a silent breath from his lungs.
Inside lay a gleaming set of armor—dark as midnight, trimmed with the unmistakable sheen of Dragonscale. The chestplate bore the crest of their house: a sword with a dragon surrounding it, its wings flared in defense. Each plate, polished to perfection, shimmered with a dark blue tint like oil on water.
"Father's armor," Lance whispered, his voice catching with emotion. His fingers brushed the edge of the chestplate reverently. "I never thought I'd see it again."
Seraphina smiled, tears prickling her eyes as she watched him. "While Axel and I were fleeing the palace, I knew we couldn't leave it behind. The chest was far too heavy for even Axel to carry alone, so in the chaos, we strapped it to one of the warhorses and prayed."
Lance looked up at her, astonishment giving way to a genuine, rare smile—one of the few she'd seen since that final, bloody meeting.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she added. "But you're lucky I'm showing you now."
She reached forward, lifting his tunic gently. Beneath, the bandages around his gut had already soaked through again. A crimson stain spread across the cloth, pulsing faintly with each breath he took. She frowned, shaking her head.
"Lance, you need to stop," she said, her voice dipping low with concern. "You're only making it worse by pretending it doesn't hurt."
The smile faded from his face, replaced with quiet defiance. "I have people depending on me now. I'm king."
Seraphina crossed her arms. "That doesn't mean everyone else can't help you. You don't have to be everywhere, doing everything. Let others carry the load. Give orders. Sit back. Rest."
But Lance shook his head, a flicker of stubborn pride glinting in his blue eyes. "I'm not that kind of king."
She rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. "You're impossible. I only gave you the armor because I heard we were leaving soon. I just... didn't want you walking into danger without the best protection we have."
He stepped forward and gently kissed her on the cheek—the same way he used to when they were children and he'd gotten on her nerves. Seraphina blinked, caught off-guard by the memory and the warmth behind it.
"Thank you, Seraphina. Truly."
She smiled, brushing a tear from her cheek. "You're welcome."
Lance turned and walked toward the tent flap. "I'll have Axel and Rowan swing by to carry the armor. It's too much for me in this state. Don't be surprised if they come knocking."
She nodded, watching him disappear into the light.
Outside, the camp bustled with movement. Soldiers strapped on gear, sharpened weapons, and checked provisions. Children clung to parents. Horses were fed and bridled. The banners of their family swayed gently in the warm wind.
Lance walked slowly, his gait stiff. The weight of his title hung heavy on his shoulders, but for once, it felt a little less crushing.
He thought of the armor—the Dragonscale trim. Forged from the rare ore found only in the mines of Dragonsvale, the armor had been the pride of his father. Dragonite, as it was called, was nearly impervious to the elements. It resisted rust, time, even brute force. Few sets of armor in the world could rival it.
Even now, generations later, the plates were immaculate.
He whispered softly to himself, "Father would have liked this. His son wearing his armor. Standing for what he believed in."
A small smile flickered across his lips, but the movement triggered pain that surged up his side like fire. He staggered briefly, clutching at his ribs.
His thoughts flicked to Seraphina again—the way her face had fallen when she saw the blood. She was right. He was doing too much. But he couldn't stop now. Not with his people preparing to march. Not when hope hinged on a single village.
He pressed on, jaw clenched, breathing shallow.
"I must keep going," he muttered. "For them. For all of us."
And the camp continued to prepare for the road ahead.