A day has passed since Lance and his army left for Harshaw.
The sky above the Hollowed Boughs was still tinted a deep gray, the sun barely filtering through the thick canopy overhead. Mist clung low to the ground as the army of Dragonsvale made its way up the forested hill, the crunch of boots and the clank of armor muted under the breath of dawn.
Sir Nightingale rode up from the vanguard, his dark-plumed helm tilted low over furrowed brows.
"My lord," he said, reins pulling taut as he halted beside Lance, "we have a problem."
Lance turned in the saddle. "What kind?"
"Scouts report Alexander and Ai'lar are bellow us. Two to three hundred men. They're moving fast—straight toward us."
Lance stiffened, mind already racing. "Two to three hundred? He knows we outnumber him. He's not foolish enough to try and win outright… he's trying to stall us. Bleed us dry. Delay until Harshaw."
Nightingale nodded. "What are your orders, sire?"
"Get the word out. Civilians keep marching. Guards stay with them. The army holds here."
Without another word, Sir Nightingale wheeled his horse around, barking commands that quickly echoed down the hill. Shields turned. Spears leveled. Archers fanned out across the rear treeline. The main force halted atop the hill as the long column of civilians—women, children, elderly, and injured—continued past them and over the ridge.
Lance dismounted and walked among the archers, where Panthia waited. The morning mist clung to her fiery curls, dampening her cloak, but not her spirit. Her green eyes met his, wide and resolute.
"You'll stay here," Lance said firmly. "With the archers. Do not move past this point. Understand me, Panthia?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I understand."
"I love you," he said softly.
Panthia's smile was small, but warm. "I love you too, Lance."
He turned from her, his heart heavier than his armor, and mounted again. He rode to the center, where Eryc Gladion sat tall on a young charger, bright-eyed and nervous.
"Eryc," Lance called, drawing close. "You ready?"
The boy straightened. "Yes, sire. I'll make you proud."
"And your father?"
Eryc swallowed. "Him too."
Lance leaned forward. "I know you want to prove yourself. But don't try to become a legend today. Obey your orders. Watch your comrades. You'll live."
"Yes, my lord."
Lance gave a final nod and wheeled his horse back to the edge of the formation. And then—silence.
It fell like a curtain. Only the distant cry of a bird broke the stillness.
Then they came.
A tide of movement at the base of the hill—figures in gray and black steel rushing upward, swords drawn, banners low. Alexander's force had arrived.
"Hold!" Lance called. The first line locked shields. The spearmen stood behind, ready to strike between gaps. Archers drew arrows but waited, bows creaking in the dawn's cold.
The clash came suddenly. Steel on steel. Bodies slamming against shields. The shield wall held as spears darted out and back, wet with blood. Screams rose—short, high-pitched bursts of agony. Arrows flew at Lance's command, cutting down soldiers scrambling up the hill. A storm of whistling shafts. Many of Alexander's men fell before they even reached the shield wall.
And yet they pressed on. Desperate. Reckless. Determined.
"Push forward!" Lance called when he saw them falter. "Break them!"
The line surged. Shields shoved. Spears lunged. And then came the cavalry. Eryc was among the first to charge, his horse leaping over a mound of corpses.
Eryc's heart pounded so hard he thought it might rupture his chest. The world blurred as he raised his sword and brought it down across a soldier's face—bone cracked beneath steel. The man fell. His blood sprayed across Eryc's armor. He froze for a second. The dead man's eyes were still open.
He had killed someone.
The reality of it nearly broke him. But another scream snapped him back—a Dragonsvale rider fell beside him, gurgling in blood. Eryc pressed on.
Not far behind him, Rowan—Lance's younger brother—was a whirlwind of movement, cutting down foes two at a time. His blade was a blur, and his roars carried down the hill. Beside him, Axel swung his massive longsword like it was a feather, cleaving through helmets and shields with raw brute strength.
The forest floor turned red. Leaves soaked in blood. The cries of the wounded and dying tangled with the clang of weapons and the battle-drums of panic.
Then it happened.
A horn—sharp and quick—blew from the forest behind them.
Lance's blood turned to ice.
"Behind us!" a voice shouted. Then another. "We're under attack!"
Sixty men. Sixty handpicked soldiers from Alexander's force, had maneuvered around and struck the rear.
The archers turned, panic flashing across their ranks as steel tore into their backs.
Lance kicked his horse into motion. "Form up! Archers, fall back and loose volleys!"
He galloped into the chaos, swinging his blade in wide arcs, cutting down knight after knight. One lunged with a spear—Lance deflected, then thrust his sword into the man's throat. Blood gushed over his vambrace.
"Loose!" he bellowed, and the archers—now backed to the ridge—fired in volleys. Arrows rained down. Bodies dropped.
And then… he was there.
Across the field, riding through smoke and blood like a phantom in armor blackened by war, came Alexander.
He wore no helmet. His face was bare—sharp, handsome, cruel. And atop his head sat the crown. The true crown.
Lance turned to face him, gripping his reins. The two men galloped toward each other, swords out.
They clashed mid-charge, steel sparking, horses rearing. They wheeled around and circled, eyes locked.
"Alexander," Lance spat.
"Lancelot the Beloved," Alexander mocked. "The man adored by children and poets. A boy in a crown he never earned."
Lance raised his blade. "That crown on your head doesn't belong to you. You stole it."
"It's mine by right," Alexander growled. "As is this land. I see you're wearing our father's armor. A shame. Even he couldn't stop me."
"You've lost this battle, Alexander," Lance said. "Look around."
"That was the point," Alexander grinned. "You think I came to win? I came to make you bleed. I came to take your strength before the real war begins."
"We'll reach Harshaw before you get the chance."
"We'll see about that."
Alexander spurred forward, striking fast. Lance parried, countered, nearly unhorsed him—but Alexander ducked and retreated, glancing back.
Most of his flanking force was dead.
"Fall back!" he shouted. "Retreat! Retreat!"
Lance watched as Alexander and his remaining soldiers vanished into the trees.
But the hill still screamed with the chaos of war.
The main forces were still locked in brutal melee at the slope, blades slick with blood. Lance turned his horse and raced down into it.
The true end of the battle was still ahead.
---
The clang of steel echoed across the blood-soaked field. The sun was dipping low, casting long crimson shadows over the torn earth. Shouts turned to groans. Victory and loss bled into the ground beneath their boots. Among the carnage, Eryc stood breathless, his sword held tight, his chest rising and falling like a war drum slowing in its beat.
Then he saw him.
Across the bodies of fallen friend and foe, a man with a crimson-scarred face emerged like a shadow from a nightmare. His long, curved blade dripped red. The scar that slashed from his ear down to the edge of his mouth twisted when he grinned. His lone eye—milky white—was a haunting sight. Eryc had heard the name whispered: Ai'lar the Scarfaced.
But it wasn't Eryc who spoke first.
"Ai'lar the Scarfaced," a gruff voice cut through the battlefield. Sir Garrin, commander of the knights, stepped forward, battered shield in hand, helm hanging at his side. "Should've died years ago."
Ai'lar's good eye flicked to Garrin only briefly. His gaze returned to Eryc like a hawk circling prey.
"Aye," Ai'lar hissed through his accent, words drawn like a slow blade. "Tha's wha' they all say… but yer father said tha too. Before I took 'is 'ead clean off." He tapped the golden hilt of his blade once against his shoulder. "Slashed m'eye open, yer da did. Thought he'd broken me. Thought he'd made me weak."
Eryc's blood surged. His knuckles tightened on the hilt of his sword until it creaked. His mind flashed back to the screams, to the silence after. The hole left behind by his father's death. He took one step forward, rage flaring in his chest like an untamed fire.
But he stopped.
No. Control it.
He remembered the promise. The vow not to lose control again. The rage he once wielded like a blade had nearly cost him everything. His fingers loosened. He took a deep breath.
Ai'lar tilted his head mockingly. "What's this, boy? Holdin' back? Yer old man din't 'old back. He fought like a mad dog. Fought dirty too. Didn't save 'im."
Sir Garrin didn't wait for another word. He surged forward with a shout, shield raised high, and brought his blade down. Ai'lar dodged sideways with a viper's grace and kicked Garrin in the back of the knee, forcing him to stumble.
Eryc joined the fray instantly.
Steel rang as swords collided. Eryc came at Ai'lar from one side, Garrin from the other. For a moment, it seemed they had the advantage.
Ai'lar, however, danced between them. He didn't fight like the knights of Dragonsvale—there was no honor, no rhythm. He spun low, swept legs, struck with the pommel, jabbed with his elbow. His blade wasn't just used for killing; it was used to humiliate.
A downward thrust was suddenly turned into a flick of the blade that caught Garrin's chin. Another strike knocked Eryc's blade off-line, and Ai'lar lunged in close, slicing Eryc's cheek open just barely. A whisper of blood.
"Tha's better," Ai'lar laughed. "Bleed like 'im now, don't ya? Yer face'll match mine soon enough."
Eryc gritted his teeth and came again. Garrin pressed from the opposite side.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But Ai'lar remained untouched, tireless, the devil in human skin. He slammed Garrin's shield to the side with a sickening crack and, in the same motion, slashed Garrin across the throat. Blood burst out in a choking spray.
Eryc watched it all, horrified, helpless.
Sir Garrin collapsed to his knees, clutching his neck, blood running through his fingers. His eyes met Eryc's for one final moment—unspoken words lost in the gurgle of death. Then he fell forward.
"No!" Eryc roared.
Ai'lar turned toward him, eyes glowing with hate and triumph. "Tha's one more down. Just like yer da. Now it's your turn."
Eryc charged, no longer caring about pain or precision. Every strike came from grief, from guilt. He swung harder than he ever had. Ai'lar blocked each one, mocking him all the while.
"Poor boy… swingin' like a butcher. Yer father taught ya nothin'. Thought I'd be killin' a man. Turns out I'm killin' a shadow."
Blow after blow, Ai'lar toyed with him. Cuts opened across Eryc's arms, a gash on his thigh. He was bleeding, weakening. Every movement was agony.
"I'll make you feel everythin' I felt when yer da tore me open," Ai'lar growled in his ear during a clinch. "When I buried 'im, I spat on the dirt. Now I'll spit on you."
Eryc's legs gave out.
Ai'lar raised his sword for the final stroke, his lips parting in satisfaction.
But before the blade could fall—a flash of silver streaked through the air.
CLANG!
Rowan's sword intercepted the curved blade, sparks flying. He shoved Ai'lar back with a shoulder charge and stood between him and Eryc, eyes wild, breath heaving.
"Miss me, mate?" Rowan grinned without looking back. "Next time, maybe don't take so long to ask for help."
Ai'lar stumbled backward, his confidence faltering.
Rowan cracked his neck. "I don't know who you are, but I really don't like your face."
Ai'lar looked from Rowan to Eryc, to the blood on his sword… and realized.
This wasn't his fight anymore.
The tide was turning.
Other Dragonsvale forces were now rallying. His allies were fleeing. The field was lost.
Ai'lar spat in the dirt, the grin finally gone. "We'll finish this… another day, dog."
With that, he turned and vanished into the smoke of the battlefield, joining the scattering remnants of his army. His laughter faded behind him like a ghost.
Eryc slumped to the ground, body trembling, chest heaving.
Rowan knelt beside him and offered his hand. Eryc took it, gripping it tight.
"Thank you," Eryc whispered.
Rowan smirked, his voice lighter than the moment deserved. "What are friends for if not to save your sorry ass from one-eyed maniacs?"
Eryc laughed, breathless, bloodied—but alive.
And just like that, the war—at least for now—was over.