Stars, arrows, and crowns

The garden behind the east wing of the castle lay quiet in the late hours of night. A gentle breeze stirred the ivy clinging to the stone walls, and the moon hung low, casting silver upon the marble benches and tiled paths. The soft chirping of insects and the occasional rustling of leaves were the only sounds—until two sets of footsteps broke the stillness.

Lance and Panthia walked side by side, close enough for their arms to brush as they turned a corner into a more secluded part of the garden. There, surrounded by thick rose bushes and a stone fountain shaped like a coiled dragon, the two sat on an aged bench. For a few moments, silence lingered. Not uncomfortable—just thoughtful.

Panthia gently reached down to adjust the hem of her dress. It wasn't a fancy one, just her evening maid's uniform, but her long red hair was brushed and loose, falling over her shoulders in soft curls. Her green eyes—often quick with warmth—looked more distant tonight.

Lance noticed. "You've been quiet," he said, voice soft but steady.

Panthia offered a small smile. "I suppose I've just been thinking too much."

He leaned back against the bench, stretching out his legs. "Thinking about what?"

She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of the bench. "You ever feel like… your dreams are too big for the life you've been given?"

Lance turned his head toward her, eyebrows lifting.

Panthia continued, "Most maids dream of marrying a decent man, having children, living a quiet life. And I do… I want to be a mother someday. I want to hold something in my arms and know it's mine, that I'll protect it no matter what."

Lance smiled faintly. "That's not strange. It's… beautiful."

She nodded, then took a slow breath. "But there's something else too. I want to be an archer."

Lance blinked. "An archer?"

She nodded again, this time more firmly. "You taught me once. Do you remember? I was awful."

"No," Lance said with a laugh. "You were stiff. But your aim wasn't bad."

"I practiced," she said quickly, eyes lighting up. "At night, when no one was around. I'd sneak into the old shed near the north wall. There's a bow there, barely held together by twine. I'd shoot at the stacked hay bales. Not often—maybe once every few weeks, when no one would notice I was missing."

Lance's brow furrowed. "Panthia… why haven't you told anyone?"

Her expression darkened slightly. "Because I'm a maid, Lance. Maids don't become archers. They scrub floors and carry linen and serve drinks. If someone catches me, I'll be punished or laughed at. Or both. It's foolish, I know. But it makes me feel alive. Free."

"You're not foolish," Lance said, voice low. "Not at all."

She looked down. "Sometimes I think that's why I love archery so much. Because it doesn't belong to me, and I have to steal those moments. They feel... sacred."

Lance reached over and gently placed his hand over hers. "Then we'll steal more of them. You and I."

Panthia blinked, stunned for a moment by his certainty.

"I'll find a way," he continued. "You deserve a chance to be more than the role they gave you. Hell, you already are."

Her fingers tightened over his. "You always say the right thing."

He smiled. "Not always. I just mean it when it comes to you."

For a while, neither spoke. The moon continued its slow crawl across the sky.

Then Panthia asked, "And you? What do you want, Lance?"

He looked away, eyes scanning the castle towers peeking over the garden walls.

"I want to be worthy," he said after a pause. "Of the crown, of the people, of everything."

Panthia tilted her head. "But you are."

"No," Lance said quietly. "I'm not. Not yet. I was born into this role. I didn't earn it. I've never bled for the kingdom. Never lost something in its name. I'm not like Alexander. Or even my brother. Everything I have was handed to me."

Panthia's voice softened. "But you carry it with dignity."

He chuckled bitterly. "Dignity doesn't win wars. Doesn't make hard decisions. I want to be great. Not for glory, not for statues in the halls—but so that when people say 'King Lance,' they think of a man who did something that mattered."

He looked back at her now, eyes shining faintly with the fire he rarely let others see. "I want to take Dragonsvale and make it better. Stronger. Safer. I want to break traditions that keep people like you from becoming archers."

She smiled. "And what about the sword?"

His smile widened. "I want to be the best. Not just for honor, but because wielding a sword is the only time I feel like I'm fully alive. Like I can carve my own path. Alexander is a genius with a blade. He moves like he was born in war. I'll never be him. But I want to be something else. Something just as sharp."

Panthia leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing. "You sound like a king already."

Lance leaned into her just slightly. "Then I hope that king is someone you can stand beside."

She closed her eyes. "Always."

From the distance, a bell rang once—signaling the hour was late. They remained seated.

Lance broke the quiet. "You know… when all this is over—crowns, swords, all of it—I hope you'll still be there, bow in hand."

Panthia smiled, opening her eyes. "And I hope you'll still be there, sword in yours."

---

The morning sun bathed the great halls of Dragonsvale in golden light, shimmering through the grand windows adorned with banners bearing the royal sigil. It was the third day since the victorious battle that secured Luxaris, and the day Alexander and his army would finally return home. Inside the king's solar, a chamber of refined elegance with tall stained-glass windows and intricate carvings of past monarchs, Prince Lance sat in silence, his back straight, his expression composed but contemplative.

King Julian IV stood by the window, one hand resting on the marble sill as he stared out over the awakening city. The morning bells had already rung, signaling a new day, and preparations were well underway for the army's arrival. He looked every bit the ruler—a tall, imposing man with a greying golden beard and long blond hair that fell neatly past his shoulders. His eyes, once bright and youthful, had grown wiser with time, holding the heavy weight of countless decisions and sacrifices.

"You look troubled, my son," the king said without turning around.

Lance rose and stepped forward, standing just behind his father. "Just thoughtful, Father. A lot is happening, and it all feels... fast."

Julian nodded slowly, his tone calm and firm. "It does. Such is the nature of leadership. When you wear the crown, the world never slows down. It expects you to keep up."

There was a pause before the king turned to face Lance. "Alexander arrives this afternoon. And with him, Ai'lar and his people. Sir Gladion told me about your war council."

Lance met his father's gaze. "Yes. It was unexpected. The Zul Kifar seem... different than what the scribes have written."

The king gave a soft grunt of agreement. "History rarely does justice to men who live in shadow. Ai'lar is a warrior, that much is clear. His people fought with strength and pride. Now, they come not as enemies, but as potential allies. And that, Lance, is more delicate than any sword fight."

He walked toward the table in the center of the room, where a map of the known kingdoms was unfurled. Luxaris was circled in red ink. A carved token in the shape of a black dragon marked Alexander's location.

"They carry with them prisoners," Julian said as he gestured to the black dragon. "Luxarian nobles. The same ones who fed the flames of rebellion and greed. They will stand trial soon."

"Will it be public?" Lance asked.

"No," Julian said firmly. "Not yet. That will be part of the final discussion in two days' time."

Lance looked down at the map, at the crisscross of roads and rivers. "Final discussion?"

Julian gave a slow nod. "Yes. The war may be over in arms, but not in words. There are still wounds to mend and questions to answer. The fate of the Luxarian nobility must be decided. Some will demand execution. Others exile. And some... redemption."

He looked back at Lance. "You and Rowan will attend. The people must see the heirs stand united, hear your voices on matters of peace and justice."

Lance straightened. "Of course. I will be there."

Julian studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're strong, my son. Stronger than you know. But you must temper that strength with wisdom. That is what makes a great king. Not glory, not fame. Wisdom and will."

Lance lowered his gaze for a moment, then met his father's eyes again. "And Alexander?"

"He has carried burdens you can scarcely imagine," Julian said solemnly. "Sent to war as a child. Made into a soldier before he could learn to be a boy. But he has returned to us victorious. And while he stands tall, I know there is darkness in his heart. Wounds deeper than blades."

"He barely speaks of it," Lance murmured.

"He doesn't need to. You can see it in his eyes. The burden of survival." The king stepped back toward the window, watching as the city moved below. "He will need us. You, Rowan, even Ai'lar perhaps. He must learn to be more than a warrior. He must learn to be a man again."

There was a silence between them. Outside, the drums of preparation echoed faintly in the distance.

Julian broke the stillness. "You and Rowan must prepare yourselves. Dress as princes. Speak as leaders. The people will be watching. And so will the world."

Lance nodded. "We won't fail you."

The king gave a rare, warm smile. "It's not me you must concern yourself with. It's them. The people. Rule for them, and you will never fall."

He turned and placed a hand on Lance's shoulder. "Go. Let the stewards ready your attire. Stand tall, son. Today begins not just a return—but the next chapter of our kingdom."

Lance gave a respectful nod, his heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and pride. As he exited the chamber, the light of morning bathed his armor in gold. The sounds of the city grew louder. Down in the lower districts, bells rang for the army's return.

But up in the halls of the palace, two princes were being shaped for what was to come.

The fate of Dragonsvale would soon rest on more than swords. It would rest on words, decisions, and the courage to choose peace in the face of blood.

The sun continued to rise.

And the kingdom braced for Alexander's return.