Arrival

The third day sun filtered softly through the high arching windows of the courtyard, casting golden beams onto the polished stone. The clinking of wooden swords echoed through the air. Lance stood inside the training circle, sleeves rolled up, breath calm. Before him was Eryc Gladion, son of the renowned knight Sir Gladion—a boy with a lion's spirit and eyes that burned with determination.

"Keep your feet light," Lance instructed, circling the boy like a predator testing the young. "Weight on the balls of your feet, not your heels. A knight who can't move is a corpse with armor."

Eryc followed closely, breathing through his nose, wooden blade steady. "Like this?"

Lance grinned. "Better. Now don't think—react."

He feinted left, turned right, and swung. Eryc parried, but instead of simply blocking, he stepped into the attack, redirecting the blow and pivoting behind Lance, placing his sword at the back of his ribs.

Lance froze in place, then turned with a raised brow, clearly impressed. "Clever move."

From outside the ring, a voice rang out, unfamiliar and melodic. "You're a surprisingly good teacher, Ser Lance."

Lance spun on his heel toward the voice. The man was of average height, with tan skin and a buzz cut of jet black hair. A scar ran jagged from his right ear to the top of his lip, splitting his smile into something both elegant and haunting. A crossbow hung over one shoulder, and a curved sword, its hilt inlaid with gold, rested against his hip.

Next to him stood a far more ominous figure—taller than most men, clad in a ebony black breastplate shaped like coiled nightmares, a black cloak shifting in the breeze. His hair was messily combed down to his eyes, black as midnight, and his gaze—cold, measured, calculating—seemed to pierce through the courtyard itself.

Lance's eyes narrowed, and recognition sparked. "So, you've finally arrived... Alex."

A slow smile curled the taller man's lips. "Hello... brother."

"You picked up training, I see," Alexander said, nodding toward Eryc.

Lance gave a half-shrug. "A favor for Sir Gladion."

The man beside Alexander—Lance still uncertain, though his gut whispered the name Ai'lar—raised a brow and spoke, "Gladion was a strong knight. His son, it seems, is no less determined."

Eryc stepped forward, chest lifted with pride. "My name is Eryc Gladion, and I will be as formidable as my father. In time."

Ai'lar gave a single nod, his gaze drifting briefly toward Alexander. Lance caught the movement.

Without a word, Alexander strode into the ring and plucked a wooden sword from the rack.

"Let me test him, Lance," he said simply.

Lance hesitated. Something about Alexander's tone made him uneasy. But this was Alexander—the strongest warrior in Dragonvale's history. Perhaps a test under his hand would sharpen Eryc more than anything Lance could provide.

He nodded and stepped aside.

Eryc's face tightened. He planted his feet and stared at the black-armored titan. "I know you're the strongest warrior in the kingdom," he said, voice firm, "but I want to be stronger. I won't hold back."

Lance smiled at the boy's fire. He'd always admired Eryc's resolve.

The fight began.

Alexander moved like smoke, a blur of motion and control. He didn't strike with full force, but his blows were harder than what any training bout typically demanded. Each swing was calculated, his footwork flawless, his timing impeccable.

Eryc did his best to defend, parrying, dodging, absorbing each hit with grit. The boy's form was raw but improving—every mistake punished by Alexander's precision. Sweat glistened on his brow. Bruises began to form beneath his tunic.

Lance watched with clenched fists. Alexander's movements were mesmerizing—he flowed like a tide crashing against a wall. At one moment, he shifted into a maneuver Lance had never seen before: a feint that drew Eryc's guard low before spinning and tapping his ribs from the opposite side with a precision strike.

The wooden sword landed with a crack against Eryc's ribs, sending the boy sprawling.

Alexander stood over him.

"If I were your enemy," he said, voice cold but instructive, "you'd be dead."

Eryc wheezed, holding his side, but his eyes—those determined eyes—never dimmed.

Alexander continued. "You're strong. Fast. And most importantly, smart. Master each of those traits—then merge them. Only then will you become what you set out to be."

He dropped the wooden sword to the ground beside Eryc. "Nothing in this world is easy. It won't be earned lounging in the sun. Train until you can't feel anything. Because your enemies won't wait for you to rest. They won't care for your excuses. Or your life."

He turned away, the black cloak billowing behind him.

Lance stepped forward to check on the boy, but Alexander turned again.

"Remember this, Eryc. Betrayal never comes from an enemy."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Alexander passed by Lance. Ai'lar, still a mystery to Lance, stepped forward and gestured toward the palace halls.

"Will you share a drink with me, Ser Lance?"

Lance raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowed. "I'll need a name before I share anything."

The man smiled, one corner of his mouth pulled up near the scar. "Ai'lar."

So it was him.

Lance nodded slowly, now fully aware of the gravity of the moment.

He turned to Eryc, who was back on his feet, one hand over his ribs.

"You alright, Eryc?"

The boy stood tall, eyes still burning. "I'm fine."

Lance gave a nod of approval. "Keep practicing. I want to see you finish what we started."

"Yes, Ser!" Eryc shouted, full of new fire.

Lance walked with Ai'lar and Alexander, the three of them leaving the courtyard behind. As the doors shut behind them, the sound of Eryc's sword swinging through the air echoed louder than ever.

---

The sun had just begun its slow descent, casting a molten gold hue across the horizon. It was the third day since the border wars officially ended, and already, the atmosphere across Dragonsvale was shifting. Soldiers stood straighter. The streets were scrubbed clean. Banners of House Dragonsbane waved from towers. But in the heart of the city, away from the bustling preparation, three men strode into a timeworn inn nestled beside the River Fraelin.

Lance, Alexander, and Ai'lar had arrived.

The inn was modest, with timber beams worn from age and smoke-stained walls that whispered of countless stories. Inside, a hearth glowed faintly, and the scent of charred meat and stale ale clung to the air. It was here the three sought refuge from their duties—just for a few hours.

A barmaid recognized them instantly but wisely said nothing more than, "What'll it be, m'lords?"

Alexander grinned. "Strongest drink you've got."

"Same here," Ai'lar echoed, his accent unmistakable—sliding vowels and dropped consonants giving his words a rhythmic, rolling cadence. "Nothin' soft, aye? Somethin' t'put hair on th'chest."

Lance hesitated, then nodded. "Bring me one too."

The woman blinked, gave a half-smile, then turned. Moments later, three stone mugs thudded against the table, each filled to the brim with a dark amber brew known across the region as "Dragon's Maw." A drink brewed with herbs, fire-roasted barley, and a secret addition no one dared name.

They clinked their mugs together, a resounding thud that echoed like a war drum. Then, they drank.

Lance's eyes widened as the drink hit his tongue—smoky, bitter, with a heat that clawed down his throat. He coughed but caught himself, refusing to look weak. Alexander chuckled. Ai'lar grinned like a fox.

"So," Lance began, trying to mask the warmth already blooming in his chest, "what's the road been like for you both since the last battle?"

Alexander leaned back in his chair. "Bloody long. Roads were mud. Half the peasants waved like we were saviors, the other half wanted to stone us for our banners."

Ai'lar snorted. " Zul Kifar's lands be wild still. Swamps whisper old names, y'know? Took near two weeks t'get across our border. Too many damn snakes, not 'nough bridges."

"Your people," Lance said, squinting as he took another sip, "are they ready for what's coming, The finale meeting and the rise of our kingdome? "

Ai'lar gave a sideways smile, swirling his drink. "We ain't ever ready. But we adapt. It's what we do. We watch, we wait, then we strike." He lifted his mug. "And we drink. That too."

Lance laughed, a little louder than intended. His head felt pleasantly warm, but his tongue had started to loosen. "I've always wanted to know more about your people," he said honestly. "What are your customs like? What do you believe in?"

Ai'lar's eyes lit up. "Now there's a question. You ready for a lesson, kingling?"

Alexander rolled his eyes, but smiled as he drank.

Ai'lar leaned forward. "In Zul Kifar, we don't crown kings by birth. Nah. We earn it. Trials of blood, bone, and breath. You fight the land, the beasts, the spirits. If you come back alive, you lead."

Lance blinked. "You fight spirits?"

"Some say aye. Others say they're dreams. But when you stare into a storm for a week straight, with no food, no fire, no hope? Somethin' speaks back. Could be madness, could be gods. We don't argue. We listen."

There was silence for a beat. Then Lance asked, "What about your people's values?"

"Strength. Loyalty. But most of all—memory. We carve our stories into wood, hide, stone... our elders remember the bloodlines. We don't forget."

Alexander gave a quiet nod. "That... I respect."

Ai'lar grinned. "Aye, figured y'would. You dragons may be pricks, but you're proud ones."

They all laughed. Even Alexander, rare and unexpected.

As the conversation wore on, the mugs refilled. Ai'lar recounted old songs of swamp duels and spirit dances. Alexander told a tale about a duel between two nobles over a chess match gone wrong, ending in a table flip and a month-long border skirmish. Lance listened, laughed, and drank, until his face was flushed and his words started to slur.

"I never thought..." Lance blinked slowly, "... I'd be sittin' here, sharin' drinks with... You Alexander.. and a Zul... Zul... Kifar...ian?" He grinned lopsidedly.

Ai'lar patted him on the back. "Yer drunk, kingling."

Alexander stood. "I'll walk him back to the castle."

"Suit y'self," Ai'lar said, finishing his mug. "I've got a river to piss in and a dry bed callin' my name."

He gave them a two-fingered salute and sauntered out into the dusk.

Alexander helped Lance up. "C'mon. One foot in front of the other."

As they stepped into the cool air, stars beginning to blink awake in the sky, Lance swayed slightly. "You didn't have to walk me. Thought you didn't like me."

Alexander let out a short laugh. "I can get serious, sure—but I'm not evil. You're the heir to the throne. If anything happens to you, I could'nt forgive myself."

Lance chuckled. "It's not so bad... being the heir. But damn, it's heavy. I keep wondering if I'm gonna be enough."

Alexander glanced at him. "You think I wanted to be a general at eight? I was forced to fight in the border wars before I knew how to shave. Nobody's ever ready. But you fight anyway. That's what makes a leader."

Lance looked at him, eyes slightly glassy. "...Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. We've still gotta get you through the gates without falling into the fountain."

They walked on, two shadows slipping through twilight, toward a castle that waited for more than just their return.