The Bastard and the Prince

The air at the Valtoria-Eldren border known as No Mans Land was thick with tension. The fading sunlight cast long shadows over the rocky terrain, painting the barren expanse in hues of amber and crimson. Lysandra crouched behind a cluster of jagged rocks, her sharp eyes scanning the distant horizon. The wind tugged at her cloak, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and damp earth. 

She had learned to wait in silence, to let the stillness become her ally. For years, the borderlands had been her refuge— Here, survival was a game of patience and cunning, and Lysandra had mastered both. 

From her vantage point, she spotted movement—a column of soldiers marching in tight formation, their gleaming armor catching the last rays of sunlight. Valtorian banners flapped in the wind, their golden lion sigil stark against the deep blue fabric. A royal entourage, she guessed, though the size of the army was unusual for a mere patrol. 

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, its familiar weight grounding her. She didn't need to see who led the charge. Rumors had swept through the borderlands like wildfire—Prince Alaric, the king's only heir, was coming to no mans land. 

Lysandra's lip curled into a half-smile, devoid of any warmth. "A prince," she muttered under her breath, the words dripping with skepticism. She wondered if he was here to play soldier or if he'd crumble the moment real battle came knocking. 

The soldiers drew closer, their boots kicking up dust that blurred the line between land and sky. Lysandra stayed low, her heartbeat steady, her breaths controlled. She had no love for Valtoria or its royal family, and certainly not for a prince who would look at her with the same disdain as the rest of the kingdom. 

As the army passed beneath her hidden perch, Lysandra allowed herself one brief glance at the man leading them. His presence was commanding, his golden hair and piercing sky-blue eyes unmistakable even at a distance. This was Alaric. The Prince of Valtoria, riding at the head of an army as if he was already king. 

But Lysandra knew better. She turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the rocks, her mind already calculating her next move as she swiftly moved through the craggy terrain, her steps sure and silent despite the uneven ground.

The Blackthorn Hollow was tucked into a narrow gorge, hidden from prying eyes. Smokeless fires cast faint glows across the canvas tents, and the faint hum of activity carried on the breeze—soldiers sharpening blades, quiet conversations, the occasional clink of armor. 

She slipped through the perimeter with ease, her presence drawing only nods from those who recognized her. Despite her outcast status, Lysandra had proven her worth time and again. To them, she was a scout, sharp-eyed and quick-witted, someone who got the job done. 

Blackthorn Hollow commander, Captain Roderic, was poring over a map in his tent when she entered. His weathered face lifted at the sound of her boots on the dirt floor, his sharp gray eyes locking onto hers. 

"Report," he said without preamble, his voice gruff but steady. 

"The Valtorian prince is coming," Lysandra said, pulling back her hood. "He'll be here shortly, leading a full contingent. More soldiers than we anticipated." 

Roderic straightened, his jaw tightening. "The prince himself?" 

Lysandra nodded. "Yes. Saw him with my own eyes. Riding at the front like he's leading some grand crusade." 

The captain rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, considering her words. "He's either here to bolster the border or provoke us into a response," he muttered, his gaze drifting back to the map. "Either way, we need to be ready." 

"I've already scouted their approach," Lysandra added, crossing her arms. "They'll be in sight of the camp soon." 

Roderic gave her a brief, approving nod. "Good work. Spread the word—everyone stays alert but out of sight. We'll see what this prince wants before we make our move." 

Lysandra turned to leave but paused at the tent's entrance, glancing back at the captain. "One more thing," she said. "Don't let the fancy title fool you. A prince is still just a man. If it comes to it, he'll bleed like the rest of them." 

Roderic chuckled, as Lysandra spoke words similar to those he has spoken to her himself. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that—but if it does, I trust you'll remind him." 

Lysandra moved swiftly through the winding paths of Blackthorn Hollow, her voice calm but firm as she alerted the others to the approaching Valtorian forces. The mercenaries sprang into action with practiced efficiency, extinguishing fires and blending into the shadows, their movements eerily silent. By the time the prince's army reached the edge of the gorge, the camp looked deserted, though every Shadow Blade lay hidden, weapons at the ready.

The sound of hooves echoed across the rocky terrain as Prince Alaric and his contingent halted just outside the hollow's entrance. The golden lion of Valtoria emblazoned on their banners gleamed in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the muted, rugged surroundings of the mercenary camp. Alaric sat tall in the saddle, his polished armor catching the light, but his expression was sharp and unreadable. He scanned the seemingly empty camp with a soldier's eye before raising a gauntleted hand to signal his men to hold their positions.

"Shadow Blades," Alaric called out, his voice carrying across the hollow with practiced authority. Despite the steadiness of his tone, there was a faint undercurrent of disdain—a flicker of contempt for those who sold their swords to the highest bidder. Still, he tempered it, forcing himself to sound diplomatic. "I am Prince Alaric of Valtoria. I come in peace to discuss matters of mutual interest."

For a moment, the only response was the rustling of leaves and the distant cry of a hawk overhead. Then, from the shadows, Captain Roderic emerged, his grizzled form clad in leather armor, a sword strapped to his back. His steps were slow and deliberate as he walked toward the prince, stopping just within earshot. Lysandra remained hidden nearby, watching every movement with a scout's precision, her hand resting on the hilt of her dagger.

Roderic's expression was neutral, his tone carefully measured. "Mutual interest, you say? That's a polite way of putting it, considering how often your kind labels us as nothing more than thieves and sell-swords."

Alaric dismounted with practiced ease, his gaze unwavering as he stepped forward. "You'll find I'm not here to insult you or your... organization," he said, though the slight hesitation on the last word betrayed his discomfort. "Valtoria recognizes the value of skilled fighters, particularly those with knowledge of these borderlands. I've come to offer you a chance to serve the crown."

A low murmur rippled through the hidden ranks of the mercenaries, their disdain for being courted by royalty almost palpable. Roderic raised a hand to silence them, his eyes narrowing as he regarded the prince. "Serve the crown? That's a fancy way of saying you want us to fight your war."

Alaric's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. "I won't deny that Valtoria stands on the brink of conflict with Eldren. But this isn't just about the crown. The borderlands will become a battlefield whether you fight for us, against us, or try to stay out of it. I'm offering you the chance to align with the side that values honor and order."

From her vantage point, Lysandra scoffed silently, her fingers tightening around her dagger. Honor and order. Words spoken so easily by men who lived their entire lives in luxury and power. Words that meant nothing to someone like her.

Roderic crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "You've made your pitch, Prince. Now give me a reason why we should trust you. Or are you planning to order your soldiers to march in here and take what you want by force?"

Alaric met the captain's gaze, his expression firm. "If I wanted to take this camp, I would've already taken it. I'm offering you a choice. Join us, and you'll be paid handsomely for your services. Refuse, and I'll leave you in peace—for now."

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a blade. Roderic said nothing for a long moment, his eyes studying the young prince as if weighing his sincerity. Then, with a small nod, he turned to the shadows. "Come out," he called. "Let the good prince see who he's dealing with."

The mercenaries emerged one by one, blending out of the rocks and trees like specters. Their dark armor and weapons were a stark contrast to the shining soldiers of Valtoria. Lysandra smirked from her hiding spot high above the prince, perched on an outcropping of rock that overlooked the Valtorian entourage. She had heard enough of Alaric's polished words and noble posturing. If he wanted to see what the Shadow Blades could do, she'd give him a firsthand demonstration. 

Without hesitation, she launched herself into the air, her movements swift and precise. The prince had just turned his head to address his captain when Lysandra landed on him with the force of a storm, knocking him clean off his feet. Alaric hit the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs as he sprawled in the dirt, dust clouding the air around them. 

Before he could recover, Lysandra straddled him, her dagger pressed firmly against his throat. Her hood had fallen back, revealing her striking features framed by wild strands of dark red hair. Her sharp eyes locked on his, unyielding and defiant. 

The prince's knights erupted into chaos, several drawing their swords and moving to intervene. But Alaric, despite his position, raised a hand to halt them, his gaze fixed on the woman pinning him. 

"Well," he said, his voice calm despite the blade at his neck. "This is certainly not how I imagined being greeted by the infamous Shadow Blades. Though I must admit, the personal touch is... memorable." His lips curved into a wry smile. "Didn't realize they sent their finest assassins armed with such... charm." 

Lysandra raised an eyebrow, her grip tightening on the dagger. "Keep talking, Your Highness," she said coolly. "Maybe I'll let you see just how charming I can be." 

"Lysandra!" Captain Roderic's voice cut through the tension like a whip. "Knock it off and get off him. Now." 

Lysandra hesitated, her dagger still poised at the prince's throat, her gaze burning with defiance. The murmurs from the prince's knights reached her ears, low but sharp as blades.

"Is that her?" one whispered.

"The Bastard of Eldren," another muttered, the words dripping with disdain.

"I thought she was just a rumor," a third added, his voice tinged with a mix of disgust and fascination.

Lysandra's jaw tightened as the whispers grew, each word a reminder of the stain she carried, the unwanted legacy that followed her like a shadow. Her grip on the dagger faltered for just a moment, the crack in her armor invisible to all but the prince, who still lay pinned beneath her.

Alaric's eyes narrowed slightly, his earlier humor fading as he studied her. The disdain in his knights' words wasn't lost on him, and some part of him was curious.

"Bastard of Eldren," he said softly, almost testing the words. There was no malice in his tone, only an infuriating curiosity that made Lysandra's blood boil. "So, the rumors are true."

Her dagger pressed harder against his throat, silencing him as her eyes blazed. "Say it again, Your Highness, and see what happens."

"Lysandra!" Roderic barked again, his tone more commanding this time.

With a sharp exhale, she relented, pulling the blade away and rising to her feet in one fluid motion. She stepped back, her movements tight and controlled, her pride intact even as the knights' murmurs continued.

She extended a hand toward the prince, though her expression made it clear she was mocking him. "Get up, Your Highness, before your knights faint from worry."

Alaric accepted her hand, his grip firm as she helped him to his feet. He dusted himself off with practiced grace, his armor gleaming despite the dirt, but his gaze never left her. There was something in his eyes—analyzing, calculating—that set her teeth on edge.

"Captain," he said, addressing Roderic without looking away from Lysandra. "It seems your people are more... spirited than I anticipated. I suppose that reputation of yours is well-earned."

Roderic stepped forward, his expression a mix of irritation and wariness. "Lysandra's methods are unorthodox, but they're effective," he said, his tone clipped. "You'll find no one better at scouting or taking down a target."

"I can see that," Alaric replied, his lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. "Though I imagine her sharp tongue is just as deadly as her blade."

Lysandra crossed her arms, her smirk returning despite the weight of the knights' stares. "You have no idea."

Roderic groaned inwardly, stepping between them before things escalated further. "Lysandra, enough. Go check the perimeter. Now."

She gave a mock salute, her eyes lingering on the prince for a moment longer before turning sharply and disappearing into the shadows. The whispers followed her, but she didn't look back. She had no intention of letting them see how deep those words could cut.

As she vanished, Alaric turned to Roderic, his tone lighter but edged with curiosity. "She's… quite the character. Tell me, Captain, how does someone like her end up with the Shadow Blades?"

Roderic's gaze was steady, his tone firm. "She's earned her place here, Prince. That's all you need to know."

Alaric nodded slowly, but his thoughts lingered on the fiery woman who had knocked him to the ground. The Bastard of Eldren. The rumors swirled in his mind, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was far more to her story than the whispers suggested.