Lysandra sat cross-legged near the low-burning fire, the rhythmic scrape of her dagger against a whetstone blending with the muted hum of camp activity. Around her, the other mercenaries lounged in casual conversation, though their eyes often flicked toward the command tent where Captain Roderic and Prince Alaric were locked in tense negotiations.
She caught glimpses of the prince through the flap of the tent as it shifted with the wind. He stood tall, his polished armor glinting faintly in the flickering torchlight. His posture was all royal confidence, but there was an edge to him—a-controlled intensity that spoke of someone unaccustomed to relying on mercenaries.
"Bet he's not used to begging for help," muttered Kellan, the wiry young man seated to her left.
Lysandra smirked, her gaze dropping back to her blade. "No noble likes admitting he needs us," she replied. "But they always come crawling when the stakes are high enough."
Nearby, a group of Valtorian royal knights stood clustered near their horses, their eyes kept darting toward the mercenaries, their expressions a mix of disdain and unease. It wasn't long before their hushed whispers turned louder, their words pointed enough to cut through the camp's ambient noise.
"Mercenaries," one knight sneered. "Nothing but sell swords. No loyalty, no honor."
Another laughed, his voice sharp with mockery. "I don't know why the prince is wasting his time. They'd sell their own mothers if the price was right."
The third knight leaned against his spear, his gaze landing squarely on Lysandra. "Especially her. The Bastard of Eldren. She's not even worth the coin we'd pay. Even if it was for a good time." The knights roared in laughter.
Lysandra froze mid-swipe, her grip tightening on the dagger. Around her, her companions exchanged tense glances, the easy camaraderie around the fire shifting to a simmering anger.
"Let it go," Kellan murmured, nudging her. "They're not worth it."
Lysandra tilted her head, her smirk growing sharper. "Oh, I'm letting it go," she said, sliding the whetstone into her belt. "But if they come over, all bets are off."
The knights didn't take the hint. Emboldened by their station, one of them come over to Lysandra and Kellan, his sneer growing wider. "What's the matter, Bastard. Can't take a joke? Or are you just too much of a coward to do something about it?"
Lysandra stood in one fluid motion, her movements deliberate and predatory. Her dagger caught the firelight as she turned it idly in her fingers, her eyes locked on the offending knight.
"You've got a lot to say for someone who hides behind plated armor," she said coolly. "Tell me—do you talk this much on the battlefield, or is that when you run crying for your mother?"
The knight's face darkened with anger, and he took another step forward, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "Bastard! Maybe someone needs to put you in your place."
Lysandra tilted her head, her smirk growing sharper. "Go ahead," she said, sliding her dagger into her hand with practiced ease. "Others have tried."
The knight didn't hesitate. He drew his sword in one fluid motion, the metallic shhhk of the blade echoing through the camp. Before anyone could intervene, Lysandra moved, her dagger flashing as she sidestepped his first swing with ease.
Gasps and shouts erupted around the fire as the two clashed. The knight was strong, his strikes deliberate and powerful, but Lysandra was fast, her smaller weapon darting in and out like a snake. She ducked under his wide swing, slashing at the exposed joint of his armor. Her blade grazed his arm, drawing a thin line of blood.
"You're slow," she taunted, circling him like a predator. "And sloppy... Maybe you should stick to shining that armor instead of wearing it."
The knight growled in frustration, lunging at her with a ferocious swing. Lysandra dodged again, her movements quick and precise, and delivered a sharp kick to his knee. He stumbled but didn't fall, recovering with a furious slash that came dangerously close to her side.
"You're dead, Bitch!" he snarled, his voice thick with rage.
"Not today," she shot back, her dagger darting out to catch the edge of his blade. The force of the strike sent vibrations up her arm, but she held firm, twisting to deflect his next attack.
The mercenaries and knights began to crowd around, their shouts and jeers mixing into a chaotic roar. Some of Lysandra's companions cheered her on, while others looked nervously toward the command tent.
The knight swung again, but this time Lysandra anticipated his move. She ducked low, sweeping his legs out from under him with a precise kick. He crashed to the ground, his sword clattering away, and before he could react, Lysandra picked up his sword pointing it at him as he lay on the ground.
The crowd fell silent, save for the heavy breathing of the knight beneath her sword. Lysandra's gaze was icy, her voice low and dangerous. "Yield, or I'll give you something to really talk about."
"ENOUGH!"
Captain Roderic's voice rang out like a thunderclap, freezing everyone in place. The tension shattered as the captain stormed into the circle, his eyes blazing with fury.
"Lysandra! Stand down, now!" he barked.
Lysandra hesitated; her blade still poised at the knight's throat. With a sharp exhale, she stepped back, sliding the dagger back into its sheath and throwing the knights sword back to the ground for him a show of disrespect.
The knight scrambled to his feet, glaring at her with a mix of rage and humiliation, but he didn't dare make another move.
Roderic's gaze swept over the gathered mercenaries and knights, his expression like a storm ready to break. "I don't care who started it. This ends here. If anyone—anyone—causes more trouble, you'll answer to me. Understood?"
The crowd murmured uneasy affirmations, the tension slowly dissolving. Lysandra crossed her arms, a faint smirk still tugging at her lips as she stepped back into the shadows.
Before the knights could respond, Alaric stepped forward, his gaze cold and commanding. "I don't recall asking for your opinions," he said evenly, though his voice carried the weight of authority. "These mercenaries may not wear Valtorian colors, but if you can't show them the respect, they're due, you can leave with dishonor."
The knights stiffened, their arrogance dimming under the prince's glare. "Apologies, Your Highness," one muttered, bowing his head.
"Good," Alaric replied sharply. He turned to Roderic, his tone more measured. "Perhaps it's time we discuss the behavior of both our groups. Infighting won't serve either of us."
Roderic nodded, though his eyes lingered on Lysandra. "Agreed. And that includes you, Lysandra. Stand down."
She gave a mock salute, her smirk returning as she sank back into her seat. "Yes, Captain. Standing down."
As the tension eased and the knights retreated, Alaric's gaze lingered on Lysandra. Her sharp features, framed by strands of wild red hair catching the firelight, held a striking intensity that made it impossible to look away. There was something untamed and unapologetic about her, a force that seemed to radiate from within.
She caught the look and raised an eyebrow, daring him to say something.
The camp's tension gradually subsided, though the air inside the command tent remained charged as Prince Alaric and Captain Roderic resumed their negotiations. A lantern hanging from the center pole cast a warm glow over the table between them, where a rough map of the borderlands was spread out, marked with pins and notes detailing troop movements and key positions.
Roderic stood with his arms crossed, his weathered face impassive as Alaric leaned over the map, tracing a finger along the northern boundary.
"You need us," Roderic began bluntly. "That much is clear. But if you think the Shadow Blades will march into this conflict without guarantees, you're mistaken. We've survived by choosing our contracts carefully, and I won't risk my men for a crown's promises."
Alaric straightened, his piercing blue eyes meeting Roderic's. "And I wouldn't expect you to. I know your reputation, Captain, and I respect it. That's why I'm here—because your men know this terrain better than anyone, and their skills are unmatched. I need allies who can handle what's coming."
Roderic's brow furrowed. "And what exactly is coming, Your Highness? The borderlands have always been contested, but this feels bigger. Eldren's not just raiding anymore, are they?"
Alaric hesitated, a flicker of something darker crossing his expression. "No," he admitted. "They're not. Eldren is amassing forces along the northern border, and they've allied with mercenary bands of their own with far less honor than yours. If they push into Valtoria, they won't stop at the borderlands. Entire villages will burn."
Roderic studied him for a long moment, his gray eyes narrowing. "You want us to be your forward force. Scouts, saboteurs, and assassins to weaken their lines before your army strikes."
"Yes," Alaric said without hesitation. "And in return, I'm prepared to offer terms that benefit you and your people," Alaric continued, his tone steady and authoritative. "Gold, of course—enough to make the risk worthwhile. But I'm offering more than just wealth. After this war, I'll ensure the Shadow Blades are granted safe haven and ownership of territory along the borderlands. You'd have a home, a permanent base where you're untouchable."
He paused, letting his words settle before adding, "But that's not all. You won't just remain as mercenaries. I'll see to it that the Shadow Blades are officially recognized as a new knighthood within the kingdom of Valtoria. Your strength, your skills, and your sacrifices will no longer be dismissed or looked down upon. You'll have a seat at the table, equal to the other knightly orders, with the honor and respect that comes with it."
Roderic's eyebrows lifted slightly, though his expression remained guarded. The murmurs of intrigue from the gathered mercenaries around the tent were impossible to miss.
"A knighthood?" Roderic asked, his voice laced with both curiosity and skepticism.
Alaric nodded firmly. "Yes. A knighthood. Your people will no longer have to live on the fringes. This war gives us the chance to rewrite the narrative—for both of us. I want you and the Shadow Blades to stand with me not as hired swords, but as an integral part of Valtoria's future."
The captain leaned back, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the young prince. "You're offering us a lot, Your Highness. But promises like these don't come without strings. What's the catch?"
"The catch," Alaric replied, "is the same as it always is in war: loyalty. Fight for Valtoria, and help me end this conflict decisively. Prove your worth—not just to me, but to the kingdom—and I'll make sure this recognition is more than words. You'll have it in writing, sealed with the royal crest. No one—will be able to deny it."
Roderic's gaze lingered on the prince, weighing the sincerity in his voice and the gravity of his offer. The tent was silent, save for the faint crackle of the fire outside.
"I'll bring this to my council," Roderic said at last, his voice measured but thoughtful. "We'll review your terms. If we agree, you'll have your answer before your army moves out. But make no mistake, Prince—if we're to fight with you, we expect to be treated well. No condescension, no betrayal. Do that, and you'll have an order of warriors who'll turn the tide of any battle. Cross us, and you'll find we're just as skilled at dismantling an empire."
Alaric's lips twitched into a faint smile. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
Roderic nodded, rolling the scroll back into its case. "Then it seems we have the beginnings of an understanding. Let's see if it holds."
The two men shook hands firmly, the weight of their tentative alliance hanging heavy in the air. Prince Alaric stepped out of the command tent, the cool evening air a welcome relief after the charged atmosphere inside. His mind churned with the weight of the negotiations, but his expression remained composed, regal, as he surveyed the camp. Shadow Blades milled about; their movements purposeful yet cautious under the watchful eyes of his knights.
He caught sight of Lysandra by the fire, sitting with a small group of mercenaries. She was sharpening her dagger again, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone carrying an air of detachment. Her focus was fixed on her blade, but Alaric could sense her awareness of everything around her—especially him.
After a moment's hesitation, he strode toward her, his polished boots crunching against the dirt. The murmurs around the fire quieted as the mercenaries exchanged wary glances. Lysandra didn't look up, but the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Mind if I join you?" Alaric asked, his tone calm but edged with curiosity.
Lysandra didn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably before finally meeting his gaze. "Depends. Are you here to give orders?"
Alaric chuckled softly, undeterred. "No. I thought we might talk."
Her smirk widened, though there was no warmth in it. "With me? The Bastard of Eldren? What would a prince like you have to say to someone like me?"
A few of the mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances, but no one dared intervene. Alaric, to his credit, didn't flinch at the sharpness in her tone. Instead, he crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to eye level with her.
"I'd say I'm curious," he admitted. "Your reputation precedes you, Lysandra. I want to understand the people I might be trusting with my life."
Lysandra paused her sharpening, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "You don't trust us, do you?"
Alaric hesitated for the briefest moment. "Trust isn't given lightly, especially in times like these. But I believe respect is earned. And I respect what I've seen so far."
She let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Respect, huh? That what you call it? Because it looked a lot like disdain when you were talking about 'sell swords' earlier."
Alaric straightened, his jaw tightening slightly. "If I gave that impression, it wasn't my intent. I don't see you or your people as lesser. If anything, I admire your resilience."
Lysandra's smirk faded, replaced by a sharp, guarded expression. "Save the flattery, Your Highness. It doesn't work on me."
"Why so defensive?" Alaric asked, tilting his head slightly. "Do you always assume the worst of people?"
She stood abruptly, slipping the dagger into its sheath. "Not everyone. Just nobles who think they can waltz into our camp, wave a few promises around, and make us do the dirty work for them."
The tension around the fire grew thicker, the other mercenaries shifting uncomfortably as they pretended not to listen.
Alaric sighed, his calm demeanor cracking slightly. "I'm trying to build a bridge here, Lysandra. The least you could do is meet me halfway."
Lysandra's eyes flashed with a mix of anger and bitter amusement. "You want me to meet you halfway? Let me tell you what halfway looked like for me. I didn't know what it was to be treated like a human being until I ran away and joined the Shadow Blades nearly a decade ago."
She took a step closer, her voice low and cutting. "You think you can waltz in here with your banners and titles and talk about trust? Try living a life where you're nothing but a stain to people like you—people with power and privilege who look down at the rest of the untitled population like we're something to scrape off their boots. Then maybe we can talk about meeting halfway."
Lysandra walked away from the prince annoyed with him already, her movements sharp and deliberate. The tension she left in her wake seemed to linger in the air, crackling like a storm about to break. Prince Alaric stood motionless for a moment, watching her retreat into the shadows with an unreadable expression.
A low chuckle broke the silence as Kellan, the wiry mercenary who'd been sitting by the fire, approached the prince with a casual swagger. In his hand, he held a dented metal cup filled with ale, which he extended toward Alaric.
"Here," Kellan said, his grin wide and easy. "You're gonna need this."
Alaric raised an eyebrow but accepted the cup, taking a tentative sip. The ale was rough and bitter, but it did little to dull the edges of Lysandra's words still ringing in his ears.
Kellan leaning slightly toward the prince as if sharing a secret. "I think she likes you."
Alaric nearly choked on the ale, coughing once before glancing at Kellan, his expression incredulous. "That's your idea of liking someone?" he asked dryly.
Kellan shrugged; his grin unfaltering. "Oh, that's just her way. If she really hated you, she'd have stayed silent and let you dig your own grave."
Alaric considered this for a moment, his gaze drifting toward where Lysandra had disappeared. "Not exactly comforting," he muttered.
"Take it as a compliment," Kellan said, clapping the prince on the shoulder.
Alaric sighed, taking another sip of the ale before muttering, "I think I'd prefer indifference."
Kellan let out a hearty laugh, stepping back toward the fire. "Good luck with that, Your Highness. Welcome to the Shadow Blades."
As Kellan rejoined the group, Alaric stood alone for a moment longer, the rough ale in his hand and the weight of Lysandra's words in his mind. He glanced back toward the shadows where she had vanished, his curiosity about the fiery mercenary growing despite himself.
Lysandra walked away from the camp, her boots crunching softly against the dry earth as she ventured deeper into the borderlands. The grove she sought wasn't far, a secluded spot she'd discovered during her scouting rounds, hidden by gnarled trees and jagged rocks. It was the perfect place for secrets.
Once she was certain she was alone, she knelt on the ground, her hands brushing over the satchel strapped to her side. She opened it carefully, retrieving a smooth, dark stone etched with faint runes that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. The rune stone was more than just a tool—it was her tether to the magic she had been taught in secret, the magic that Valtoria would condemn her for practicing.
The royal envoys who visited her home hadn't come just for diplomacy. They had come because of her. Her father's men, sent from Eldren's court, had always watched her from the shadows, though most treated her like a distant obligation. All except Callian.
Callian, a noble mage, had seen her potential when no one else had. He had taken her aside, away from the cold gazes and muttered insults, and whispered truths about her bloodline. "You are not just Hillhouse," he had told her, his voice low with conviction. "You are of Eldren's fire and breath. The magic runs in your veins as surely as the wind blows. In Eldren magic is power. Bloodlines carry responsibility, and yours is no exception. You can choose to deny it or embrace it, but it will always be there, waiting."
The lessons had been brief and sporadic, cut short by her escape from home. But she had carried them with her, practicing in secret, even as she learned the ways of the Shadow Blades. What Callian had ignited in her had grown into something she could no longer deny.
Now, away from prying eyes, she held the black stone in her palm, its weight grounding her. Taking a deep breath, she whispered the words Callian had taught her, her voice low and steady.
"Anai firen, anai aeren."
The runes on the stone began to glow faintly, pulsing in rhythm with her voice. The air around her stirred, growing warmer, charged with unseen energy. As she focused, a small flame flickered to life above the stone, hovering like a golden ember.
She opened her eyes, her gaze locked on the flame as she guided it with her hands. Slowly, it grew, twisting and curling as she shaped it with precision. The flame danced in the air, its movements controlled by the subtle shifts of her fingers. She added a second incantation, her voice steady, and a faint breeze swirled around the flame, feeding it without letting it grow out of control.
The magic required focus, discipline. One wrong move, and the flame could lash out, unpredictable and dangerous. She clenched her teeth as sweat beaded on her forehead, the strain of holding the spell testing her limits. But she didn't falter. Not yet.
Finally, she whispered the words to extinguish the flame. The ember winked out, leaving only the faint glow of the rune stone behind. Lysandra let out a slow breath, her hands dropping to her sides. The energy of the spell still hummed faintly in her veins, a reminder of the power she carried—and the danger it posed.
Her gaze fell to her palm, where a small nick from earlier still stung. She picked up the rune stone and focused again, this time whispering the words of healing magic. "Sora ni anairen."
The rune glowed softly, its light washing over her hand. A faint warmth spread through her skin, and the cut slowly closed, leaving no trace behind. Healing magic was harder, more personal, but it was also the most useful of her skills. In the Shadow Blades, wounds were inevitable, and having an advantage like this had saved her life and her friends lives more than once.
She sat back, the rune stone resting in her lap. The magic she had learned wasn't just a skill—it was part of her, a connection to the bloodline she had spent so long resenting. In Eldren, her abilities would have been celebrated, nurtured. But here in Valtoria, magic was a crime punishable by death.
Her thoughts drifted to Alaric, to the prince who had demanded her trust without realizing the weight of her secrets. He thought he was the only one who had borne the burden of royal expectations, but she had carried the shadows of Eldren's court her entire life. His father's throne, her father's blood, both of them entangled in a game neither of them had chosen.
She wrapped the stone and vial back in their cloth, tucking them safely into her satchel. Rising to her feet, she glanced back toward the camp.
"You think you know me, Alaric," she muttered under her breath. "But you don't."
As she made her way back, she felt the magic still humming beneath her skin, a constant reminder of the power she carried and the danger it posed. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford.