She set her cup down with deliberate precision, her movements slow and measured as if choosing her words carefully. "Let's start with the name. The Bastard of Eldren. It's not just a nickname—it's who I am. Or, at least, who people like to remind me I am."
Her voice grew sharper, though her tone remained steady. "I was born during the first war between Valtoria and Eldren. My father.. Prince Calder of Eldren—a man whose greatest skill was leaving chaos in his wake. My mother...Lady Elara of the Hillhouse family, a noblewoman from Valtoria."
Alaric stiffened slightly at the mention of Calder, his expression darkening, but he said nothing, allowing her to continue.
"My mother died in childbirth," Lysandra went on, her voice flattening slightly, though her sharp eyes never wavered. "The Hillhouse family wasn't exactly kind to me growing up. I was a living reminder of their shame, and they never let me forget it. As for my father's side. They barely acknowledged my existence. Calder never visited, not once. I was a ghost in both kingdoms—tolerated but not wanted."
She paused, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. "I'd finally had enough. Disguised myself as a boy, stole what I could, and ran. Figured I'd rather take my chances out there than stay where I wasn't wanted."
Garin raised an eyebrow, his interest clear. "And that's when you found the Shadow Blades?"
"Not quite," Lysandra said with a faint smirk. "I didn't know who they were at the time—just thought they were some easy marks in the village square. Turns out, trying to pickpocket Shadow Blades is a quick way to land yourself in trouble."
Kellan chuckled, clearly enjoying the image. "Bet that didn't go over well."
"It didn't," Lysandra admitted, her smirk widening slightly. "Captain Roderic caught me in the act. Thought for sure he was going to toss me in a ditch or worse, but instead, he saw something. Potential, I guess. He offered me a choice: come with them or get handed over to the guards. Seemed like an easy decision at the time."
Lysandra leaned back in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup absentmindedly as she spoke, her voice carrying the weight of old memories.
"When I first joined the Shadow Blades, I was fourteen—small, scrappy, and stubborn as hell. I'd like to say they welcomed me with open arms, but that would be a lie. No, they didn't trust me, didn't think I'd last a week. And honestly? I wasn't sure I would, either. They were rough men, mercenaries who'd seen the worst of the world and survived it. To them, I was just a scrawny girl with too much mouth and not enough muscle."
She smirked faintly, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "They didn't go easy on me. Captain Roderic made it clear: if I wanted to stay, I had to earn my place. I started at the bottom—scrubbing pots, patching tents, cleaning their bloody boots. The men didn't bother hiding their disdain, cracking jokes about how they'd finally gotten a maid. Every mistake I made, every time I stumbled, they were there to remind me I didn't belong."
Her expression darkened slightly, her tone sharpening. "But I didn't quit. I couldn't. I worked until my hands bled, until my arms felt like they'd fall off, just to prove them wrong. I hated every minute of it, but the alternative—was worse."
She paused, her fingers drumming lightly against the table. "Training was brutal. They paired me with Thomas, this mountain of a man who seemed to take joy in knocking me on my ass every chance he got. 'Get up,' he'd bark every time I hit the ground. 'You think the enemy's gonna wait for you to cry about it?' And I did get up. Every damn time. I had bruises on top of bruises, but I refused to stay down."
Her lips twitched in a faint smile, a glimmer of pride breaking through. "And slowly, I got better. Learned how to dodge, how to fight smart instead of fighting hard. I figured out how to turn my size into an advantage. Thomas even started to grunt in approval when I landed a hit. That was practically a compliment coming from him."
She took a slow sip of her drink, her gaze distant as she continued. "Scouting missions came next. At first, I was terrified. Slipping through forests in the dead of night, listening to stranger's plot gods-know-what in the shadows of taverns. One wrong step, one creak of a floorboard, and I'd have been dead. But I learned. I was quick, quiet, and clever, and soon enough, I was the one they trusted to gather intel or deliver messages."
Her voice softened, a hint of warmth creeping in. "Over time, things changed. They stopped seeing me as a burden and started treating me like one of their own. They taught me how to sharpen a blade so fine it could split a hair, how to mend my own wounds when no healer was around, and how to read a person's intent just by watching their eyes. And the teasing—" She chuckled lightly, shaking her head. "That never stopped. They'd rib me about everything, from my size to the way I tied my hair back with scraps of cloth. But it wasn't mean-spirited. It was… brotherly."
She looked up, meeting the Alaric gaze, her expression uncharacteristically soft. "By the time I was sixteen, I could outdrink half the camp and beat a few of them in a fight. They became more than comrades. They were my family. Crude, scarred, morally questionable, but loyal. They gave me food, shelter, and purpose."
Her voice grew quieter, the words laced with an ache she tried to mask. "They weren't perfect. Hell, neither am I. But they were the only ones who ever gave me a chance. And for that, I'll always be grateful."
Donall nodded subtly, a faint glimmer of approval in his eyes.
"As for the kingdoms." Lysandra's expression hardened again. "I have no love for either. Eldren abandoned me, and Valtoria shunned me."
Garin's smirk had faded into a contemplative smile, but it was Prince Alaric who broke the silence, with a somber expression.
"Lysandra," he said, his voice quiet but steady, "I had no idea. I'm sorry you had to endure that, and I'm sorry my kingdom played a part in it."
Lysandra turned her head slowly to meet his gaze, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Sorry?" she repeated, her voice cool. "What exactly are you apologizing for, Your Highness? For the choices your father made in the war? For a prince of a father, I've never met abandoning me. Or for a noble family that treated me like a stain on their reputation?"
Alaric held his ground, his expression softening further. "I can't change what happened. But I can acknowledge that you didn't deserve any of it."
Lysandra's jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. She exhaled sharply, her voice low and cutting. "Don't mistake me for someone who wants your pity, Prince Alaric."
"It's not pity," Alaric said quickly, stepping closer. "It's respect. I admire what you've built,despite yourself."
But Lysandra didn't seem to hear him. She pushed her chair back abruptly, the legs scraping against the floor with a grating sound that made the nearby patron's glance over. "I don't need your respect, either," she said coldly, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. "You may be a prince, but you don't know me. And you sure as hell don't speak for me."
Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode toward the tavern door, her movements quick and deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath as the door creaked open and slammed shut behind her.
Kellan winced. "Well, that could've gone better."
Alaric stood frozen for a moment, his brow furrowed deeply, before he moved to follow her. "Excuse me," he murmured to the group, his tone distracted.
"Your Highness," Donall said, his voice a quiet warning. "Give her some space."
But Alaric shook his head, his expression resolute. "I can't leave it like this." With that, he strode after her, stepping out into the cool night air.
Outside, the tavern's glow faded into the quiet hum of the village. Alaric spotted Lysandra a few paces ahead, her figure barely illuminated by the faint light spilling from the moon above. She walked with purpose, her shoulders stiff, her movements sharp.
"Lysandra!" Alaric called, his voice carrying across the stillness.
She didn't stop, her pace quickening as if to escape his words.
"Lysandra, wait!" he tried again, and this time, he reached her, his hand shooting out to catch hers.
The sudden contact made her stop dead in her tracks, her body tensing as if bracing for a fight. She spun around sharply, her cloak flaring slightly with the motion. Her sharp gaze locked onto his, her eyes fierce and unyielding, like twin daggers daring him to explain himself. Her breath came quick and shallow, though she masked it as best as she could, willing herself not to show the sudden jolt his touch had sent through her.
For a moment, neither spoke, the silence thick and charged between them. Alaric's grip on her hand was firm but not forceful, his calloused fingers pressing into hers just enough to remind her that he wasn't letting go—not yet. Lysandra's heart thundered in her chest, a rhythm she hated herself for acknowledging.
There was a flicker, just a flicker, of something she couldn't control—a fleeting blush that crept across her cheeks like a thief in the night. It was the kind of vulnerability she couldn't afford, the kind that infuriated her because it was real. And he saw it. She knew he saw it.
Her jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line for a fraction of a second before she mastered herself again. The mask snapped back into place, her expression as cold and cutting as a freshly honed blade.
Her voice, when it came, was low and clipped, every word a calculated strike meant to keep him at bay. "What do you want, Alaric?"
Her use of his name caught him off guard, the sound of it slipping from her lips for the first time. It was disarming in its simplicity, intimate in a way he wasn't prepared for.
Still, he held onto her hand, his fingers curling around hers with a grip that was firm but careful, as if he feared holding on too tightly might shatter the fragile moment between them. Her skin was colder than he expected, a contrast to the fiery intensity in her eyes, but he didn't let go.
"I didn't mean to upset you," he began, his voice steady but low, every word deliberate. There was no room for his usual charm or diplomacy here; he needed her to hear him, to understand he wasn't playing games. His thumb brushed her knuckles—an unconscious gesture, an attempt to anchor her to the moment, to him.
"If I said anything to offend—"
"You didn't offend me," she cut in, her voice sharp as a blade, slicing through his words with precision. Yet even as she spoke, her actions betrayed her. With a sudden, forceful motion, she yanked her hand from his grasp, as if his touch burned her, as if the connection between them was too much to bear. Her movements were deliberate, but the tension in her jaw and the way her fingers curled into a fist at her side told another story—one she didn't want him to read.
Her sharp gaze pinned him in place, her eyes filled with a mix of defiance and something far more complicated. She stepped back, putting distance between them, her posture rigid and defensive. When she spoke again, her voice dripped with disdain, each word heavy with accusation.
"You just don't get it," she said, her tone growing colder with every syllable. Her eyes flicked over him, taking in the fine edges of his cloak, the subtle gleam of the crest on his tunic, the ease with which he carried himself—as if the weight of the world could never truly touch him. Her lips curled into a bitter smirk, but there was no humor in it. "You stand there with your kind words, but you'll never understand."
Her words were a blade, cutting deep, but Alaric didn't flinch. His expression softened, his voice steady. "You're right. I don't understand what that's like. But that doesn't mean I don't care."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Care? Why? Because I'm some tragic story to you? Another soul to feel sorry for? Save it, Alaric. I've made my peace with my past. I don't need anyone else to make it for me."
He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking as his eyes searched hers with a rare intensity. His voice was steady, each word deliberate and unyielding. "It's not pity," he said firmly, as if daring her to challenge the sincerity in his tone. "It's admiration. You've survived things that would've broken most people. That deserves respect, Lysandra—not because of what you've been through, but because of who you are despite it."
For a heartbeat, her defenses wavered. Her shoulders, so rigid moments before, slumped slightly, and her gaze flickered, betraying a hint of vulnerability. His words struck something deep, a buried wound she hadn't expected him to touch. But just as quickly as the crack appeared, she sealed it shut. Her chin lifted, and her sharp glare returned, reinforced by a fresh surge of anger.
"Respect?" she echoed, the word dripping with mockery. A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "You think respect fixes anything? That saying a few kind words undoes the years of pain like it was nothing?" Her voice rose, her frustration palpable, like a storm threatening to break.
Alaric sighed, dragging a hand through his golden locks, his exasperation clear. "I'm not trying to fix anything," he said, his tone softening as he took a half-step back, giving her space. "I just… I wanted you to know that I see you, Lysandra."
For a fleeting moment, her gaze softened, a glimmer of something unspoken passing between them. But then the wall came back up, higher and thicker than before. Her expression hardened, her jaw set with stubborn resolve. "You don't see me, Alaric," she said quietly, her voice carrying an edge of something heavier than anger—disappointment, perhaps, or resignation. "You probably never will."
Before he could respond, she turned sharply on her heel, her cloak billowing behind her as she strode away. Her footsteps echoed sharply against the cobblestones, her retreat purposeful and unrelenting.
Alaric stood frozen in place, the chill of the night air biting against his skin as he watched her figure fade into the shadows. His chest tightened with frustration and regret, her words replaying in his mind, each one cutting deeper than he'd anticipated.
He let out a heavy sigh, his breath visible in the cold as he finally turned back toward the tavern.