The gates of Harshaw groaned as they opened—an iron maw parting to reveal the well-kept stone streets of the independent village nestled within Dragonsvale. Its walls, while not as grand as those of the capital, stood strong and firm, patrolled by a small but vigilant guard. Banners of deep blue and gold flapped gently in the breeze, adorned with the dragon-headed lion sigil of Harshaw.
Lance led the Dragonsvale party forward, his dark cloak fluttering slightly behind him. Axel, Rowan, and Seraphina rode behind, followed by the remaining army and the weary group of civilians. The long march showed in their eyes—haunted, hollow, and tired. But for the first time in what felt like ages, there was safety ahead. No enemy. No screaming. No blood in the mud. Just solid stone and the smell of baked bread from somewhere deep within the city.
From the gate, two horses approached. At their head was a broad-shouldered man with a sharp, trimmed beard streaked with gray and steel. Gregory the Second, High Regent of Harshaw. He wore layered velvet in emerald green, a ceremonial sword resting against his hip. His face, etched with age and ambition, held a courteous smile that never quite reached his cold eyes.
Beside him rode Christian, tall and sharply dressed in a navy riding coat with silver trim. His blonde hair curled slightly, eyes light hazel and keen with curiosity. There was a confidence to him, but not arrogance. A kindness that lit his face when he met others. His smile was genuine, and even from a distance, Seraphina tilted her head.
Lance urged his horse forward, breaking from the group. Gregory mirrored him until the two men halted face-to-face, horses pawing at the cobbled road beneath them.
Lance gave a brief nod. "High Regent Gregory. I assume you know why we've come."
"Of course," Gregory said with a practiced elegance. "And I'd be happy to offer your people Harshaw's shelter."
Lance allowed himself a small, grateful smile. But he knew it wasn't so simple.
Gregory's mouth curved a little higher, eyes glinting. "But it will come at some kind of cost, naturally."
"I assumed as much," Lance said, tone steady.
Gregory raised a hand lightly. "Nothing too brutal. We'll speak of it in the Great House. Today, your first stay is free. Rest, eat, breathe again. Tomorrow we speak politics."
Lance gave a shallow bow from his saddle. "Thank you. We'll take your hospitality gladly."
Gregory turned his horse slightly and motioned. "Come. Let Harshaw welcome Dragonsvale."
The gates fully opened, and the army entered.
At first glance, Harshaw gleamed. The streets were clean. Children ran between buildings, laughter echoing in the air. Market stalls lined the main road, filled with colorful produce and bright linens. Homes were cobbled and painted in soft whites and blues, tiled roofs stacked cleanly in rows. Civilians bowed respectfully or clapped politely as the tired masses entered. Music played faintly from a nearby square. All seemed… perfect.
But Rowan, riding just behind Lance, narrowed his eyes. He looked left and right, watching the people smile, watching the guards wave. All of it was too clean. Too rehearsed. He leaned toward Axel. "You see it?"
Axel grunted. "See what?"
"The ones clapping? They ain't the poor. They're dressed too nice. Where's the struggling lot? The ones who'd be out here really cheering for food and safety?" Rowan muttered.
Axel's brows furrowed, but he said nothing more.
As they moved deeper, Gregory rode alongside Lance and began pointing out structures.
"That there is the Stone Chapel. Built two hundred years ago. Still stands strong," Gregory said. "Over there, the Silver Market. You'll find traders from across the realm—fine goods, even a blacksmith still working with western steel."
Christian rode beside Seraphina, his posture relaxed but proper. "And beyond that wall, there's the Green Ring—a private garden, mostly for nobles, but… perhaps I could sneak a guest or two in."
Seraphina laughed lightly. "You'd risk scandal for me?"
Christian looked her up and down with mock solemnity. "I think I'd risk a great deal more than that."
She brushed her hair over her ear, slightly flushed. "A man of danger then?"
"Only in the best ways," he replied, flashing a grin.
Behind them, the army trudged forward. The civilians walked in silence, most too stunned to speak. Some wept quietly at the sight of safety. Others simply looked around, confused by the lack of desperation. It was almost too nice. Too untouched by the world's fire.
Gregory continued to gesture as they passed through wide streets.
"To the left, you'll see the Barracks. We'll quarter your men there for now. Your civilians will stay in the inner court housing—open rooms for families, basic supplies already waiting. Christian?"
"Yes, Uncle," Christian said.
"Ensure the quartermaster sees to it. No shortages."
"Of course."
Lance nodded slowly. "You've prepared well."
"Harshaw does not flinch at war," Gregory said smoothly.
But Rowan, still watching, muttered under his breath, "No, it just hides from it well."
Lance's horse stepped up beside Christian's again, and Seraphina matched them. She smiled at Christian.
"You always been this charming?" she asked.
Christian grinned. "Only when I'm trying very hard."
"Oh? So this is your best effort?"
Christian smirked. "Not yet. You'll know when it is."
Lance rolled his eyes slightly and pressed forward. He was grateful for the levity but couldn't allow himself to enjoy it just yet.
As they neared the Great House, the grand structure loomed over the street. A massive stone palace, arched and gilded at the top with banners fluttering on either side. It looked like a relic of another age—beautiful, stoic, and unfeeling.
Gregory dismounted and gestured for Lance to do the same.
"Your people will be housed, your soldiers fed. Rest today. Tomorrow, we speak like kings."
Lance dismounted and met Gregory's eyes. "If tomorrow we speak like kings… I hope we eat like friends."
Gregory smiled again—but there was something behind it. A flicker. A twitch.
"We'll see, my boy. We'll see."
---
Harshaw had fallen into a rare hush.
Most of the citizens and soldiers of Dragonsvale were resting—some sprawled across bedrolls in the central plaza, others finding corners of peace within the borrowed halls and homes of the Harshaw people. For the first time in weeks, they were not under immediate threat. No alarms. No cries. Just quiet. It wasn't sleep they found, not exactly, but stillness.
Except for Seraphina.
The young princess wandered the outer edges of the Great House, her blonde hair tied back in a loose braid, her emerald eyes catching the last of the day's warmth as the sun dipped behind Harshaw's distant ridges. Her light armor had been exchanged for a simple tunic and breeches, the clothes of someone finally free to breathe. It was Christian who met her near the gardens.
He approached with a gentle smile and hands behind his back, dressed in a soft blue doublet trimmed in white, his blonde curls a little tousled from the wind. His light Hazel eyes lit up when he saw her.
"Out for an evening stroll, Princess?"
She turned and smiled faintly. "No more titles tonight, Christian. I'm Seraphina."
He gave a playful bow. "Then I'm honored, Seraphina. Would you mind some company?"
"Only if you're interesting."
"Lucky for you, I'm extremely so."
They began walking together through the stone-paved lanes of Harshaw. Despite being smaller than Dragonsvale, the city had charm. Its buildings were tall, close-knit, made of dark timber and blue-gray stone. Wooden balconies overflowed with potted herbs, and laughter could occasionally be heard behind shuttered windows. On the surface, Harshaw was thriving—though Seraphina, observant and sharp as always, noticed too many closed shops, too many guards keeping watch, and too few smiling faces.
But Christian filled the silence with light.
"Favorite food?" he asked, hands tucked into his belt.
She arched a brow. "That's your first question?"
"Essential information. I take my dining partners very seriously."
"Fine," she said. "Roasted squash with honey glaze. And yours?"
"Spiced duck legs," he said. "Crispy skin, tender meat. We have some tonight, if you'll let me treat you."
So he did.
They stopped by a small kitchen run by an elderly woman who greeted Christian warmly. Soon, they sat at a bench beneath a flowering cherry tree, sharing roasted squash and duck over flatbread. Christian cracked jokes about his cousins and mocked his own noble education, while Seraphina told stories of growing up in Dragonsvale—particularly her skill at sneaking pastries from the kitchens unnoticed.
It was laughter they shared. Not duty.
As night deepened, they drifted toward the highest rise of Harshaw, where the Great House loomed, its windows lit like stars. They settled at a low stone wall overlooking the rooftops, the wide sky spilling stars overhead. No torches. No guards. Just them.
Seraphina exhaled slowly. "The stars look different here."
"How so?"
"They feel closer. Like if I reached out, I could touch them."
Christian leaned back on his elbows. "Maybe in Harshaw, the stars get lonely too."
She glanced at him, amused. "You're poetic for a noble."
"Don't tell anyone. I've got a reputation to uphold."
A silence passed. Seraphina's smile faded just slightly.
"Christian," she said quietly, "Do you know what happened to Dragonsvale?"
He looked to her, the humor falling away. "Only the rumors. That Alexander—"
"He killed both our parents," she said, voice low but steady. "King Julian and Queen Elaria. And he nearly killed Lance, Rowan... me."
His brows furrowed. "Did he want the throne? Dragonsvale is the strongest kingdom on the western side."
She shook her head. "That was a benefit. Not the reason. Lance says he just wants to make our people suffer."
Christian frowned. "What kind of man would want that?"
"One who never knew peace," she said. "He was sent to war at eight. Eight. Thrown into one of the bloodiest campaigns our kingdom ever fought. He survived twelve years in blood and horror. My father… he was cruel. Part of me hates him for it."
Her voice cracked at the end. She looked down, a single tear sliding along her cheek.
Without hesitation, Christian took her hand.
"Let's not talk about it anymore," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
She looked up, eyes glossy.
He stood, pulling her hand gently. "I have an idea."
They walked swiftly down toward a training yard tucked between two large barracks. Torches still burned along the fence, casting golden light over racks of weapons and straw dummies. Christian let go of her hand only to lift a wooden sword from the rack.
He tossed another to her.
She caught it mid-air, grinning. "You read minds now?"
"No," he said. "Just had a feeling you liked men who could hold their own."
"Lucky guess."
They circled each other on the sand. She jabbed first. He dodged and responded with a sweeping arc. She parried and kicked his knee, spinning him around. He laughed. They moved faster, wood cracking on wood. She feinted left, rolled under his blade, and tapped his thigh.
"Point to me," she teased.
"Beginner's luck."
The duel turned into a game. She spun her sword like a dancer; he countered with theatrical moves of his own. At one point, he shouted, "Surrender, foul princess!" only for her to leap forward and pin him back.
He tackled her a moment later, rolling through the sand until they stopped, breathless and laughing. She landed on top, straddling him, her sword pressed lightly against his chest.
Her hair fell around them like a veil. Their laughter faded.
Their eyes met. Neither moved. The torchlight flickered across their faces, soft and golden. Christian reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
She didn't pull away.
And then, quietly, he leaned up, and she leaned down, their lips meeting in a gentle, unsure kiss—the kind that carries a promise, not passion. Not yet.
The stars watched them. And in that moment, Harshaw felt a little less wounded.