Outside the grand stone arches of Miravalia's palace, The Golden Citadel, Stanley stepped into the warm light of the courtyard, his newly minted status as a probationary Hit Mage weighing heavier than any medal. The stone beneath his boots emitted the heat of early afternoon, but it was nothing compared to the warmth that stirred inside him—somewhere between pride and unease.
He didn't linger on the victory. As soon as he passed the palace gates, his steps veered instinctively toward a small home nestled in the outskirts of the mage district. A simple place, hidden behind a thick wall of old maple trees, where sword marks scarred the wood and every tile on the roof could tell tales of duels fought and lessons learned.
Sir Joseph opened the door before Stanley even knocked.
"Stanley Ardo," Joseph said, and his stern face cracked into a grin that could split stone. "The boy returns a man."
Stanley managed a half smile. "I hope I returned better than I left."
"You returned alive." Joseph stepped aside to let him in, eyes twinkling. "And from what I heard, you returned having swallowed lightning and spat it back out."
Inside, the scent of oils and scorched metal clung to the walls—Joseph had clearly been sharpening blades again, as he often did when anxious.
"You watched?" Stanley asked.
"I did more than that," the older man said, tossing a cloth onto a chair. "I nearly snapped the edge off my blade the moment I saw you take that hit. For a second, I thought I'd lost you."
"But I didn't fall," Stanley said.
"No, you stood. You did more than stand—you danced through stormfire, boy. You humbled Dara, a boy who's been training since before he could crawl. Your father nearly bit his tongue and your king rose from his throne. You honored me."
There was silence between them, but the kind that wrapped around you like a thick cloak—not uncomfortable, just heavy with meaning.
"I still don't feel like I deserve it," Stanley confessed, voice low.
Joseph stepped closer, placed a hand on Stanley's shoulder. "Power is like a blade, Stanley. It doesn't matter how beautiful it is—what matters is who you choose to draw it for. And,you drew that sword for your brother. There's no better reason for drawing a sword than to protect or fight for someone you love. Just so you know... You've been handed a weapon most men would burn kingdoms for. You're allowed to feel uncertain. But you're not allowed to waste it."
•••
Meanwhile, back at the palace, the winds shifted—both literally and politically.
The throne room, earlier echoing with silent cheers of promise and honor, now stood shadowed by tension. King Ryler Owen had returned from granting blessings to the victors, only to find a letter bearing the seal of Everia's ruling house placed with calculated care upon his throne.
It had been meant for show. And it delivered its message with venom-laced clarity.
Soon enough, King Justin of Everia himself entered, draped in silks dyed in storm-colored blue, his brow high and his lips curled into the faintest smile of entitlement.
"Your Majesty," Justin said, "let us speak plainly. I am here not merely as a guest—but as a guardian of opportunity. You have a daughter; I have a son. A union between them could cement peace between our nations."
Ryler remained seated, fingers steepled before his mouth. "Everia has not sought peace in three generations. You ask for a marriage, but your armies are already moving."
Justin chuckled. "Always so sharp. Yes, they are moving. As of dawn, our soldiers have seamlessly replaced your royal guard in the capital. No blades were drawn, no blood spilled—yet."
A sharp inhale swept the chamber. A few of Ryler's attendants dared to reach for their weapons, only to realize they were surrounded—Everian soldiers, hidden in plain sight, now stood at every corner of the palace hall.
"I ask you again," Justin said, voice calm as still water before a storm. "Marry your daughter to my son. Or I'll unleash a fire that not even your Eye of a God can foresee fully."
Ryler's jaw tightened. That once mighty power—the Eye—was no longer whole. He saw fragments. Echoes. Not enough to shift fate, only to dread it.
"What you're doing," Ryler said slowly, "is not diplomacy. It's desecration. My daughter is not a bargaining chip."
"Your daughter," Justin countered, "is the last thread keeping your city from ruin."
Lord Derek Ardo entered. His aura was something to talk about. Face stern, fist clenched. King Ryler Owen's courage doubled immediately. He tore the letter and walked to his throne as Derek followed him, just like a bodyguard would.
"Oh, Justin!" Ryler exhaled. "If I wanted war, all I have to do is raise a hand and all of your soldier get burned. You don't want that, do you?"
King Justin of Everia smiled. He wasn't shaken, not even slightly.
"I could make my Army trample upon your nation, but there'll be casualties and I don't want that. But, neither am I using my daughter as a bargaining chip. So, what shall we do?" Ryler smiled.
The situation isn't smiling and doesnt call for any form of joy, he must be so sure of something that it made him smile. He mustn't do anything that would jeopardize his kingdom's status in the realm. Justin thought. "We can as well settle this in the old fashion way. Just know, Jopak County is taken by my soldiers. If you dare to deploy —even the smallest — unit of soldiers or your so-called mages, I'll have them burn the town down, enslave the men and kill the women and children." Justin turned around and left.
Both the King and the King's Arm just stood there as the Everian soldiers followed their king.
•••
The throne chamber fell into silence the moment King Justin of Everia departed, his threats still hanging in the air like the scent of smoke after fire. King Ryler Owen remained seated on the silver-crested throne, his features carved in stone, his mind already churning. Below the dais, Derek moved forward with steely resolve.
Without hesitation, Derek's voice rang out. "All soldiers present — by royal command, what occurred in this chamber does not leave these walls. Not to kin. Not to comrades. Not even to your own thoughts in prayer. Understood?"
A chorus of solemn acknowledgments followed. The guards and royal aides bowed low, and one by one, exited through the tall doors. The chamber doors closed with a resounding echo, locking away the moment from the rest of the world.
Only when they were alone did Ryler finally speak, his voice low and edged with contempt. "He walks into Eldor, into my hall, and dares to offer my daughter as tribute? Evelyn is not some token to be bartered."
Derek remained still, his arms folded behind his back. "This was never about alliance, Ryler. It was a performance. He wanted you angry. He wants a war he can claim was forced upon him."
Ryler exhaled through his nose, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Then let him light the fire, and may he choke on the smoke of it."
Derek allowed a brief silence before responding. "Not yet. Not with the Mage Ceremony very few days away. The people expect peace. They deserve peace—at least until the festival ends."
The king slowly nodded, pacing down from the throne. His cloak trailed behind him like a shadow caught in thought. "You're right. Let the Realm believe nothing stirs. Let Evelyn smile. Let the new mages be honored without a whisper of war in the wind... At least till the ceremony ends."
Derek met him at the base of the steps. "When the celebration ends, if Everia still demands the old way... I'll answer."
Ryler stopped in front of him, measuring him. "You're prepared to stand as Miravalia's blade —as my blade — yet again?"
"If I must. It has always been an honor," Derek said, his eyes hard. "If he's looking for a demonstration of strength, then I'll show him the kind that shaped Miravalia from myth. Let Justin bring fire. I'll meet him with storm."
A quiet understanding passed between them. Ryler placed a hand on Derek's shoulder, his voice quiet but unwavering.
"Then so it shall be. You'll stand for all of us, brethren. As you always have."
The throne chamber fell into silence once more, but this time it was the silence before a blade is drawn.