Somewhere in the East

  The battlefield reeked of iron and death.

  Smoke curled from scorched earth. Broken weapons littered the ground like grave markers. The monster horde's final battalion lay scattered across the valley—hundreds of corpses, twisted and still.

  At the center of it all stood a single knight.

  Sir Alec Veyron's silver armor was painted red. Blood dripped from his gauntlets in steady rhythm—drip, drip, drip—like a metronome counting the dead. His sword hung loose in his grip, tip resting against the ground, carving a thin line in the mud.

  The last enemy commander staggered backward, sword trembling in his hands.

  "Monster," the man gasped. "You're a monster."

  Alec's golden eyes were empty. Distant. As if he were looking through the man rather than at him.

  "Perhaps."

  He moved.

  One step. Faster than the eye could follow.

  His blade flashed silver-red in the dying light.

  The commander's sword clattered to the ground. The man followed, hand clutching at the precise wound through his chest plate.

  "This will be your final breath," Alec said quietly.

  Not a threat. A statement of fact.

  The commander collapsed.

  Silence fell across the battlefield like a burial shroud.

  Alec stood motionless, sword still extended, blood running down the blade in dark rivulets. Around him, bodies stretched to the horizon. His enemies. All of them.

  Three hundred soldiers.

  One knight.

  The setting sun cast his shadow long across the corpses—a dark silhouette that looked less like a man and more like death itself.

  He exhaled slowly. The battle haze faded from his eyes, leaving only exhaustion.

  And emptiness.

  Somewhere in the distance, a raven cried.

  The war was over.

  Alec Veyron stood alone in the carnage, untouched except for the blood that wasn't his, and felt nothing at all.

  ***

  Three days later, Alec knelt before a golden throne in a palace of white marble and blinding sunlight.

  The throne room was vast and cold despite the light. Pillars of pale stone reached toward vaulted ceilings painted with scenes of conquest. Every surface gleamed—polished, perfect, inhuman in its beauty.

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  And on the throne sat a king who matched it. The king of the West Aaron Eckel.

  He was young—impossibly young for the power he wielded. Golden hair fell in perfect waves to his shoulders, catching the light like spun silk. His features were sharp and aristocratic: high cheekbones, a straight nose, lips that curved naturally into something between a smile and a smirk.

  But it was his eyes that commanded the room.

  Red. Deep crimson.

  The King leaned back in his throne with casual grace, one leg crossed over the other, fingers drumming against the armrest in a lazy rhythm.

  "Well done, my knight." His voice was smooth as honey. "You've proven yourself worthy beyond all expectations."

  Alec's head remained bowed. "I serve at the Crown's will."

  "Do you?" The King's smile widened slightly. Amused. "How fortunate for me."

  He rose from his throne in one fluid motion, descending the steps with the unhurried confidence of a predator that knew nothing could threaten it. His crimson robes trailed behind him like spilled blood.

  He stopped directly in front of Alec.

  "Are you ready for your next assignment then?"

  "Of course, Your Highness."

  The King tilted his head, studying Alec's bowed form with those burning red eyes. Then he smiled—a real smile this time, full of teeth and terrible satisfaction.

  "Then we should get the show started."

  Alec's jaw tightened imperceptibly.

  The King noticed. His smile grew sharper.

  "Rise, my Hero. You have a performance to give."

  ***

  The Western Palace

  A ripple of whispers passed between the maids.

  "Did you hear?"

  "The Hero is coming to visit our palace."

  Estelle stood with Francesca and her stepmother in the throne room, summoned by their father. The Queen's face was bright with anticipation. Francesca practically vibrated with excitement.

  Estelle looked at her hands, her palm still a bit red from yesterday.

  The King entered—tall, imposing, his presence filling the vast chamber.

  "Hello, my dear. My lovely daughters."

  They curtsied in unison.

  "As you've heard, we will be hosting a very special guest. Sir Alec Veyron, Hero of the East." He smiled but it didn't meet his eyes.

  "Alec has defeated the monster hordes that plagued our eastern borders and saved countless lives. The ceremony will be held in three days. Please prepare your finest attire."

  Francesca's eyes gleamed.

  "And... Estelle, please stay behind."

  The room went still.

  Francesca's head snapped toward her. The Queen's lips thinned.

  "The rest of you may go."

  Francesca left with a glare. The Queen followed, her steps sharp against marble.

  When the doors closed, the King descended from his throne.

  Estelle kept her head bowed.

  "I heard about the incident with the maid and your sister" he said quietly.

  Estelle's throat closed. "Father. I—"

  "And about the roses."

  She looked up, startled.

  The King reached into his pocket and pulled out something small. A packet of seeds.

  Pink rose seeds.

  "I had these sent from the royal gardens in the North." He placed them in her trembling hands. "I hope they can be planted properly."

  Estelle stared at the seeds. Her vision blurred.

  "Father..."

  "Your stepmother is going through a difficult time." His voice was gentle but firm. "And your older sister... please give them patience. For my sake."

  He meant Francesca. He meant the Queen.

  He was asking her to endure.

  Estelle's fingers closed around the seeds. "I will. Thank you, Father."

  She curtsied and left before the tears could fall.

  ***

  The greenhouse was warm with afternoon sun.

  Estelle knelt in the soil, the seed packet open beside her. Her hands worked carefully, creating small holes in the prepared earth.

  Each seed she planted felt like a promise. Like hope.

  "Look at her. The audacity."

  Francesca's voice drifted from outside the greenhouse. She was standing with another noble woman staring at Estelle.

  "Princess, perhaps you should say something?"

  "No." Francesca's voice was dismissive. "I don't have time for petty things like her. Tomorrow's ceremony is far more important."

  "Yes, indeed!" Another noble lady giggled. "Did you hear about the knight? They say he's a dream. Deadly in war, but charming otherwise."

  "Gentle and handsome," the first lady sighed. "Though he's a commoner, isn't he?"

  "Who cares about that if he's handsome?"

  "I met him once, actually. At a ball in the East. He escorted me up the steps—so gracious!"

  "I can't wait to meet him," Francesca said, her voice warm with anticipation.

  Their chatter faded as they walked away.

  Estelle pressed the last seed into the soil. Covered it gently.

  She smiled.

  Let them have their hero. She had her roses.

  End of Chapter 4