The days following the war council were filled with unease. Armies began their silent mobilization, messages traveled like arrows through enemy skies, and within the ancient walls of Ravencroft, every heartbeat sounded like a countdown.
Lucien stood on the training grounds, watching soldiers spar. His sharp eyes scanned every movement, every stance, every weakness. He wasn't just preparing them for battle—he was preparing himself.
Eiran joined him, dressed in worn armor, sword at his hip. "They're improving," he said, nodding toward the recruits.
Lucien didn't look at him. "They'll need to be better than good."
Eiran stepped closer. "So will we."
Lucien finally turned, a bitter smile on his lips. "I was a reader in my past life. Stories always made battles seem… noble. Glorious."
Eiran raised a brow. "And now?"
"Now I know," Lucien said, voice low, "that war is just another way to measure loss."
They were quiet for a while, the sounds of blades clashing behind them.
Then Eiran said softly, "What are you most afraid of?"
Lucien didn't hesitate. "Losing the man I've become. Losing you."
Eiran's hand found his. They didn't need grand declarations—this was enough.
---
That night, a secret meeting was held in the deepest part of the castle—the strategy vault. Maps lay spread like battle scars across the table, lit only by flickering lanterns.
"The King has moved troops to the eastern ridge," General Hale reported. "It's a message."
Lucien nodded. "He wants to divide our forces. Isolate the northern outposts."
"And it will work," said another general. "Unless we strike first."
Eiran interjected, "No. We don't spill blood unless we have to. Let them believe we're weak. Then we take back the ground they never expected us to defend."
There was a murmur of agreement.
Lucien laid a hand on the map. "We hit them with strategy, not swords."
As the council ended, Eiran lingered behind.
"You're different when you command," he said. "Colder. Stronger."
Lucien smirked. "Afraid?"
"No," Eiran said. "It's the man I believe in."
---
Later, they retreated to Lucien's chambers. Neither spoke as they stood near the fire.
Finally, Lucien broke the silence. "If we win this war…"
Eiran looked up. "When we win."
Lucien nodded slowly. "When we win—what then?"
Eiran stepped closer, close enough for their breath to mingle. "Then I'll ask you something I never thought I'd ask a Ravencroft."
Lucien's brow furrowed. "What?"
Eiran smiled faintly. "To stay."
Lucien's heart stilled, then thundered.
"I think I'd say yes."
No kiss. No embrace. Just a look that said everything.
But the night wasn't done.
A loud knock shattered the moment.
A guard's voice rang through the door: "My Lords, the eastern ridge—there's smoke."
Lucien's body tensed.
Eiran drew his sword. "It's started."
Lucien nodded. "Then we end it on our terms."
---
The eastern sky glowed with the angry red of rising fire.
Lucien stood at the edge of the ramparts, the wind whipping his dark cloak around him. His eyes narrowed as he saw the smoke spiraling upward from the far ridge—thick, black, and unmistakable.
They hadn't expected the enemy to move so soon.
"They're testing our defenses," said General Hale, approaching from behind. "Probing for weakness."
Lucien didn't turn. "Then we show them none."
Eiran joined them seconds later, his armor already strapped, sword at his side. His gaze moved from Lucien to the horizon. "How many troops do we have in the eastern watchtower?"
"Two hundred," Lucien said. "But they're trained."
"They won't hold without support," Eiran replied. "We need to send reinforcements. Now."
Lucien nodded. "You'll lead them."
Eiran blinked. "What?"
"You know the terrain," Lucien said. "You've trained with the soldiers. You're the best chance we have to buy time—and bring them home alive."
Eiran hesitated for a heartbeat, then gave a single nod. "Then I'll go."
Lucien stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Eiran could hear. "Be careful. I'm not ready to lose you."
Eiran's expression softened. "Then don't."
He reached out, gripping Lucien's hand briefly—just long enough to send a thousand emotions racing between them—before turning away.
---
The battlefield was chaos.
The ridge, once quiet and green, now smoldered beneath clouds of ash and blood. Soldiers clashed steel on steel, arrows flew in arcs, and cries of pain split the air.
Eiran rode at the front, commanding his division with sharp precision and relentless courage. Every command he gave was calculated. Every move designed to hold the line.
Behind him, Captain Rhys shouted, "More coming from the south!"
Eiran turned, eyes narrowing. The enemy had flanked them.
He drew his sword.
"Hold the line! Shields up!"
The soldiers rallied, forming ranks as Eiran moved to intercept the advancing wave himself.
Steel met steel. Sparks flew. The prince fought like a storm—graceful, violent, and unstoppable.
But even he couldn't be everywhere.
When the blast came—a flaming arrow striking the dry underbrush—the explosion knocked half the troops off their feet. Eiran's body hit the ground hard. Dazed, he tried to stand, his ears ringing.
A figure loomed over him, sword raised.
And then—
Steel intercepted steel.
Lucien.
He stood between Eiran and death, his blade locked against the enemy's.
"You shouldn't be here," Eiran rasped.
Lucien gritted his teeth, eyes wild. "Neither should you."
He shoved the attacker back and helped Eiran to his feet.
"You're reckless," Eiran muttered.
"And you're bleeding," Lucien shot back. "We'll argue later."
---
Together, they fought.
Side by side, Ravencroft and Eiran moved like shadow and flame—an unlikely alliance forged in fire. Their swords cut a path through the chaos, their presence rallying the troops.
Lucien had never fought like this before, but the old muscle memory of Ravencroft's body carried him forward. He wasn't just surviving—he was protecting.
Protecting him.
And as they stood back to back, fighting off wave after wave, Lucien felt it deep in his bones:
This was no longer about rewriting fate.
It was about choosing it.
---
The battle waned as reinforcements arrived from the west. The enemy pulled back, retreating into the trees. The ridge was scarred, but still theirs.
Atop the hill, Lucien and Eiran stood breathing hard, watching the smoke thin.
"We held it," Eiran said.
Lucien nodded. "Barely."
Eiran glanced at him. "You saved me."
Lucien turned. "You'd have done the same."
"I already did."
Their eyes locked.
And there, with the sky still smoldering and blood on their blades, Eiran reached for Lucien's hand and held it—not as an ally, not as a prince—but as something far more fragile. Far more real.
Lucien didn't let go.
Whatever war lay ahead, they would face it together.
---
To be continued...