Life is peaceful these days. 

The clash of steel, the high, precise hiss of arrows cutting the air, the sudden thunk when a dart finds its mark, these sounds have become the rhythm of my life. I have lived like this for almost five years, waking to training, to discipline, to the small satisfactions of a blade well wielded.

I am a son of the Viscount, born with two brothers and two sisters. My eldest sister was wed to Baron Cassian two winters past and now mothers three spirited sons. The first born is the Viscount now, and my other brother is assisting him with his duties.

My younger sister studies the soft arts of courtly life, learning etiquette and the patient craft of embroidery and tapestry. Her hands are always busy with silk and thread. She is far too young for my worries and yet she flourishes under her lessons, laughing easily and carrying herself with a calm focus that makes me proud.

I am twenty five now and I serve as a knight of the Seravale Kingdom. I am not interested in titles and positions the way other nobles are. I do not crave rank or ceremony. I love Seravale with the sort of fierce loyalty that leaves no room for vanity, and that is why I will always do what I can for my country.

Seravale is one of the most beautiful kingdoms, and it boasts the finest army in the region. After I finished my formal education I threw myself into sword training. I entered the palace as a foot soldier and I fought my way up. Promotion followed, and then the title of knight came to me.

I seek no further rank. Truly, I do not. I have forged unbreakable bonds with my comrades…brothers-in-arms who jest at my refusal to climb the ladder, calling me mad for choosing to serve beneath lesser-titled captains. They do not understand why I refuse to chase higher stations.

But I ask, what folly is that?

At one point my father wanted me to take over the duties. He urged me to find the best suitor and to marry, to secure the family line. For a time I set aside everything and entertained the idea. I attended balls and fulfilled the duties expected of a Viscount’s son. I learned the steps and the smiles. 

In the end I walked away and returned to the life I have now, because my heart belongs to the sword and to Seravale.

I am Draven Lancelot Nymstram.

House Nymstram is one of the oldest bloodlines in Seravale, sworn to serve the crown and country for generations untold. Like me, my forebears bore little fondness for titles and pomp.  But duty is a cruel mistress.  So, they took their oaths, sired heirs, and upheld the family name, whether they desired it or not.

House Nymstram is one of the Dragonborn Houses. I know not what that means, nor care to dig through dust-laden scrolls to find out. 

Let the past rest; I have battles to fight.

A sword whistles through the air, straight for my face.

I stand on the training field, refining my technique whilst putting a trainee  named Gilbert through his paces. Small lad. But gods help me, the strength he harbors is anything but.

He was stubborn, near belligerent, about training with me. Said he wished to test the measure of a noble-born knight, as though I stood here polished by privilege alone. He suspects I rose through ranks not by merit, but by the weight of my name.

Foolish child. Little does he know, I adore the blade. The bloodlust hums beneath my skin, even in a simple spar. I hate losing, be it a duel, a game, or a friendly wager. I was forged for this.

I twist my wrist, parry his blow clean, and grin. “Not bad, Gil,” I say, breath steady. “But you'll have to try harder than that.”

He staggers back a few paces, panting, face flushed. “Is that all you’ve got, Sir Draven?”

Ah. There it is. The taunt. Bold as brass and twice as irritating.

My eyes narrow. The brat’s trying to get under my skin and he’s not subtle about it either.

My comrades often say I’m too easygoing for a noble. Perhaps they’re right. Many of them earned their titles on the battlefield, proving their worth through valor and blade. I do not fault them for it. I have a lot of respect for them. They claim that I have to act like a noble sometimes. 

Hector, my closest companion, is like me. Son of a Count, second-born with no burden of legacy upon his shoulders, because he has an elder brother to carry everything, Just like mine.

When I vowed to join the army, he followed without hesitation. We rose through the ranks side by side. He too hails from an ancestral house. Another one from the Dragonborn families.

Our names carry strange weight, strangers still in pronunciation. Hector often curses his full title, Hector Lask Belxfinate. He says he can scarcely pronounce it sober, let alone in the presence of royalty.

“Lesson number one, Gil. Never underestimate your enemy just because you landed a first hit,” I state, sliding into a defensive stance.

I watch the way he grips his sword and annoyance pricks under my skin. His posture is basic. If he takes a long stance his hands should be wider so he can control the blade. 

His feet and body are mostly correct but his posture telegraphs a rightward swing. He is painfully predictable and it bores me. Hector would be a better match for a proper spar.

Gilbert is attempting deception. He leans toward me, trying to sell false confidence with posture and bravado.

I let out a slow breath and drop my height, then spring up. My left fist finds his neck with a clean, controlled punch that makes the wind pipe narrow or simply crush. But I don’t use that much force.

He freezes, breath stolen. His sword clatters to the ground as he sinks to his knees, clutching his throat with wide eyes.

I don’t bother offering pity.

“I barely touched you,” I murmur, circling him lazily. “Take deep breaths, and don’t drink water for the next hour. Also, learn to hold your sword before challenging me to spar again. Or a duel.”

I twirl my blade in a casual flourish. “I won’t mind killing you.”

I let the words land and spin the sword in my hand. Hector watches from the sidelines, amused and entertained by the match, the single light of amusement in his eyes.

Hector pushes himself off the post and strolls toward me, that damned smirk etched across his face as if he’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

“What?” I ask, still twirling my sword with idle ease.

“You truly cannot help yourself, can you?” he chuckles, shaking his head, he’s now looking like a disappointed mother hen.

“I’ve no idea what you’re on about.” I shrug, then toss my sword to the fellow knight in charge of the armory. He catches it without a word and walks off to stow it.

“Don’t play the stoic,” Hector says, the amusement still lacing his voice. “You knew he was no match for you. Yet you accepted the spar, disarmed him with your bare hand, and left him gasping on his knees. That’s humiliation for a knight, Drav, not instruction.”

“He questioned my worth,” I reply. “I merely answered.”

“You could’ve told him to stand down.”

I shake my head with a wry smile. “That lad’s got too much fire trapped in that skull of his. Someone needed to knock it loose before he got himself discharged. I’m doing the realm a favor, really. Tell me, Hector, am I not performing a public service?”

He lets out a low chuckle, his lips twitching. “Saint Draven, patron of humbling fools.”

Then his expression shifts, and I know what’s coming before the words even leave his mouth.

“When do you plan to visit home? I daresay your father grows ever more curious about your return. Especially if you come bearing a suitable match.”

A groan escapes me, dragged from the depths of my soul. “I’ve no desire for marriage. None whatsoever.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder like he’s about to bless me. “That’s the first I’ve heard of a man not interested in women.”

I shove his hand off with a scoff. “Correction. Not women. Just the institution. I’ve no intention of chaining myself to some delicate royal maiden who knows naught but embroidery, tapestry, and which key fits her lute.”

“You forgot something,” Hector adds, one brow arched.

I glance at him. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

“Her unwavering devotion to producing heirs.”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes clean out of my skull. “Of course. The sacred duty of breeding future legacy.”

He snorts with laughter. “But you do enjoy the process of baby-making, do you not, Drav?”

A grin tugs at my lips despite myself. “Well, I’ve never been one to say no to women, Hector.”

The banter between Hector and me refuses to die, much like a drunk bard who won’t take the hint. He starts teasing me again about taking concubines.

In Seravale, only the royal family and the Dragonborn Houses are permitted such… indulgences. The King, the Prince and ancient lineages like mine. A tradition, they say. An exception. Even the duke has no such privileges.

I’ve no desire to keep concubines. I’m quite content ending things after a single night. I take no pride in keeping women caged, battling for a man’s favor while their families barter them like spices at the market.

My elder brother—the current Viscount—has three concubines. But it’s purely for politics. Strategic bedding, nothing more. An endless competition where the prize is attention, and the currency is bloodline.

Only if a concubine bears a male heir can she hope to rise in status. Win the Lord’s favor and secure comfort. Otherwise, she remains right where she was placed until age or irrelevance swallows her whole.

Speaking of royal affairs... word spreads like wildfire that the Prince returns within the week.

He’s been studying in the distant and allied kingdom of Rhevenor for his higher tutelage after he conquered his title, all at the Queen’s unrelenting insistence. Now that he’s finished, the capital is aflame with anticipation. The palace readies for a grand celebration, and preparations are in full frenzy.

Naturally, I must attend. One of the many joys of being noble-born is dressing up and cramming into a ballroom filled with empty words and political smiles.

The worst part is dancing.

Women always swarm. Always asking and eyeing me like I’m next season’s best prospect.

And then there’s Hector, dancing with every hand offered, intentionally mixing signals and leaving chaos in his wake like it’s a sport.

He’s a different breed altogether.

When I say openly that I’ve no desire to wed, Hector waves it off like it’s a mild illness. He despises courting women. Sweet words, gentle smiles, pretending to be the perfect gentleman are not in his skillset.

But should a political alliance be arranged, he’d marry in a heartbeat. Duty over desire. He’d even take a few concubines if the opportunity arose, provided no one expected him to whisper sweet nothings or remember their birthdays.

As we walk off the training field, weapons sheathed, sweat clinging to us, he speaks without looking.

“Shall we visit the pleasure house tonight?”

I roll my eyes. “I’ve patrol duty.”

“Come now, Drav. It’s been ages. We need to breathe.”

I clap his back with a smirk. “Don’t drag our family names through the dirt just because your manhood is restless. But, of course,  we'll go this weekend. Behave until then.”

He groans, but relents.

I heard the echo of giggles. Just as I turned to glimpse the source, someone stumbled straight into Hector. A poor soul, indeed.

Hector loathes being touched without his consent, detests it as though the very act were a stain upon his honor. And truth be told, I’ve no notion how he’s been managing to bed anyone thus far without permitting a single touch. Perhaps he grants temporary clemency only when he’s in the mood.

His hand shoots out, seizing the arm of the clumsy intruder and yanking them back with ruthless precision.

It’s only then I see her face.

Seravale’s crown jewel, Princess Gisselle Montclair herself.

She lets out a sharp hiss in pain. I release an exasperated sigh and step forward, gripping Hector’s arm to loosen his hold.

“Hector, let her go.” He doesn’t even seem to register my voice.  Hector!” I snap, tightening my grip until his fingers finally unclasp with an angry scoff.

He releases her and looks at her as if she’s beneath his notice. I clear my throat and offer a respectful bow, speaking in my most courtly tone.

“Forgive us, Your Highness. He is not fond of being tou—”

But before I can finish, she cuts in. “So, he may assault a princess, and we call it a quirk?” she snaps, tilting her chin skyward in that perfect, noble arrogance.

I bite back the snarl curling in my throat. Why did she charge into him like a drunken squire if she’s going to act so high and mighty? Nobles. Forever believing the world spins solely for their benefit.

Perhaps she does not know who we are. No one with a shred of sense would dare address a member of the Dragonborn family in such a tone.

Too much arrogance for a girl wrapped in delusion. But then again, rank does come with its advantages, too. The unspoken privilege of impunity.

Still, I am wearing this knight’s cloak today. And until someone has the gall to drag this little dance into the courts, my hands remain tied.

“You’re the one who stumbled into him, Princess,” I say, eyes trained on her as I hold the line. “He merely acted in defense.”

Her gaze sharpens. Arms fold. “A knight dares correct a princess? Absurd.” Her attention turns to Hector. “Have you no manners? No reverence? Is this how your captain trains you, sir knight?”

Hector’s eyes are already rimmed red with fury. “Do you have the faintest idea who I am, Princess Gisselle?” he growls.

I pat his back in warning, to keep him in line. He’s a beast about to break its leash when someone gets on his nerves. “Hector, a simple apology won’t kill you.”

“I’ve nothing to apologize for,” he snarls.

I sigh again, longer this time, the sigh of a man standing at the edge of a battlefield with no sword.

Then comes the dagger.

“On your knees, and apologize,” she commands him coldly.

That’s when I snap.

“I beg your pardon, Princess,” I say, stepping between them.

“You too,” she points a jeweled finger at me.

Ah, now it’s getting good.

I may be the jovial sort. Lighthearted, even. But my pride runs as deep as the sea and twice as unyielding.

“What if I told you... I shall not, Princess?” I murmur with a smirk, slow and defiant, letting the silence stretch around us.