Clayton followed closely behind the Elite knight as they descended into a small, dim chamber. The stale air was thick with dust and dampness, swirling like a fog that clung to everything. This was the storage room for confiscated items—things taken from travelers arrested or killed by the Holy Knights. But lately, it had seen little use. No serious trouble had come to this quiet town in years. Travelers passed through without incident, or if trouble arose, it was little more than chasing away drunken fools or a pack of wolves.
Panagiot's heavy boots echoed against the stone floor as he strode forward, dwarfing Clayton with his massive frame. Even crouched low to search, the Elite knight's presence was overwhelming—a living mountain of black steel and cold authority. His helmet's dark visor hid his eyes, but Clayton felt their piercing gaze as if it cut right through him.
Panagiot reached out and crushed the rusted lock on a dusty chest as if it were a twig. A harsh, metallic clang shattered the silence, sending a cloud of dust swirling into the air.
"Why has no one cleaned this place?" Panagiot's deep voice rumbled, barely muffled by his helmet. "A chamber like this should never be left to rot."
Clayton swallowed and kept his gaze fixed on the wall. "I... I don't have a respectable answer for that, sir."
The Elite knight straightened up and turned slowly to face him. His sheer size made Clayton feel small and fragile, like a child standing before a god of war.
"Relax. You don't have to be so formal with me. It's just you and me down here."
Clayton blinked in surprise but loosened his stance. His muscles released their tension as Panagiot's voice softened slightly, though it still carried the weight of command.
"Look at me, boy."
Clayton's eyes rose to meet the shadowed gaze behind the visor. It was a gaze that didn't waver, steady and sharp like a blade honed by countless battles. Staring into it, Clayton felt the same primal unease he had faced when battling the monstrous Gultonk the night before.
"You killed the Gultonk, didn't you?" Panagiot asked, folding his arms across his chest like an immovable fortress.
Clayton swallowed hard, the lump in his throat tightening. "Yes, sir."
"How does a man your size kill such a beast alone?"
Clayton's pride faltered beneath the question, shame washing over him. "I didn't do it alone, sir. The stranger from the tavern—he wounded it. I finished the job."
Panagiot began pacing slowly, the weight of his armor shifting with each deliberate step. "If he was strong enough to wound it, why didn't he kill it?"
Clayton held his gaze forward. "He wanted to speak to it first. He said—"
Panagiot nodded knowingly. "And you took his sword and cut the Gultonk in half?"
"I used the stranger's sword, yes, and I cut it in half myself."
Panagiot stopped abruptly, towering over Clayton as if to remind him who held power here. "An impressive feat. But not the whole story, is it?"
Clayton's throat tightened again. "No, sir."
Leaning in until his helmet nearly brushed Clayton's face, Panagiot's voice dropped to a low, menacing whisper.
"I examined the beast afterward. Found the broken blade of a holy knight embedded deep in its skull. One piece still lodged inside."
He knelt beside the chest and continued in that cold tone. "It's remarkable that you could do so much damage to a creature like that, armed only with a simple sword and alone."
For the first time since meeting Panagiot, Clayton's pride began to swell. The Elite's intimidating presence didn't completely smother the spark of hope in him.
"Thank you, sir."
Panagiot straightened and gave a curt nod. "You're far too valuable to remain here. You'll be sent back to the capital for advanced proper training. This backwater town has grown soft, and so have its knights."
Clayton found himself nodding in agreement. Much had changed since he'd first joined the Holy Knights. Discipline had slipped, and laziness crept in among his comrades.
"But," Panagiot's voice hardened, "that weakness ends now. Umar will no longer suffer disrespect from foul creatures."
A cold shiver ran through Clayton, a whisper of doubt hidden beneath the excitement.
Panagiot bent over the chest again, rummaging through its depths with surprising speed. His massive hands brushed aside old papers and broken trinkets until he found what he sought.
"Here it is." His voice carried a dark, almost playful tone as he held up a small metal badge.
The crest of Umar shone brightly—a ruby set amid golden wings.
"This medal honors your courage and valor against our enemies."
Clayton snapped to attention, eyes burning with pride. "Thank you, sir, but my loyalty to Umar is reward enough."
A chilling chuckle escaped from beneath Panagiot's helmet. "That's the right answer for a young knight. You continue to impress."
Suddenly, with a brutal twist, Panagiot snapped the medal in two.
Clayton's brow furrowed in confusion.
The Elite tossed one half aside like a worthless token and turned back to the chest. From beneath the purple cloth wrapping, he drew out a large, ancient book.
Without warning, Panagiot pushed past Clayton, nearly knocking him off balance. The speed and force of the movement were startling, even at a slow pace.
"Come. We have work to do with the stranger."
Clayton hurried after the looming figure, curiosity and apprehension battling inside him.
As they moved through the lower levels of the main office, the piercing cries of a child echoed above. The anguished wails reverberated through the stone walls, making Clayton's stomach twist in knots.
Panagiot glanced up without breaking stride.
"Don't mind the wailing," he said with a cold smirk. "That's the sound of a teaching moment."
Clayton swallowed hard, unsettled by the words.
Soon the screams faded, replaced by heavy grunts and thuds.
They reached a heavy wooden door guarded by a single knight standing rigid at attention.
"Move."
Panagiot's voice was a command that brooked no refusal. The knight opened the door and then stepped aside, allowing them through, only to be knocked flat by a single blow from the massive Elite.
"I said move, not open the door."
The knight scrambled to his feet and snapped back to attention.
Panagiot and Clayton proceeded down a corridor lined with cells, the sound of blows landing hard carrying through the air.
With a snap of his fingers, Panagiot lit the torches along the hall, flooding the space with harsh light.
Clayton's eyes locked onto the cell where the savage beating was happening. Inside, two knights held Diomede up while two others pummeled him mercilessly.
His blood and sweat slicked armor glistened in the firelight, but his spirit seemed unbroken.
Across the way, Clayton caught a flicker of movement—a familiar shape.
The Nesfundur bard he had met the night before.
Panagiot's voice cut through the silence.
"I hope you're ready to give me what I want."
The knights stepped back, leaving Diomede bruised but defiant.
Panagiot unwrapped the ancient book, its cover creaking like a forgotten tomb, and smiled beneath his helmet—a grin filled with dark promise.