Sunset painted the sky in colors of slow farewell when I stood at the familiar castle gates. The towers seemed smaller than in childhood memories. Strange thing, memory: it magnifies what we've lost and diminishes what we've gained. The air carried the scent of freshly mown grass and distant hearth smoke.
"Long time no see, Loyn."
The voice sounded familiar—deep, like a bell tolling in foggy morning. I turned. Leont de Mortvel stood before me, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes twitched in a semblance of a smile.
"You've become a real knight after four years in knight's camp," he continued, and in his words rang that special warmth old warriors reserve for the young.
A knight? I looked at my hands—callused from the sword hilt, but still too small for real weapons.
"Me? Become a knight?" I smirked with a bitterness that comes too early. "I'm far from that title. I'm only twelve, and that title requires a soul tempered in the fires of life's battles."
Leont straightened, placing a heavy but warm hand on my shoulder:
"A knight is not just a title, Loyn. It's a man with a heart ablaze with bravery, a soul forged in the fire of honor, courage cast into every word. It's the pure gaze of mercy and an unyielding will, strong as sword steel and eternal as an oath."
Beautiful words. Too beautiful for this world, where knights sometimes sell out for a sack of gold. Only from Ser Leont's lips did they sound not like empty rhetoric, but like an ancient hymn.
"Those are very strong words," I said quietly. "I'm still just a little boy. Probably not ready to take on such a burden."
"Loyn, understand: strength isn't in age, but in your heart," Leont squeezed my shoulder slightly. "The most important thing is that you strive for it. Aspiration is already half the path."