By the time their plates were cleared and the last of the ale had settled warm in Dymitr's belly, the inn had begun to quiet. Laughter dulled into murmurs, dice stopped clattering on tabletops, and the hearth crackled low and steady, like a watchful thing settling in for the night.
Ser Don leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on the table, the other loosely holding his tankard. He studied Dymitr for a moment, not in the sharp way of judgment, but with a thoughtful calm that made Dymitr shift in his seat.
"Tell me," the old knight said at last, "do you have plans for tomorrow?"
Dymitr blinked. "T-tomorrow, Ser?" He thought of the road, of riding until dusk, of sleeping wherever night caught them. "I... no. No plans, Ser."
"Good."
The word landed heavier than Dymitr expected.
Ser Don leaned forward slightly. "Then tomorrow, I'll teach you."
Dymitr straightened at once. "Teach me, Ser?"
"In the morning," Ser Don continued, ticking off his fingers, "courtly etiquette. How to speak, how to stand, when to bow, and—more importantly—when not to."
"At midday, melee and archery. Your trainings with Ser Arlan may be serviceable, but serviceable will not keep you alive forever. So I'll need to see and test it first."
"And before dusk," he added, eyes glinting faintly, "we joust."
Dymitr nearly choked. "J-joust?"
Ser Don smiled. "We'll not break bones. Not yet. I'll prepare some targets for you to hit on."
The knight went on, as if discussing the weather. "We'll stay here three days, two nights. Don't fret over your purse—I'll cover most of it. I still have coin set aside, some in the bank, and what remains of my lifetime savings." He waved a hand dismissively. "You save what you have until we reach Rudnicka Vale."
Dymitr's face burned. Heat crawled up his neck and settled hard in his cheeks. Gratitude tangled painfully with guilt, tightening his chest.
"Ser Don..." he hesitated, then pushed on, voice quieter. "Why... why help me this much?"
The old knight did not answer at once.
When he looked up, his left eye was softer, distant. The firelight caught the scars on his face, deepening them, making him look suddenly very tired.
"...Because that is what my parents taught me," Ser Don said slowly. "Help others when you can. Not because you expect thanks, nor reward—but because one day, you may be the only hand they see."
He paused, fingers tightening slightly around the tankard.
"And because," he went on, more quietly, "I was once where you are now."
Dymitr said nothing.
"Fate," Ser Don continued, "was kinder to me earlier than it had any right to be. I did not suffer every hunger you have, nor every night under open sky. But I know what it is to walk without certainty, to carry another man's name and wonder if it will ever truly become your own."
He exhaled. "So I vowed—to myself, not as a knight, but as a man—that even if I can't save everyone, I would help those I could, to the best of my ability."
Dymitr swallowed, then nodded deeply. "Thank you, Ser."
The heaviness broke. Ser Don's eye brightened, a spark returning as he straightened.
"Good," he said briskly. "Then tomorrow morning, during your etiquette lessons, I'll teach you something more."
"How to judge a person—by their qualities, their character, their intent."
He pointed lightly at Dymitr with two fingers. "And I'll tell you how, and why, I chose you."
Dymitr's breath caught.
The road ahead suddenly felt far larger than he had imagined.
Dymitr barely waited for Ser Don to finish before leaning forward, eyes bright despite the long day.
"Ser," he said quickly, words tumbling over one another, "if you're willing—if you have the time—could you teach me now? Even just a little?"
Ser Don blinked once... and then laughed. Not a quiet chuckle, but a warm, full laugh that rolled from his chest, rich with genuine amusement.
"Ah," he said, shaking his head fondly, "that spirit of yours will be the death of you one day, Dym."
He lifted a hand, palm outward, gentle but firm. "It is good that your will is eager. Very good. But know this—if the body is unwilling, or simply unable, then even the finest lesson will slide right off the mind."
Dymitr opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"For now," Ser Don continued, voice calmer, "we rest. And if you still insist—" he raised a finger, "—then your first lesson begins tonight."
Dymitr straightened. "Yes, Ser?"
"Patience," Ser Don said simply. "And understanding one's own limits. As well as the limits of others."
He gestured to himself with a crooked smile, White teeth shining through the candle lights. "I may still be strong—stronger than most would expect. Strong like I was in my prime!" His smile softened. "But I also recognize that I have become... slower."
He tapped the table lightly. "This, too, is part of judging a person. Do not underestimate them—but do not overestimate them either. Stay in the middle. Be wary. Be observant."
Dymitr nodded slowly, committing every word to memory.
Ser Don pushed his chair back and stood. "Well then. I'll settle the bill and book us rooms." He stretched, stifling a yawn. "I'll retire first. But if you've still energy to spare—check on our horses, would you?"
"Yes—yes, Ser," Dymitr said at once, rising as well. "Good night."
"I'll have the innkeeper tell you which room is yours," Ser Don said, already turning away. "Good night, Dym. I'll see you in the morning."
He walked toward the tavern owner's table—and Dymitr was just about to follow suit when a small commotion caught his eye.
A young barmaid—a Kuranta with warm brown hair and a long, expressive tail—was swatting a drunken patron's wandering hand away with sharp annoyance. In her haste, she stumbled.
Before Dymitr could even draw breath, Ser Don moved.
One moment the maid was falling—the next, she was caught securely in the old knight's arms, one hand firm at her side, the other steadying her shoulder. The motion was smooth, practiced, almost effortless.
The barmaid froze.
Her face flushed a deep, unmistakable red.
"Careful," Ser Don said lightly, his voice low and warm, a grin tugging at his lips. "The floor here has claimed braver souls than us."
She laughed, breathless, nodding too quickly. Ser Don guided her upright, his hand lingering just long enough to ensure her balance before escorting her a few steps away—still speaking softly, still smiling.
Dymitr watched, dumbfounded.
By the time Ser Don reached the innkeeper, two other maids had drawn suspiciously close, feigning business while stealing glances his way. Ser Don spoke briefly with the owner, pointed back toward Dymitr, and placed several coins on the table.
Dymitr shook his head, exhaling through his nose.
"Well," he muttered to himself, turning toward the door, "it seems the old man's going to be busy."
I'll have to ask him to teach me that tomorrow.
With that, he stepped out into the cool night air, boots crunching softly as he made his way toward the stables—already wondering what other lessons tomorrow would bring, and whether any of them would be half as bewildering as this evening had been.
========
The stables lay a short distance from the inn proper, squatting low and wide like a beast crouched in the mud. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp hay, wet leather, and horse-sweat. Water dripped somewhere in the dark—slow, patient, unbothered by the passing of men. A handful of torches burned along the beams, their flames guttering and wavering, throwing long, crooked shadows across the packed earth floor.
Dymitr paused at the threshold, letting his eyes adjust.
Four horses stood within.
Or three—at least, that was all he saw at first.
Thunder, Swift, and Chestnut stood together, their shapes familiar even in the dim. Thunder's broad neck and powerful shoulders were unmistakable; Swift shifted restlessly, ears flicking at every sound; Chestnut stood calm and patient, as he always had. Their tack hung neatly nearby, damp but well-kept.
Sancho, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Dymitr frowned, scanning the shadows. Only after a moment did he realize the truth of it—Sancho stood in the far corner, black coat swallowed whole by darkness, so still he might have been carved from shadow itself. Had Dymitr not caught the faint glint of an eye reflecting torchlight, he would have sworn the stall was empty.
"Sneaky boy," Dymitr murmured, exhaling softly.
He moved toward his own horses instead.
Thunder snorted quietly as Dymitr approached, recognizing him at once. Dymitr laid a large hand against the stallion's neck, fingers pressing into warm, living muscle.
"Easy, old friend," he whispered.
Thunder leaned into the touch.
Dymitr checked their packs next, hands moving by habit. Saddlebags, bedrolls, spare tack—and then the armor. His armor.
Mismatched, as ever.
Chainmail of different lengths and ages, patched and repaired more times than he could count. A helmet that had never quite fit his brow. Plates—gorget, gauntlets, leg guards—each from a different origin, none forged as a set. It had all served him well enough under Ser Arlan's watchful eye, but now...
Now it felt heavier.
His hand brushed against cloth.
Dymitr froze.
Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted it.
A tabard.
Ser Arlan's tabard.
The fabric was worn but clean—deep forest green, faded slightly at the edges. At its center was Ser Arlan's sigil: a white birch tree with spreading branches, its trunk split by a single vertical line, roots reaching downward like grasping fingers. Simple. Honest. Unadorned.
Brzozowa Polana.
Dymitr's throat tightened.
He had folded it carefully after the burial. Told himself he would carry it only until he found a proper place to leave it. Told himself he wasn't stealing it.
Yet here it was, among his things.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though no one was there to hear.
Memories came unbidden.
A city of filth and shouting, its name long lost to time. A boy with nothing but hunger and stubbornness. A knight with tired eyes and a patient voice, offering bread, then work, then purpose. His first tourney—how his hands had shaken, how Ser Arlan had adjusted his grip and said, "Steady now, Dym. Your brute strength means nothing without you controlling it."
Lessons in mud and blood. Nights in worse inns than this—or no inns at all. Words spoken softly over shared meals. Scoldings given kindly. Pride shown rarely, but felt deeply.
Then Ser Don's voice joined those memories—different, yet echoing the same truths. Patience. Balance. Judgment.
The weight of it all crashed down on him at once.
Dymitr's shoulders hunched.
Tears streaked down his cheeks, hot and unashamed.
Can I be a knight like Ser Arlan?
Can I be like Ser Don Quixote?
Am I ready?
Am I making the right choice?
His breathing quickened.
Is Ser Arlan proud of me?
Can I make him proud?
What if I fail?
What if I become a— a robber knight?
The words burned.
Can I be good?
Can I?
Can I?
The pressure tightened around his chest until it hurt to breathe.
Then—
Thud.
The sound came from deeper within the stable.
Dymitr stiffened instantly, grief and doubt snapping away like a broken thread. His head jerked up, eyes narrowing as his hand dropped instinctively to where his weapon should have been.
Another sound followed—faint, but unmistakable.
Something had fallen.
Dymitr's mouth twitched.
He was no coward. He knew that. He was a big man—strong, broader than most, stronger than many—and both Ser Arlan and Ser Don could attest to that without hesitation. Yet even so, his stomach churned, a strange giddiness creeping into his limbs as he stood there shaking ever so slightly in the torchlit dark.
What good is strength, he thought, when you don't know what stands before you?
The words of his old master surfaced unbidden.
Be brave, Dym. Bravery isn't the absence of fear. It's standing firm despite it.
He drew in a slow breath and straightened.
One hand slid to his sword, fingers curling tight around the pommel. His heart pounded as his mind raced through possibilities. A thief? A bandit bold enough to steal from knights? Someone sent to test them?
He moved forward, boots quiet against the damp earth.
Chestnut flicked an ear as he passed, but did not shy away. Swift shifted his weight, snorted softly, but showed no panic. That alone gave Dymitr pause. Horses knew fear. If there were danger, they would have said so.
Then came the sound.
A faint jingling of steel.
Leather creaked.
Sancho snorted—low, displeased.
Dymitr rounded the last stall and froze.
There stood Sancho, black as the night itself, utterly still—and astride him, legs splayed awkwardly, sat the stable boy.
The lad held himself high, puffing out his chest as if he were some grand knight of legend. On his head sat Ser Don's helmet—its metal dull in the torchlight, shaped with a ridged crest running from brow to back, a narrow guard extending down to shield the nose. It was far too large, slipping low over the boy's brow, nearly swallowing his face.
At Sancho's hooves lay scattered bits of Ser Don Quixote's luggage—straps loosened, a satchel tipped over, contents half-spilled into the dirt.
Dymitr balked.
Rage flared hot and sudden.
"What the hell are you doing?!" he roared.
The boy yelped, nearly tumbling from the saddle as he startled, grabbing clumsily at Sancho's mane. The horse snorted sharply, stamping once in clear irritation.
"Kurwa—!" Dymitr spat, striding forward in three long steps.
He ignored the boy for the moment and went straight to Sancho's saddle, fingers moving fast and precise. He checked the satchels, lifting one, feeling its weight, his jaw tightening. He didn't know exactly what Ser Don carried—but he would be damned if anything had gone missing under his watch.
He knelt, scooping up the fallen items one by one. Leather straps. A wrapped bundle. Small tools. Everything he could see went back into the satchel, his hands steady despite the anger thrumming through him.
Once satisfied, he tied the satchel shut and set it down carefully near Sancho's foreleg.
Only then did he turn back toward the boy.
He said loudly, "You thief!"
The words tore through the stable, sharp and echoing.
Dymitr strode forward in long, angry steps. The boy jerked in place, Ser Don's helmet tipping forward and sliding low until it nearly swallowed his face.
"I–I did not mean to offend you," the boy stammered, voice muffled by steel.
Dymitr was having none of it.
"Take that armor off you. Now."
He seized the boy by the arm and shoulder, rough at first—then he felt it.
The lad was thinner than he had looked in the torchlight. Not just scrawny, but worn. Beneath the rough cloth, Dymitr's hand brushed something hard and uneven along the boy's side. Old scar tissue, maybe. Or a wound still healing, ridged and stiff beneath skin.
His grip faltered.
With a sharp breath, Dymitr adjusted, lifting the boy properly this time, setting him down on the packed dirt with more care than his anger had first allowed. His voice stayed sharp, though his hands no longer were.
"Be glad Sancho didn't kick you," he snapped. "He'd have split you in two."
The boy fumbled with the helmet and finally tugged it free, revealing a padded cap beneath, sweat-darkened and snug over his bald head. He gulped in air, blinking up at Dymitr.
"In that fool head of yours," Dymitr went on, pointing sharply, "he's Ser Don Quixote's war horse. Not some boy's pony."
The boy straightened, rubbing his neck—and then, impossibly, smirked.
"Her. Sancho's a she, and I could ride her as well as you," he said, then added, chin lifting, "and him."
Dymitr sputtered. "Wh—close your insolent mouth!"
He cleared his throat hard, trying to regain the authority he felt slipping through his fingers. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, fingers curling around it with practiced familiarity. He puffed his chest, rain-soaked cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders.
"I'm a knight," he declared, voice ringing in the stable. "I'll have you know!"
The boy tilted his head, studying him with open, unabashed curiosity. Slowly, he reached up and peeled the padded cap from his head, revealing his bare scalp fully this time, pale in the torchlight.
"You… don't look to be a knight," the boy said simply.
Dymitr scoffed. "What, all knights look the same, do they?"
"No," the boy replied. "But they don't look like you, either."
He paused, then bent to lift Ser Don's helmet from the ground. He turned it in his hands, fingers tracing the ridge and the battered metal with a strange care.
"Neither did they look like Ser Don Quixote as well," the boy added quietly.
Dymitr scoffed.
For a moment, only the horses shifted and breathed around them. Sancho stamped once, unimpressed, while Thunder snorted softly from his stall. The stable smelled of damp hay and wet leather, torches hissing softly as they burned.
Dymitr studied the boy properly this time—not because he was shaken, but because the lad was being absurd. There was no mockery in those golden eyes, no fear either. Just an infuriating calm. And beneath it… something sharp. Something that felt out of place on a stable hand with bare feet and rags.
He let out a short, humorless huff.
"…And what," Dymitr said, lowering his voice, "would you know of Ser Don?"
The boy looked up at him from beneath the helmet's shadow, lips curling into that same half-smile, one that didn't belong on a child's face.
"More than you think," he replied.
Dymitr shook his head, dismissive, though the words lingered longer than they should have.
"Right," he muttered. "And I suppose you're a knight in hiding too."
Yet even as he said it, as the rain-drip echoed from the rafters and the horses breathed steadily around them, Dymitr felt the night lean closer—not with fear, but with the quiet sense that something unexpected had just brushed past his path.
Not danger.
Not yet.
A change to the course of his entire life.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A/N:
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