Sleep truly did not come easily for Dym.
When he finally awoke, it was not with the comfort of rest, but with a groan dragged from sore muscles and a skull that felt stuffed with wool. His eyes burned, red-rimmed and heavy, the kind that stung even when he blinked. The straw bed—something that should have been a luxury, a rare indulgence for a common man like him—had turned into a torture rack over the course of the night.
Not because of the bed.
Because of the walls.
The thumps.
The bumps.
The rhythm.
Dym did not need to be educated to understand what had transpired next door. Any man with ears could tell that Ser Don Quixote's… activities had begun not long after nightfall and had persisted well into the dark hours—only tapering off a few scant hours before dawn.
The Gods truly blessed that old man with virility, Dym thought sourly.
"Who got that good D, huh?"
He had slept perhaps two hours in total before birdsong crept through the cracks in the shutters, followed shortly by the unmistakable crow of a rooster. Dawn had come mercilessly early.
"Last day," he muttered sadly, rubbing his face. "Last day in this cursed place."
Today would be their final day at the inn. By tomorrow, they would resume their journey east, toward Rudnicka Vale. Weeks on the road. Cold camps. Open skies.
At least the walls won't moan, he thought grimly.
With a stiff groan, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, massaging his shoulders, his lower back, anywhere that protested the night's abuse. His gaze drifted to a basin of water near the wall.
"…Was that there yesterday?" he wondered vaguely.
He didn't care.
He leaned forward and splashed water onto his face, the cold biting sharply but welcome. Fatigue washed away just enough for him to feel human again, though it did nothing to stop the long yawn that forced its way out of him.
"Gods," he grumbled, straightening. "I only got a few hours…"
Whatever lesson Ser Don had planned for today, Dym was certain he would nod off during it. Or worse—during another of the old knight's long-winded stories.
Oh well, he thought, tying his rope belt with practiced hands. The journey will take weeks. I'll hear it all again sooner or later.
He slid his sheathed sword onto his side, the familiar weight grounding him. Folding his cloak neatly, he draped it over his arm.
I'll leave it with Thunder, he decided. And some of my luggage.
With one last glance at the bed that had betrayed him, Dymitr stepped toward the door, shoulders squared despite the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin.
Another day as a "knight" awaited him.
And Gods willing—far fewer vulgar noises.
Dymitr opened the door and stepped out—then halted at the spur of the moment.
He leaned back in, scanning the room once more. A quick pat down his chest. His belt. The familiar weight of the sword at his hip. Nothing forgotten. Satisfied, he eased the door shut behind him, careful not to let it slam.
The first thing that greeted him in the hallway was the smell.
Fresh morning air drifted through the upper floor, cool and clean—but it was tangled with something else. Sweat. Stale warmth. And unmistakably… sex. It clung to the air like a fog seeping from the room next door.
Dym scrunched his nose and sighed.
"Gods," he muttered under his breath, turning away and heading for the stairs.
As he descended to the first floor, the tavern came into view, and with it, a quiet sort of shared misery. He wasn't the only one who had suffered through the night—far from it. Several patrons sat slumped at tables, red-eyed and hollow-looking, nursing cups with the haunted expressions of men and women who had not slept nearly enough.
So it wasn't just me, Dym thought grimly.
He noticed something else too.
A few of the female servants—those conspicuously absent the night before—were now moving about the tavern. Slowly. Carefully. A bit stiffly. One of them winced as she bent to pick something up; another walked with her hips held just a little too rigid. All of them also walked in a weird walking form under their dress.
Dym looked away, heat creeping into his face.
Yet amid all this quiet suffering, one figure stood out like a monument to unfairness.
Ser Don Quixote.
The old knight sat at a table near the center of the tavern, beard neatly combed, posture relaxed, cheerfully breaking his fast. He lifted a tankard, gulped deeply, then wiped his beard with the back of his hand—looking not tired in the slightest.
How, Dym thought incredulously, is he still standing?
Ser Don noticed him then and brightened immediately. He raised his hand and waved enthusiastically.
"Ah! Dym!" he called, voice loud and full of life. "Come, come! Sit! The morning is kind today!"
With a weary sigh, Dymitr complied and crossed the room. As he took the seat opposite him, Ser Don peered at him with innocent curiosity.
"Rough night?" the old knight asked.
No thanks to you, Dym thought bitterly.
Aloud, he lied through his teeth. "Mosquitos and lice, Ser."
Ser Don hummed sympathetically, as if that explained everything. Without another word, he slid a plate across the table—a meat pie, still warm, steam curling invitingly into the air.
Dym's stomach betrayed him with a sharp churn.
Whatever exhaustion plagued him, hunger won this battle.
As they broke their fast in a rare, almost companionable quiet, Dymitr found his thoughts circling back to the night before.
To the laughter.
To the sounds.
To the women.
And to something Ser Don himself had said during their first meeting—as tall as my wife.
Wife.
His wife.
The thought sat poorly in Dym's chest. He shifted in his seat, fingers tightening briefly around the edge of the table. This was not something he should ask lightly. He knew that. And yet… if knighthood meant anything at all, it had to mean speaking when something felt wrong.
Carefully—so carefully—he spoke.
"Ser… when we... first met, back when we buried Ser Arlan; mentioned you had a wife." He hesitated, then forced himself to continue. "I… I don't understand. Why would you… do what you did, if you are already bound to someone?"
The effect was immediate.
Ser Don's expression cooled, the warmth in his single visible eye hardening into something sharp and distant. It was a look Dymitr had not seen before—and it made his stomach drop.
For a heartbeat, Dym thought he had gone too far.
Then Ser Don inhaled slowly and set his utensils down with deliberate care.
"This," he said at last, voice calm but weighted, "would be your first lessons in courtly etiquette."
Dym stiffened, listening intently.
"First," Ser Don continued, "you must always think whether such a question should be asked aloud at all. Some matters, once spoken, cannot be taken back. Words have weight, Dym. And once loosed, they do not return to the tongue."
He lifted a finger.
"Second—location. Is this private? Is it public? Are there ears nearby that do not belong in the matter? A question that is spoken in the wrong place can not only ruin one's reputations, but also drags on to start feuds, or end lives."
A second finger rose.
"And third," Ser Don said, fixing Dym with a hard look, "you must ask yourself whether the matter is truly your business. That answer decides not only if you act—but how."
His gaze sharpened further.
"Remember this well, Dym. Your mouth, and your hands—and whatever they produce from your decisions—can bring you life." A pause. "Or death."
Dym winced and nodded quickly, guilt flooding his face. "Y-yes, Ser."
Ser Don exhaled and rubbed his brow, the severity easing.
"Forgive me," he said more gently. "I did not mean to frighten you and ruin the fast we had. But this is the world you are stepping into."
He looked at Dym with quiet sincerity.
"Before, Ser Arlan stood between you and the sharp edges of society. He spoke for you; both of you. He smoothed paths you did not even see." His voice softened. "Now, even if you walk under my wing for a time, you must learn to stand on your own."
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
"Be proud," Ser Don said. "You showed boldness, courage. And a touch of recklessness." He chuckled softly. "Both are qualities a knight should have—when tempered correctly."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Your question also carried something rarer still: the will to stand against wrongness." His smile turned bittersweet. "Even when the wrong is committed by someone you admire."
Ser Don's gaze drifted downward, the cheer finally leaving him.
"That wrong," he admitted quietly, "was mine."
For a moment, the tavern noise seemed far away.
"Loyalty," he said, almost to himself, "is a virtue you defended. Even against me."
He looked back up at Dym, eyes sad but honest.
"For that alone… you have done nothing to be ashamed of. So be proud, Dym. Be proud."
Ser Don was then quiet for a moment.
Then he spoke, his voice lower than before, steady, deliberate.
"There are things about my private life I cannot divulge," he said at last. "But all I can tell you is this—family is… complicated."
Dymitr listened closely.
"Don't misunderstand me," Ser Don continued. "My relationship with my wife is a good one. A great one, even. We love each other dearly." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "We've yet to have a child, but I'm certain it'll be a daughter. Don't ask me how—I just know. And I'm rarely wrong."
There was pride in his tone, quiet and sincere.
Then he sighed.
"But well… it's just…" He trailed off, shaking his head. "Complicated. Just know this, Dym—my wife is fine with my… proclivities."
An uneasy silence followed.
Tankards clinked elsewhere in the tavern. Someone laughed too loudly at another table. Dymitr shifted in his seat, suddenly very aware of his hands, of the space between words.
After a moment, he cleared his throat.
"Right—erm. Ser Don," he said, carefully changing the subject. "Yesterday, when I was checking on our horses… I was approached by the stable boy. The bald one."
That earned Ser Don's interest. He looked up from his plate.
"Oh?" he said mildly. "What did he want?"
Dymitr explained everything—from the boy wearing the helmet, to his insolence, to his confession. He spoke faster as he went, tripping over words, until at last he reached the end.
"He asked," Dym finished, hesitant, "whether I would be willing to take a squire. But I told him that I can't, so I had to ask whether you would be, Ser?"
Ser Don chuckled.
"Aren't you... technically squiring for me already, big man? Even if it's temporary."
Dymitr flushed deeply.
"Well—uh…" He glanced around, checking that no one nearby was paying them any attention. When he was sure, he leaned in and lowered his voice. "You see… I may have lied. I told the boy that I'm a knight, during the interactions..."
=========
There was a brief, fragile silence.
Ser Don had just lifted his tankard when Dymitr's last words sank in. The old knight froze mid-gulp, his one visible eye widening a fraction. For a heartbeat, he simply stared at Dym, as if replaying what he had just heard to make sure he hadn't imagined it.
Then he swallowed.
Slowly.
"…You did what?" Ser Don asked, very calmly.
Dymitr shrank an inch in his seat.
"I— I may have," he muttered, cheeks burning. "Told him I was a knight."
Another beat of silence.
And then Ser Don burst out laughing.
It was sudden and loud enough to turn a few heads nearby—not a cruel laugh, nor a mocking one, but a raw, surprised bark of amusement. He leaned back in his chair, one hand braced on the table as he laughed again, fuller this time, wiping at the corner of his eye with two fingers.
"Oh— God above," he wheezed. "That's— hah— that's a good one."
Dymitr's face felt like it was on fire. He stared down at his plate, wishing the wooden table might swallow him whole.
Ser Don's laughter slowly ebbed, trailing off into a low chuckle as he drew a steadying breath. He shook his head, still smiling faintly, and finally leaned forward again, resting his forearms on the table.
"Ahh…" he sighed. "That takes me back."
Dymitr risked a glance up, uncertain whether he was about to be scolded or praised—or something worse.
Ser Don met his eyes, amusement still lingering there, but tempered now with something more thoughtful.
"Don't worry Dym, you're not the first lad ever to do that," he said. "Nor the last. Titles have a way of slipping out when one's spine is straight and pride's doing the talking." He lifted his tankard again, this time only to wet his lips. "God knows I did worse at your age."
That did little to soothe Dymitr's embarrassment. "Sorry, Ser. I shouldn't have said it," he admitted. "I wasn't thinking. It just—came out on its own..."
"Mmh." Ser Don hummed, considering. "And did you say it to gain something? Coin? Favor? Fear?"
Dymitr shook his head quickly. "No, Ser. I just— I wanted him to listen. To stop acting foolish."
Ser Don studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded once.
"That's another important lesson today," he said. "Intent matters. A lie told to steal and a lie told to steady a situation aren't the same beast… though both still have their own teeth that would bite you later anyway."
He cut into his food, speaking around the motion, slower now. "But understand this, Dym. Knighthood isn't a word you wear like a cloak. Once spoken, it carries weight. People will test it. Believe it. Or resent it."
Dymitr swallowed. "I know. I didn't mean—"
"I know," Ser Don interrupted gently, lifting a hand. "I know. If you meant harm, I wouldn't be laughing."
He paused, then added, "That said…" A glint of mischief crept back into his eye. "If word gets around that a giant Kuranta with a sword and no spurs calls himself a knight, you may find yourself challenged by someone eager to prove you wrong."
Dymitr winced. "That bad?"
Ser Don grinned. "Worse. Remember this until the day you die in Kazimierz: Knights are a prideful lot."
He leaned back again, studying the younger man with renewed interest. "Still… the boy saw something in you. Enough to ask about squireship from you. Even if you rejected him."
Dymitr hesitated. "So… you're not angry?"
Ser Don snorted. "Angry? No. Amused? Very." He pointed at Dym with his fork. "But! You owe me honesty, from here on. If you're going to walk beside me, even briefly, you do it as you are—not as what you wish you were."
He softened then. "And don't fret. If the lad asks for the truth, we'll sort it properly. Or if I'm not around, you'll have to sort it out on your own, and be honest about it."
Dymitr let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thank you, Ser."
Ser Don raised his tankard in a small toast. "Hmm. Finish your meal. We've more lessons ahead—and I'd rather not teach courtly etiquette to a man who can't keep his eyes open, and we'll also talk about the boy's Squireship."
The morning light crept further into the tavern as they ate, and for the first time since the night before, Dymitr felt the tight knot in his chest loosen—just a little.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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