The wooden floor thundered beneath Dym's boots.
Stomp—clap—stomp—clap—The rhythm was simple, brutal, impossible to miss.
All around him, bodies moved in a loose, joyous chaos. Boots struck the boards, skirts flared, sleeves flew, tankards sloshed and spilled without anyone caring. The band hammered away—drums pounding like a heartbeat, fiddles shrieking with wild cheer—and somewhere in the din rose the chant again, half-shouted, half-sung.
Dym found himself moving before he fully realized it.
At first, it was awkward. A small jump. A hesitant stomp. He hovered near the band like an uncertain child at the edge of a bonfire, remembering only Ser Władysław's crooked, knowing smile and the way he had leaned in as if daring the whole world to follow.
And somehow—somehow—Dym was dancing along.
Not well, nor smooth.
Awkwardly...
Neither Ser Arlan nor Ser Don Quixote had ever taught him to dance.
He jumped when others jumped. Stomped when they stomped. His long limbs lagged half a beat behind, then caught up, then overshot. No one laughed. No one pointed. No one cared. Everyone was too busy being alive in the moment.
Then a hand seized his arm.
A cautus woman in a bright yellow dress laughed as she dragged him forward, spinning him hard enough that his vision blurred. Dym let out a startled sound—half gasp, half laugh—as she pulled him into the center, jumping with him, hair flying, feet striking the boards in perfect rhythm.
She released him just as suddenly.
Before Dym could regain his balance, another arm hooked his—this time a vulpo woman in green, sharp-eyed and grinning. She spun him again, faster, their boots thudding together as they jumped and turned, her tail flicking behind her with every movement. The crowd roared approval at nothing in particular.
She let go.
Dym staggered a step, laughing now despite himself, chest heaving.
On a nearby table, Ser Władysław danced like a man possessed—arms flailing, boots stomping, very much a drunken baffoon—not a regal knight that he was. His laughters were masked over the music as mugs rattled and drunken servants cheered and danced around him.
Then Dym felt another hand clasp his.
This one was firmer, a bit heavy.
He looked down—and up—into the sharp, amused eyes of Lord Zieliński z Borowa, the old Liberi whose knife had earned Ser Władysław's approval earlier. For a heartbeat, Dym worried—decorum, stations, some invisible line he had just trampled—
But Zieliński only laughed, a dry, delighted sound, and yanked him into motion.
They spun together, awkward and ungraceful, boots striking the floor as they jumped in time with the chant. The old lord's feathers were ruffled, his fine clothes half-disheveled, and he looked happier than Dym had ever imagined a noble could be.
The music swelled.
The stomping grew louder.
And Dym—hedge knight, nobody, half-giant—forgot himself entirely as the dance carried him along.
Wladyslaw suddenly burst onto the floor.
The lord of Kamiennego Lwa came flapping in from the side, arms thrown wide and fluttering like a drunken ballerina pretending to be a bird, cawing some random half-word, half-noise as he went. His curly black hair flew loose, sweat-dark and wild, his fine clothes tugged crooked as he staggered through the dancers, laughing and nearly colliding with two revelers before bouncing off them and carrying on.
He stumbled once, caught himself, then lurched straight into Dym.
Dym stopped spinning, the world still swaying around him, and found himself face to face with Ser Wladyslaw. Only then did it truly sink in—through the haze and the pounding drums—that the famed knight and lord barely reached his chin. Wladyslaw had to tilt his head back to look up at him.
In his dizziness, Dym caught the flash of irritation on the shorter man's face. Drunk, proud, and suddenly aware of the height between them. Wladyslaw ground his teeth, straightened his spine, lifted his chin as far as it would go, trying to make himself bigger. Well, his antlers already did.
Then his gaze flicked down.
Without warning, Wladyslaw stomped hard on Dym's foot.
Pain shot up Dym's leg, sharp enough to snap him fully awake. He grunted, jaw tightening, teeth grinding as he swallowed the instinct to react.
Control… control…Ser Don's voice echoed in his head. Highborn lord. Do not cause trouble.
The drums thundered on. Feet pounded. Laughter roared around them, the chaos of the dance swallowing everything whole—and somehow, that noise helped him hold himself still.
Wladyslaw lifted his foot again and tried to bring it down.
Dym shifted back at once, just enough.
Control the situation, he told himself again as he steadied his breath among the pounding music.
Behind the curtain of dark, sweat-damp curls, he caught it—anger. Not playful now. Irritation, sharp and bruised by pride. Wladyslaw rolled his jaw, lips twisting, then stomped again.
Miss.
Another stomp.
Miss again.
They began to circle, boots scraping the packed earth, one striking, the other slipping aside by inches. To anyone watching, it might have looked like part of the dance—two men moving in rhythm, feet flashing, bodies turning. But Dym felt the edge creeping in. Each near miss grated on him, tugging at the leash he'd been holding tight all night. And those big antlers' a hazard to him and everyone around.
Enough.
Wladyslaw slid his foot forward, careless, drunk confidence outweighing balance.
Dym moved.
He brought his heel down hard.
Wladyslaw yelped, a sharp bark of shock and pain, folding forward as the blow landed clean. For a heartbeat, the noise around them exploded with roaring laughter, clapping, and cheers, mugs pounding, voices howling approval as if this, too, were part of the revelry.
Wladyslaw slouched, clutching himself, breath knocked crooked.
Dym didn't let him fall.
He raised the foot he'd used and stepped in close, catching Wladyslaw by the chest, fingers gripping cloth and strong chest muscle to keep the smaller man upright amid the chaos, the drums still hammering and the dancers still clapping and stomping along all around them.
Dym lifted the knight back onto his feet, careful despite the noise and the press of bodies.
When his blue eyes met Ser Wladyslaw's—just as blue, bright even in drink—Dym saw the fury gutter out. What replaced it was something lighter, quick and daring, a spark that danced behind the stare. Wladyslaw's mouth twisted into a crooked grin, tongue rolling against his teeth before he gave an exaggerated wink and burst into laughter.
The sound caught Dym off guard.
He laughed too—cackling unguarded—and gave Wladyslaw a shove, firm but playful, sending the lord stumbling back toward the heart of the dance. Instead of offense, Wladyslaw threw his arms up and whooped, shouting something lost to the drums, answered at once by cheers and delighted cries from the crowd around them.
Dym followed, swept back into it.
He danced now without thinking, arms thrown wide, head bobbing to the beat, boots thudding as he jumped and turned. Wladyslaw clapped along, laughing, ducking beneath Dym's raised arms, circling him in a loose, weaving step, as if the whole thing—stomps, shoves, and all—had always been part of the dance.
Wladyslaw kept moving as if something else had taken hold of him—wild in the turns, sharp and sudden, like a man dancing ahead of his own thoughts. Dym barely noticed. The stomp of boots, the slap of palms, the crash of drums, and the shrill pull of strings closed in around him, wrapped him up, dulled everything else.
Then Wladyslaw's hand found his back—solid, insistent—and before Dym could think, he was spun.
Once. Twice. Again and again.
Dym let it happen, feet moving on instinct, laughter bubbling out of him as the world blurred into color and motion. When the spinning stopped, Wladyslaw spun too—but differently. Not rough, not frantic. He turned with a strange grace, arms loose, shoulders lifted, swaying like a great bird gliding over water, ridiculous and beautiful all at once.
They danced.They clapped.They shouted.
And then they danced again.
The rhythm grew louder, heavier, until it pressed into Dym's chest. The noise stopped being noise and became a single pulse. Faces blurred. Hands brushed past him. Someone shouted his ear. Someone laughed against his shoulder. He danced without knowing how, without knowing when he'd started or stopped. So did everyone else—jumping, swaying, stamping, spinning in drunken loops as Wladyslaw tore through the crowd like a storm given legs.
Bit by bit, the edges softened.
The music grew distant.The cheering stretched and thinned.The world went pleasantly, heavily numb.
—
When the noise finally fell away, it did so all at once.
The tent was quieter now. Not silent—never that—but softened, worn down. Those still standing moved slowly, voices low and slurred. Some pairs swayed together, arms around shoulders or waists, bodies rocking side to side in a lazy echo of the dance. Servants slipped between tables, clearing plates, lifting mugs, stepping around sprawled limbs with ease.
Others were far beyond standing.
One man slept face-first in a platter of grease, snoring loud enough to rattle cups. Another lay beneath a table with his boots still planted on a bench, shirt gone, dignity long abandoned. Somewhere near the back, two guests—gender an afterthought at this point—had collapsed in a tangled heap, laughing long gone, breathing slow and deep. A naked arse flashed briefly as someone rolled over and settled again, uncaring.
Up on the higher dais, the host's table was a battlefield of empty plates and spilled drink and food.
Dym sat there beside Wladyslaw, drowsy, but still awake.
He leaned forward, elbow on the table, fist propping up his cheek. A circlet—Wladyslaw's—sat crooked on his head, a bit too small for him, ridiculous and undeniable all the same. His eyes were heavy, unfocused, but calm.
Next to him, Wladyslaw slouched deep in his chair, drunk but conscious, staring ahead with a lazy, satisfied look. Around them, his fellows lay scattered along the long table—one snoring with his head on his arms, another half-slid from his seat, mouth open, a third clutching a goblet like a treasured relic even in sleep.
The storm had passed.
What remained was warmth, wreckage, and the quiet hum of a night that had burned itself down to embers.
In his drunken haze, Wladyslaw went on, words rolling out slower now, heavier.
"The swells heaved," he said, voice rough but fond with memory. "You could lick salt and those rocks from the air. Burned the tongue. Burned the lungs." He leaned forward, antlers dipping with the motion. "But I'd come to find what men do when they die in a catastrophe."A pause—then a grin tugged at his mouth."So I drove on into the whirling storm."
He laughed, leaned back again, and wiped his face with the heel of his palm as if the spray were still there.
Curiosity slipped past Dym's tired haze. "Weren't you afraid?"
Wladyslaw exhaled slowly, the sound thick with alcohol and thought. "Ah..." He stared at the tent ceiling for a moment. "Within every man, there are many men." Then he tipped his head, one blue eye settling on Dym. "Mm. But that? That was something I had to do."
He gestured vaguely eastward. "The Borderwardens of the Marsze Świtu—campaign knights like me—we've always done it so. If they rode into the worst of it, then so could I." A shrug, careless but practiced. "Best not to agonize."
The word struck deeper than he meant it to.
Dym felt it settle in his chest, heavy and familiar. Today's frustrations rose again—the lists, the mockeries, the looks that lingered too long on his lack of name, his lack of proof. The bitter thought of his late master, cheated of his rights by the very house he now needed acknowledgment from.
He sighed. "Yeah. I… I agonize a lot."
Wladyslaw leaned forward, planting a forearm on the table. Dym leaned back a fraction, careful of the antlers as the lord reached for his chalice. He hummed thoughtfully, then nudged the cup toward Dym with two fingers.
"Mm," he said, voice low and oddly gentle. "Then stop letting it sit empty."
He made a small circling motion with his hand. "Fill it would ya."
Dym obliged as he filled the cup. He then said, "Sometimes, I… I think I agonize too much—and I just end up agonizing over that." He let out a small chuckle.
That earned another low hum from Wladyslaw, who nodded along drunkenly. "Mm."
Dym continued as Wladyslaw drank. "And I'm quick and strong, sure."
"Sure," Wladyslaw replied.
"But so are you," Dym said.
Wladyslaw nodded absently. "Sure." He picked up a war pick he had gotten from somewhere, punched the sharp point into a piece of meat, and ate it.
Dym went on, his voice turning bitter, troubled, as he poured himself another drink. "Plus, you've trained sword and lance with the finest masters-at-arms in the realm. I mean… what chance do I have? Truly?"
Wladyslaw looked at him, trying to think through the haze before replying, "Oh, you have no chance." He chuckled lightly.
Dym sighed and unconsciously drank straight from the wine decanter instead of his cup.
Wladyslaw leaned forward and placed a hand on Dym's shoulder. "But it's a great honor to test oneself against a worthy foe," he said, encouraging.
Dym fell quiet for a moment. What Wladyslaw said was true—but the reality was, their lives were worlds apart, like heaven and earth. Carefully, Dym said, "No disrespect, ser."
Wladyslaw hummed as he pulled his arm back and leaned into his chair again. "Mm."
"That's easy for you to say," Dym continued. "You have a name. An inheritance. One loss, and I won't even be able to ransom back my own horse."
Wladyslaw laughed—a simple laugh—and Dym chuckled softly.
Then both of them laughed lightly.
Wladyslaw replied, "A knight without a horse is no knight at all."
Dym nodded as he sighed. "Aye."
Wladyslaw hummed. "Mm." He lifted his mug; it scraped softly against the table as he took a loud sip.
Dym asked, genuinely now, with a thread of desperation beneath his words, "So… what should I do?"
Wladyslaw placed a hand on Dym's shoulder again. He brought his other hand to his mouth, trying to think. There was silence for a while before he finally said, "I don't know." He shook his head. "I'm really quite drunk. Whatever I say would do you more harm than good." His words slurred slightly as he patted Dym's shoulder.
Dym sat there in mild disbelief—but he could see the truth in it.
Using Dym's shoulder as a prop, Wladyslaw pushed himself up, clumsily climbing onto the table, kicking and stepping over spoons and scattered utensils. He plucked the circlet back from Dym's head. "Thanks," he said.
Dym remained seated, staring blankly ahead, a little dejected.
Wladyslaw stomped and grunted as he jumped back down to the floor, then wandered off.
Dym let out a long, tired sigh.
In the background, Wladyslaw waded drunkenly through the remaining crowd, hiccuping as his antlers clipped a hanging candle lamp and nearly struck someone. "Sorry," he slurred to the startled couple.
Still seated in his chair, Dym sniffed. He was close to crying—from the situation, from the pressure weighing on him, from... everything. He palmed his face and sighed again.
Amid the guests chattering and laughing, Dym coughed softly, the sound swallowed by the noise around him. He looked at the ones still standing, still dancing. Their faces were loose, unburdened, as if nothing in the world pressed on their shoulders, as if they owed nothing to anyone.
Then his wandering gaze caught the sound of laughter.
He turned toward it.
There—he saw the sigil of Włodarzewicz. A kuranta man with reddish hair stood with two giggling women. Dym recognized them both: the red-haired feline woman, and her curly-haired cautus friend. The three of them laughed together as they made their way out of the tent.
Dym seized the moment.
He stood and followed—but not before collecting his sword, shield, and cloak from a half-dozing guard, who waved him off lazily as he took them.
He hurried after them and soon caught up to the Włodarzewicz knight outside.
"Ser Arlan of Przozowa Polana," Dym called out.
The three turned at once. The Włodarzewicz man raised his brow lazily.
"He… he served your lord father in the raids against the Kazdellian lands, ser. Fought those devils who threatened Kazimierz. I… I was only a boy, but—"
The red-haired feline woman blinked. "I thought you said you were Sargonian."
Her friend snickered. "No, he said he's hung like a Sargonian."
Ser Aleksandr Włodarzewicz grinned, drunk and boastful. "No. I said I've hung Sargonian."
Dym, noticing the man's state, hesitated. "Perhaps we might speak on the morrow."
Aleksandr waved him off. "I know your penniless knight not. Nor you, brother. Be gone." He chuckled dismissively as he turned around and left with his two companions.
Dym stared at him in disbelief but pressed on. "B-But Ser Arlan took a wound in your father's service. How could you have forgotten him?"
=========
*Flashback
Young Dymitr remembered waking from sheer exhaustion, his body heavy, his ears ringing. The world swam before settling into horror.
Somehow, he was in a tent. Thick with the scent of smoke and iron.
outside, he heard the sounds of men shouting—no, screaming. Not battle cries, nor courage. Just pain. The sharp, endless sound of it. Steel clanged somewhere too close, too frantic to be training. Orders barked. Someone sobbed. Someone prayed.
And in the midst of it all.
He saw his old master.
Ser Arlan was on a table.
Sarkaz healers surrounded him, their bodies covered in white clothes, faces covered in white fabric, gloved hands slick and red. Two of them held him down as he thrashed, roaring, his voice torn raw. Another pressed both hands into his chest, fingers digging into torn flesh.
"Hold him!"
Arlan screamed again, the sound breaking into something Dym could not describe.
Dym could not see what they were doing to his old master, but they seemed to be looking for something that was lodged deep in Arlan's chest. Whatever it was, it was still covered with the old knight's blood. The healer forced his fingers in, deeper, and Arlan's flesh made a wet, sickening sound as it parted.
The tent smelled of iron and rot.
The healer found it.
And she pulled.
There was a horrible resistance—then it came free with a thick, sucking sound.
It was something round.
Like a marble.
Blood followed. Arlan's scream split the tent, high and shocked, as if the pain had only just reached him.
Dym remembered standing there, frozen, watching the healer hold up the blood-soaked ball between trembling fingers.
He remembered thinking Arlan would die.
The present snapped back like a wound reopening.
Aleksandr Włodarzewicz stood before him, laughing softly, the two women pressed to his sides.
"My lord father took eighteen hundred swords into that wasteland," Aleksandr said carelessly. "We've forgotten men who reaped far more than a wound."
The words landed heavy and hollow.
Dym swallowed. "P-Please, ser. I… I won't be allowed to challenge unless a knight or a lord vouches for me."
Aleksandr's expression did not change.
"And what is that to me?" he replied, dismissive.
He chuckled, low and mocking. The women drunkenly laughed with him, their amusement light and effortless.
Then he turned away.
Just like that.
They walked off together, their laughter fading into the night.
Dym remained where he stood.
The world felt colder now. Larger. Empty in a way that pressed in on him. The music from the tent seemed distant, thin. Whatever warmth of joy and hope he had was gone. His grip tightened around his sword and shield, but they felt useless—heavy things that could not help him here.
The memory of Arlan's scream still rang in his ears.
And no one cared.
Some time later, Dym rode back toward camp on Thunder.
He barely remembered the road. His gaze stayed low, unfocused, trusting the white mare to find the way. The night air was cold against his face, yet his body shivered as though gripped by fever. His thoughts would not settle.
How do I explain this to the boy?
He groaned under his breath. "Kurwa… I didn't even buy any groceries from the night market."
As he drew nearer, he saw the campfire still burning, its flames steady against the dark. The horses slept nearby under rough blankets, their shapes quiet and unmoving.
Leaning against the elm tree stood Soap.
Red eyes. Eyebags dark beneath them. Still awake.
Dym squeaked, "Boy! Why are you still awake?!"
Soap shrugged. "I'm guarding your stuff, ser." He yawned. "Till you're back. I already buried Ser Don's gift under me, by the way."
Dym guided Thunder closer to the elm.
"I would've gotten up and taken her reins," Soap added, rubbing his neck, "but I'm too stiff and tired, ser. Sorry."
Guilt hit Dym hard.
He dismounted and tied Thunder's reins to the elm beside her siblings. He had left a child—his own squire—in the wilderness for hours while he feasted and drank with a highborn lord.
Irresponsible.
Ser Arlan would have chewed him raw for it. Ser Don would have boxed his ear.
"Aye… sorry," Dym muttered.
Soap waved it off lightly. "No matter. Were you enjoying your evening, ser?" he asked, a cheeky note slipping in.
Dym picked up his bedroll from Thunder's back and laid it out on the ground. "W-What do you mean?" he said, trying to sound casual.
"You smell of food. Wine. Ale," Soap replied. "Must've been nice to party about and enjoying the nightlife while I struggled to stay awake."
Dym let out an awkward chuckle. "Yeah… sorry, boy. Rajmund invited me to eat, and… well, I can't exactly deny a highborn's invitation, can I? I, uh… applied Ser Don's lessons. About the social stuff."
"Rajmund?" Soap frowned. "The Jabłoński squire from earlier? The one whose cousin's a red-haired arse?"
"Aye, that's the one," Dym said. Then he glanced at the boy sharply. "Watch your language. Never say that again, lest I give you a clout in the ear. That's dangerous talk."
Soap shrugged. "But it's not wrong though."
Dym paused.
Then, after a moment, "Yeah. You're not wrong."
Soap shifted slightly against the elm and said, "It's a good thing you didn't reject his invitation. The Jabłońskis are renowned for their apple ciders all across Kazimierz. Though… they're a small house now. Took the wrong side during the Seven Lords' Rebellion. They fell hard. Reduced to a minor knightly house—relying on cider to stay afloat."
Dym gave a soft, distracted, "Huh," and nodded. Then he frowned. "How did you know that?"
Soap paused, then shrugged. "I like apple cider."
"Huh," Dym replied again.
He continued, "Anyway… Rajmund took me to eat in Ser Wladyslaw's pavilion—"
"Which Wladyslaw?" Soap cut in.
Dym blinked. "What do you mean, which Wladyslaw? Are there any other Wladyslaws out there?"
Soap rolled his tired golden eyes. "Just as there are many boys named Soap, Dym, Dunk, and Egg, somehow. There are also those named Aleksandr, Wladyslaw, Rajmund, Młynar, Margaret, Maria, Zofia—"
"Alright. Alright, I get it," Dym cut him off with a sigh. "Ser Wladyslaw of Kamiennegoród—"
Soap straightened instantly. "Wladyslaw Kamiennegoród?!"
Dym nodded. "Yep."
"The Laughing Catastrophe of Kamiennogród himself?!"
"Yep."
"How did you not get kicked out?!" Soap exclaimed. "He's the Warden of the Marsze Świtu! A lord of lords!"
Dym shrugged. "He liked partying."
"Oh…" Soap replied, deflating slightly.
"And party till late we did…" Dym muttered, lowering himself down. He rested his head on a makeshift pillow of his bag and bundled cloth.
Soap tilted his head. "What happened to finding Ser Aleksandr then? Did you spend the entire evening just partying?"
Dym scoffed. "Of course not. That happened before Rajmund found me wandering about the pavilions, before…"
He paused.
The image surfaced unbidden—the Elafian woman, the way she moved, the way she looked at him. His cheeks flushed. His ears reddened. His heart began to beat faster.
"Before?" Soap pressed.
Dym shook his head quickly. "Well. Before Rajmund found me."
Soap hummed thoughtfully. "So?"
"So?" Dym echoed.
Soap groaned. "So what happened when you asked Ser Aleksandr? Did he agree to be your witness?"
Dym's words caught in his throat.
That feverish shudder returned, crawling up his spine. He stared at the fire.
Should he tell the boy now? Tomorrow? Later?
All options he had would bite him in the arse either way.
His jaw tightened as anger resurfaced—Aleksandr's dismissive grin, the insult, the way he spoke of the eighteen hundred swords as if they were numbers on parchment. As if Ser Arlan were nothing.
Dym let out a long breath.
"I found him," he said at last. "Outside the party. Drunk. I begged him to vouch for me as a knight."
The admission burned.
"I used Ser Arlan's name." His voice wavered. "But he said he knows not of Ser Arlan. A-and he cares not about it…"
The anger bled into something heavier.
"I'm sorry," Dym muttered. "I'm sorry, Soap. This is all for nothing. I left you alone for nothing."
Silence hung between them. The fire crackled softly.
"It's alright, ser," Soap said quietly.
Dym scoffed. "Alright? Alright? What part of it is alright?"
His voice rose despite himself.
"We can't compete in this tourney and earn coin without a witness. Ser Don's gift will only last us six months. Three, if I have to buy new armor." He dragged a hand down his face. "We don't even know how long this tourney will last. And in those six—or three—months, I've to find someone willing to vouch for me."
His breathing grew ragged.
"The sooner we finish this, the sooner we don't have to worry about it!"
===========
A/N:
Sorry for the late update, been busy tinkering with my E-Bike, and fixing my house's plumbing. Thankfully, all is well for now.
Expect some surprise in the next chapter!
See you soon!