Through the night, through the darkness, Dym's words lingered in the air long after he had spoken them. Desperation clung to them. It seemed to settle over the camp like mist.
The campfire crackled softly, wood splitting and sighing as sparks drifted upward and vanished. Their three horses snored in uneven rhythm beneath their rough blankets. From afar, faint and fading, the last threads of fanfare from Rudnicka Town drifted through the fields before dying out completely.
Silence returned.
A long and painful silence.
Amid it, the boy looked at Dym. Soap's golden eyes caught the firelight and held it, bright and steady. Looking deep into Dym's shaking blue eyes.
"Fear neither hardship nor darkness. Ser," the boy said confidently.
Dym turned his head toward him. "What-What does that mean?"
Soap did not answer at once. He shifted, drawing his blanket tighter around his shoulders, but his eyes did not waver.
"It means," he began slowly, "that hardship is not the end of the road. It's just the rough part of it. If every knight in Kazimierz turned their back the moment the road cut their feet, there would be no knights at all. Only men who tried once. Failures in all but name."
He poked at the fire with a stick, watching the embers glow brighter.
"And the darkness… darkness is worse," Soap continued. "Because it makes you think the road ends where you stand. You can't see beyond it. You think this moment—this failure—is all there is. But it isn't."
He looked back at Dym. "And to be a knight... is to be the noble light that illuminates the land."
"It means... being a knight isn't just about swinging a sword well. It isn't just to win coin or fame in tourneys, or be sung by bards in taverns. A knight is supposed to be a light. A small one, maybe. But enough to see by. Enough so that someone else doesn't stumble in the dark."
The fire snapped loudly.
"If you lose today, there is still tomorrow. If tomorrow fails, there's the day after that. Life's strange like that. It shifts. It turns. It bends. Men and lords who refuse you today may beg you tomorrow, or stand by your side at your lowest. Lords rise and fall. Houses shrink and grow. Who knows what waits at sunrise?"
Soap's voice remained calm, though he yawned midway through it.
"Hope isn't pretending things are easy. It's choosing not to let the dark tell you that you're finished."
He glanced at the horses, then back again.
"And even if every lord in Kazimierz denies you, ser… we still have another card to play."
Dym blinked slowly. "What card?"
"We find this Fremont that Ser Don told us," Soap said. "At the Leithanien pavilion plot. Ask for his help to vouch for you."
Dym took a moment to think. "Hope... huh? A light in the dark...."
The firelight danced across his face as he stared into it.
He exhaled.
"Very well… We'll… see to it tomorrow, or later. We still have a long way in this grand tourney."
He cleared his throat. "Now we should sleep. You need it more than I."
"Aye," Soap replied.
They lay back into their bedrolls. Above them, the sky stretched wide and dark, scattered with cold stars. The fire burned lower. The fields grew still.
Neither of them spoke again.
That was until Dym spotted it—a streak of white cutting across the twinkling night sky.
A falling star.
Soap saw it too.
"All the other knights are in their pavilions by now," the boy murmured, "staring up at silk instead of sky."
Dym huffed softly.
"So what?" Soap continued. "True knights, like the Silverlances, sleep like us. Under the trees. Staring at the sky."
Dym groaned. "Do you want your first clout in the ear?"
He let out a tired sigh. "Go to sleep, boy. We wake in the morn."
Soap rolled onto his side, pulling his blanket close. "And a falling star brings luck to those who see it," he added quietly.
Dym said nothing. He continued gazing up at the night sky.
Silence settled over them once more, broken only by the faint chirring of insects in the grass.
After a moment, Dym blinked and turned his head slightly toward the boy.
"S-So… the luck is ours alone?"
Soap did not answer.
He only smiled faintly, eyes closed, already drifting toward sleep.
=======
Morning crept slowly, somewhere over the fields of Kazimierz.
The sky was pale. The air was damp. Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed.
"You—you might not remember him, but, um…"
An old, balding Kuranta man stepped out of a wooden hut, buck naked, broad-shouldered despite his age. A thick beard framed his jaw. On his chest, slightly to the left, was a small, healed, round scar.
And he had an impressive member.
"Stay there," he muttered over his shoulder. "I'm coming back."
Inside the hut, a woman shifted beneath rough blankets, still asleep.
…he was a true knight.
The rooster crowed again.
Ser Arlan stretched, bones popping softly, and wandered a few paces from the hut. He relieved himself against the grass, letting out a tired sigh as the morning breeze brushed his skin.
Uh… different than other men. Yeah.
He yawned midstream.
He had a peaceable nature. Quiet and humble.
Another sigh left him as he finished, shaking off lazily before glancing toward the horizon.
A veteran of a hundred wars, but an enemy to none. He always knew what was expected of him.
He rolled his shoulder.
That was when he noticed it.
A gaping wound in his right arm, wrapped poorly in cloth from the night before. The fabric had loosened in his sleep, a dull red stain seeping through.
He frowned at it.
Without complaint, he tightened the bandage with one hand, gripping the cloth between his teeth to pull it taut. His face twitched briefly at the pain—but he forced it still.
He never complained.
He looked at the wound once more. A deep, resigned sigh escaped him.
Then he turned and walked back into the hut as if nothing were wrong.
The morning dissolved into another memory.
A small village. Mud walls. Thatched roofs. Smoke drifts lazily into a pale sky.
Two horses stood at the edge of the square.
Thunder bore the weight of the older knight. Swift carried the younger.
Their tack creaked softly as they shifted. The horses nickered to one another.
The old knight reached into his pouch and pressed a few worn coins into the wrinkled hands of a village elder. The elder bowed his head deeply, murmuring thanks.
The younger rider watched.
Conflicted.
Even as he was dying, he… he just…
Sheep bleated somewhere behind a fence.
He just got on with it.
A rooster crowed.
Villagers chatted as they carried buckets and bundles, casting grateful glances toward the mounted knight.
He—he meant to be a benefit to those around him. It did not make him rich. He—he held no lands, sired no children.
The old knight merely nodded to the elder and turned Thunder gently away.
On the road again.
Green fields stretching wide beneath a bright sky.
The old knight whistled, then broke into song, carefree and loud:
Off to Rudnicka~to see a fair maid~ Heigh-ho, heigh-ho~ I'll make her my love~and we'll rest in the shade~ Heigh-ho, heigh-ho~
He twisted in the saddle with a grin. "Come on!"
A horse whinnied as the younger rider urged Swift forward to ride beside him.
Dust rose behind them.
In the Darkness.
A great elm tree loomed against a storm-churned sky. Rain poured in relentless sheets, drumming against leaves and earth.
Thunder rumbled.
The two huddled beneath what shelter they could manage. Steam rose faintly from their damp cloaks.
Panting from the cold, the younger one sliced a piece of sausage with a small knife and held it out. "Hey."
He—he wanted for nothing but the open air.
The old knight took the piece.
And a fire to warm his feet at.
Somewhere beyond the rain, cows mooed in protest at the storm.
The younger one chuckled.
So did the old knight.
And both laughed—loud and stubborn—even as the rain soaked them through.
On another clearing, they were training.
The old knight held a battered shield. The younger gripped an axe.
His skills as a warrior were…
The tall youth grunted, bringing the axe down hard against the shield. Wood thudded. Steel rang. Again. Again. And Again.
The old knight's boots slipped in the dirt. He fell back with a heavy thump.
The youth froze immediately, lowering the axe and reaching down to help him up.
…unsung, but he had a chin cut from granite.
The old knight heaved himself upright, breathing hard. He nodded once and lifted his shield again. "Come on."
And he was a dogged fighter. He just—he kept on coming.
The youth nodded fiercely, shouting as he swung the axe once more.
The shield rose to meet it.
In another of his memories, they were trekking through a forest, branches clawing at cloaks and saddles as the two rode through the shadows and tangled undergrowth.
Leaves crushed beneath hooves. Birds scattered at their passing.
At last, light broke ahead.
Their horses chortled eagerly as they emerged from the treeline into open air. The old knight whistled, pleased, as if he had known the path all along.
Then he sang again, voice carrying bright and unashamed joy.
I'll steal a sweet kiss~from the point of my blade~ Heigh-ho, heigh-ho~
He whistled between verses, jaunty and careless.
"Whoa! Whoa!" he called as Thunder tossed her head, eager for open ground.
A horse neighed sharply. Both mounts snorted and stamped before settling.
Panting slightly from the thick ride, the younger one raced to the old knight's side.
House Žižka, Ser Arlan took service in your guard when your lord father lost his sight.
The old knight let out a long huff as he looked at Dym, smiled, and continued on as though the world were nothing but road and sky.
I'll make her my loveand we'll rest in the shade Heigh-ho, heigh-ho~
Riding ahead, the old knight rode on, still humming to himself, as if bridges were built simply by continuing forward.
House Kosiński, Dym continues, Ser Arlan fought side by side with your brothers at the Crimson Fields against the Nightzmoran horde led by Khagan Kulan the Red. His squire—his own nephew—was killed in that battle."
The forest dissolved.
Morning returned.
Rudnicka's pavilions stood bright beneath the pale sun, silks and banners fluttering lazily in the crisp air. Servants hurried between tents. Armor clinked. Laughter carried easily over trampled grass.
Dym stood before a Kuranta man clad in a rich green doublet. Upon his chest was sewn the sigil of House Borkowski — a crimson boar's head crowned in gold, pierced through by a vertical silver lance, all upon a field of deep forest green.
The man chewed slowly on a dark red leaf. His teeth were stained. The corners of his lips were tinted with the same color. He looked only half-listening.
Dym's breath fogged faintly in the cold morning air. "House Borkowski… Ser Arlan often spoke of his time in your service as his very finest. He said it was you, my lord, who told him that a hedge knight is the bridge between lords and the smallfolk—"
The Borkowski lord shifted his jaw lazily, leaf grinding between his red molars.
"I know him not, man."
The words came flat.
The Kuranta spat a stream of red into the grass near Dym's boots.
A few retainers standing behind him chuckled openly. One snorted. Another muttered something under his breath that earned further laughter.
The Borkowski lord wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Plenty of hedge knights come and go," he added dismissively. "Can't remember every saddle that warmed our stables."
More laughter from his household.
The morning breeze carried it away across the pavilions.
Dym stood there, faint smoke still leaving his lips with each breath.
"I–I see. Thank you for your time, ser."
Dym bowed respectfully.
The Borkowski lord merely flicked his fingers in dismissal, already turning his back. His retainers followed, their laughter trailing behind them like loose thread.
Dym straightened slowly.
Then he turned away.
Thunder stood where he had left her, white coat bright against the churned grass. Beside her waited his squire, leaning lightly against the mare's shoulder.
Soap looked tired. His dirty brown tail swished lazily behind him.
"So?" the boy asked.
Dym only shook his head.
He undid Thunder's reins and began to walk. Soap fell into step beside him.
"That makes fourteen," Soap muttered after a moment. "Fourteen lords and knights this week."
Six days of asking. Six days of bowing. Six days of polite refusals and blank stares.
The town had grown far more crowded now than when they first arrived. Visitors from across Kazimierz filled the streets—bright silks, polished armor, merchants hawking trinkets and sugared nuts. Foreign tongues drifted through the air.
Leithanien goats and deer in cloaks of black and violet.
Victorian cats in red and greens.
Gaulish lords and knights of blue and gold.
Ursus bears in black and brown fur coats.
Lateran Angels in white, black, silver, and gold.
Iberian Liberii in their grey, white, black, and purples
Fortunately—or unfortunately—there had been no jousts or melees yet. The grand events were reserved for later in the tourney. For six days, there had only been archery contests and the occasional Arts exhibition where sorcerers displayed their arts and crafts for coin and applause from the commonfolk.
The Leithanien delegations almost always won those.
Dym paid them little mind. Magic had never stirred him the way steel did.
"We shouldn't lose hope still…" Dym said after a while. "You're the one who said it that night, remember?"
Soap groaned. "Aye, but saying it is easy, ser…"
Dym snorted faintly. "Well, at least you're using that brain under that bald head of yours early on. I never got to use mine much when I was your age."
Soap shot him a sideways look. "That explains a lot."
Dym gave him a dry glance in return.
They continued walking through the swelling crowd, fourteen refusals heavy behind them, the week slipping steadily through their fingers.
Soap suddenly asked, "Was he a shit knight?"
Dym raised a brow. "Who?"
"Ser Arlan."
Dym scoffed sharply. "He was not a shit knight."
"Well," Soap pressed, "he can't have been a very good one if no one remembers him."
Dym let out a slow breath. "Pick up your feet. Come on."
Soap dragged his boots for a step before quickening. "This is undignified, ser."
They moved onto a wooden bridge spanning the narrow river that cut through Rudnicka. People brushed past them—merchants, squires, knights in polished mail. The planks thudded beneath boots and hooves.
"Then hie back to camp and leave me be, if it please you," Dym muttered.
Soap stopped walking.
"I would not leave you, ser," he said firmly. "Not while you must suffer your master dying over and over again."
Dym slowed.
"Though," Soap continued, stepping in front of him now, "it does not seem like these lords are even listening to you."
Dym scoffed. "Nothing I can do about that."
Soap planted himself fully in Dym's path, forcing Thunder to halt. "You are a knight of the realm, ser. You can say fuck their permission. Ride into the lists. Call out the Red Boar of Borkowski and turn his boarish arsehole into a lancehole like his sigil!"
A few passersby turned their heads.
Dym's jaw tightened. "Alright. That's enough now."
He stepped around the boy and resumed walking, guiding Thunder by the reins.
Soap hurried after him. "Why do you treat these royal lapdogs like they're your betters?"
"They are my betters," Dym replied evenly. "Soap, you're too brazen for your own good. Stop it before you get yourself in trouble."
He walked on, posture stiff but steady.
"Ser Arlan was a great knight," he said with proud conviction. "Someone will remember him. Someone must."
He repeated it once more in his own mind as they slowly walked the bridge among the crowd.
The tall knight had been at a loss on how exactly one taught restraint to a boy who possessed none.
Loose mouths, Ser Don had said, were sharper than blades and twice as fatal. A careless word in the wrong ear could see a man flogged, imprisoned—or worse. Dym had learned that sort of lesson the hard way more than once before he met the Old Knight.
He opened his mouth to lecture Soap.
But suddenly a loud trumpet split the air.
Both of them froze.
Then another trumpet answered it. And another.
The fanfare rolled across Rudnicka like thunder over steel. People stopped mid-step. Conversations faltered. Heads turned toward the main road leading into the pavilion grounds.
For six days, Dym had heard such announcements—lesser lords, merchant barons, foreign envoys. All proud. All loud.
None like this.
The fanfare did not end.
Dym grabbed the arm of a short, stocky Ursus man beside him. "Hey. Who's come?"
The ugly Ursus snapped back, "Can't you see the banners, you giant cunt?" He shoved Dym's hand away.
The trumpets swelled.
Dym ignored the insult and craned his neck. At first, he saw only sunlight flashing.
Then he saw why.
Steel.
Polished to a mirror sheen.
They emerged in perfect formation.
Each knight sat tall upon a massive, barded warhorse clad in silvered plate. Their own armor gleamed the same—bright, immaculate, flawlessly uniformed. From their saddles rose long, perfectly straight silver lances, tips catching the sun like shards of frozen lightning.
They moved as one body.
Behind them flew the banners of Kazimierz: a white horse's head, proud and fierce, set before three white lances upon a field of deep black. The cloth snapped crisply in the wind.
Hooves struck the earth in thunderous rhythm.
The crowds around them parted instinctively and cheered.
Behind them rode another company—taller shields, darker plate of green, their armor less radiant but no less disciplined. Their helms bore sharp crests, their lines tight and orderly.
Above them flew a striking bicolour banner: yellow on the top half, deep blue on the bottom. Centered upon it was a bold insignia—a crowned shield flanked by two rampant, winged beasts rearing outward, their forms mirrored in fierce symmetry. Lances crossed beneath the shield.
The upper half of the sigil was rendered in blue against the yellow field. The lower half inverted—yellow against blue—so that the emblem seemed split yet whole, balanced across the dividing line of the banner.
Dym did not recognize their order, nor their heraldry. But their bearing spoke of discipline and power.
At the very front of it all rode two men with golden-blonde hair—hair, ears, and tails alike shimmering in the light. They wore pristine white riding doublets and flowing white cloaks that trailed behind them like banners of their own.
Composed. Effortless.
Between and slightly behind them rode a silver-grey, black-horned man. A scaled tail swayed behind his mount. He wore a sharp and regal red doublet, a blue sash across his chest, and a dark green-black cloak that billowed with restrained authority.
The formation slowed but did not break.
The earth itself seemed to hold its breath.
The peak of Kazimierz's knighthood.
The Silverlance Pegasi.
Dym stared in open awe, heart hammering like a child seeing true knights for the first time.
But as Dym stood in awe, he did not notice something tugging his threadbare cloak. He did not see the way his squire had gone pale.
Did not notice the boy trembling.
Did not feel the small, shaking hand clutching tightly at the back of his cloak.