Fremont leaned back in his chair, the carved wood giving a quiet creak beneath his weight. His long fingers came together before his lips, steepled in a familiar, absent gesture, and for several breaths he said nothing. He watched the young knight across from him with steady patience, as though there were no hurry to speak and no need to fill the space between them.
The silence stretched. Outside the pavilion, the distant noise of the tourney drifted faintly through the muted stillness of his Arts—voices, hooves, the occasional horn—but inside the chamber the air felt still and deliberate. And Dym became aware, slowly, with a small tightening in his chest, that the stillness was centered on him.
Fremont's black eyes rested on him without blinking. Not unfriendly, not welcoming. Simply attentive. The Leithanien lord tilted his head slightly, studying him in a mild, considering way, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried a dry hint of humor.
"You are either the second boldest knight I have ever met," he said, "or the second-most catastrophically foolish."
The words were quiet, but they settled heavily all the same. Dym went still where he sat, hands hovering near his knees as if he had forgotten what to do with them. Beside him, Soap straightened instinctively, shoulders tightening under attention that was not meant for him but close enough to feel.
"For a commoner — a knight of the realm you may be," Fremont continued mildly, "to walk unbidden into a noble lord's property and present yourself before highborn nobles of several nations… men who command armies, courts, and executioners… with nothing but your name and a plea."
He regarded Dym for a moment, not unkindly, simply taking stock.
"Do you possess any notion how often such attempts would conclude favorably?"
"…N-No, my lord," Dym admitted.
"They often conclude," Fremont said evenly, "with the petitioner removed. Sometimes by guards. Sometimes by hounds. Occasionally by gravity."
Soap winced.
"You are extraordinarily fortunate," Fremont went on, eyes narrowing faintly, "that none present — Mlynar, Aleksandr, George, the Lord of Rudnicka Vale, or whoever this Perun is — elected to interpret your intrusion as insult rather than curiosity."
Hearing the names together made the scale of it clearer. Dym shrank slightly in his chair.
"I… did not think of it that way."
"Of course you did not," Fremont said. "That is precisely the problem. You acted before thinking. Or you did, but not enough."
Silence settled again. This time it stayed. Fremont's gaze remained on him, thoughtful now, less about the act and more about the man who had done it. It lingered long enough that Dym felt warmth rise along his neck.
Then Fremont spoke again, more quietly.
"…Tell me, Ser Dymitr."
Dym blinked at the title.
"Have you considered service?"
The question landed plainly.
Dym stared. "M-My lord?"
"Service," Fremont repeated. "Under a lord. A household. A banner. Mine, if you wished it."
Soap's head snapped toward him.
Dym's mouth opened — closed — opened again.
"I— I am honored, my lord," he stammered at last, stunned. "Truly. But… I am a hedge knight. My oath—"
"—is to protect the people," Fremont cut in gently. "Yes. Yes. We all know the words."
His tone held no mockery. Only familiarity.
"But oath alone will not feed your stomach, ser." he continued, voice even. "It will not put a roof over your head. Nor provide certainty for you or your squire."
Dym faltered.
Fremont leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on the table.
"You stand at the beginning of a profession that romanticizes hardship," he said. "Kazimierz sings endlessly of wandering knights and shining virtue. It does not mention how many of them freeze, starve, or sell their swords cheaply before thirty."
Dym swallowed, he knew it.
Soap said nothing.
"I know your stories. You seek employment," Fremont went on. "Recognition. Stability. All hedge knights do. There is no shame in that. The structure exists for a reason."
He held Dym's gaze.
"Leithanien may not style itself 'the land of knights' as Kazimierz does," he said, voice smoothing into quiet pride, "but do not mistake that for absence. We do have knights. Disciplined ones. Educated ones. Knights who serve households, courts, and cities — not merely reputation."
His fingers tapped lightly once on the table.
"A capable young knight with proven endorsements could do very well there," he said. "Under proper patronage, protection, and a lord who values him."
The meaning was clear enough.
Dym looked down at his hands.
Warm hallways. Steady meals. Armor maintained. Horses stabled. A banner to stand beneath. A future for Soap that did not depend on road chance and seasonal work.
He glanced sideways.
Soap was watching him carefully, quietly. Not urging. Not pleading. Just waiting.
For a moment, Dym let himself imagine it.
It would not be a bad life.
It might even be a good one.
But beneath that thought something in him... stirred — the same steady pull that had carried him onto the roads in the first place.
He drew a slow breath.
"My lord," he said softly.
Fremont's gaze settled fully on him again.
Dym bowed his head slightly, earnest and unfeigned.
"You honor me beyond measure," he said. "Truly. But… for now… I do not think I am seeking employment. Not yet."
Fremont did not interrupt. He simply raised his brow.
As Dym gathered his thoughts, Fremont's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. One brow twitched, not at the words but at something else entirely, some calculation running alongside the conversation. He lifted his hand in a small, absent motion, as though brushing aside a curtain no one else could see.
The air beside him parted.
It opened without sound or flare, a clean triangular seam of space folding back on itself, edges faintly luminous against the pavilion's dim interior. Fremont slid his hand into it with practiced ease, eyes never quite leaving Dym, and withdrew a sealed letter between two fingers.
The familiar seal faced inward toward him. As he turned it, his brow furrowed slightly.
It was addressed to him.
He glanced once at Dym—still speaking, still intent on choosing his words with care—then broke the seal with his thumb and unfolded the parchment. A low hum escaped him as he read, thoughtful rather than pleased.
His expression changed by degrees. Not sharply, not enough to draw notice at a glance, but the warmth that had lingered in it cooled and drew taut. Something in the contents displeased him. He finished the letter without haste, folded it once along its original crease, and held it loosely against the table's edge.
By the time he looked up again, the shift was contained. Whatever he had read remained his alone.
Dym continued, halting at first, then steadier.
"I-I do not feel ready," he admitted. "Not for service beneath a great banner suh as yours. O-Or Leithania's. I have only just become a knight. I… I still feel as though I have done nothing yet to deserve such a place."
His fingers tightened lightly around the letters.
"I still wish to see the world," he said. "To walk it as my master did. To learn what it truly is to be a knight before I stand in one place as one."
His voice softened with memory.
"Ser Arlan used to say… 'the greatest knights were often the ones who lived in the hedges'," Dym went on. "They slept beneath trees with the sky for their roof. They walked roads without knowing where they would end. They knew hunger, cold, fear — and kindness. And so when they finally swore service… they knew what they were protecting."
He lifted his eyes, uncertain but sincere.
"I think… I must live more of that first," he said. "Otherwise I fear I would only be pretending at something I have not yet become — fully become."
The moment Ser Dymitr finished speaking, the Leithanien lord's expression shifted—subtly, but unmistakably. The warmth did not vanish, not exactly, but it drew inward, replaced by something more alert, more attentive to matters beyond the small circle of table and chairs. His fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair, a quiet, habitual signal to himself, and then he rose in a single smooth motion.
"I see. Well then," he sighed, already stepping around the table, "This may coe as too udden ffor you. But I fear I must be a poor host today."
Before either Dym or Soap could protest, Fremont had reached them. A hand—firm but not rough—settled on Dym's shoulder and turned him gently toward the tent flap, the movement so natural it took Dym a heartbeat to realize he was being ushered out rather than merely guided along.
"Come, come," Fremont murmured, voice lowered now, the edges of it softened in reassurance. "Up you go, Ser Dymitr the Tall. No need to tangle yourself in Leithanien affairs. This is our mess, not yours."
They stepped out into the brighter air beyond the pavilion. The yellow canopy glowed warmly in the afternoon light, and above them the gilded lion atop the structure caught the sun in hard flashes. Behind them, the guards shifted with quiet efficiency, positions adjusting by instinct more than command; the mood around the tent had changed in ways Dym could not have named, only felt, like a pressure settling in the air before weather turned.
Fremont released his shoulder then, but did not immediately retreat. Instead he looked down at him—appraising, almost thoughtful, as though fixing the young knight's face in memory while he had the chance.
"Everything is quite in order," he said, softer still. "Truly. Nothing here that should trouble you or your squire. Only that I find myself required elsewhere sooner than anticipated. Leithanien business has a habit of arriving uninvited." A faint smile touched his mouth. "You understand, yes?"
Dym swallowed and nodded quickly. "A-Aye, my lord. Of course."
Soap dipped his head as well, though his eyes flicked once toward the pavilion, curiosity bright and poorly concealed.
Fremont noticed. He noticed everything.
"Rest easy," he added, almost conspiratorially now. "If there were danger worth naming, you would not be standing outside my tent. Nor would I be letting you wander off with my seal in your pocket."
That, at least, earned a startled breath of laughter from Dym.
The Leithanien lord straightened then, the private tone folding away like a cloak returned to its peg. Yet before he stepped back, he extended his hand once more—not to guide this time, but to clasp Dym's forearm in the manner of soldiers rather than nobles.
"Go on, Ser Dymitr," he said. "See your roads. Sleep under your hedges. Stare at your skies. The world has not yet finished making you into the knight you wished to become."
Then, quieter:
"And when it has—or when you tire of waiting for it to try—you know where to find me."
He released him.
For a brief instant, something like reluctance crossed Fremont's face, gone almost before it could be named. Then the lord of Leithanien turned sharply back toward the pavilion. The Arts enchanments parted at once. The tent flap fell closed behind him, and with it the warm lamplight and the smell of ink and wax and distant rumbles.
Outside, the afternoon wind moved through the banners of House Kamiennogród, setting the crowned antlered lion rippling across yellow cloth in slow, living waves.
Dym stood there a moment longer than he meant to, Fremont's words settling somewhere deep in his chest, not heavy, not light, simply present. The noise of the tourney returned around him in pieces—the clatter of tack, a shout, laughter carried on wind—as though the world had resumed while he had briefly stepped aside from it.
Soap nudged him lightly. "Well," the squire said. "We didn't exactly get thrown out."
Dym let out a breath he had not realized he was holding.
"No," he murmured. "I suppose..."
He glanced once more at the Leithanien lord's pavilion, and then down at his hands. The letters were still there, edges warm from his grip. He settled them more securely against his chest, as if to make certain they remained real.
Then, with two letters tucked close against his heart, Ser Dymitr the Tall and his squire turned from the dark pavilion, and stepped back into the wide, uncertain road he had chosen.
...
.....
........
But they had not gone far before Dym felt it — a hollow churn deep in his middle, sharp enough to bend his focus inward. He suddenly slowed half a step, breath hitching faintly as his stomach gave a small, traitorous growl.
Beside him, Soap's head turned at once.
A grin spread across the boy's face. A bright, cheeky giggle slipped out.
Dym exhaled through his nose. "Not a word. You."
Soap opened his mouth —
—and then another growl sounded.
Louder.
Not Dym's.
They both froze.
Soap's eyes narrowed in affronted dignity.
Dym's lips twitched. Then he snickered outright.
"Well," he said, composure crumbling into amusement, "let's find someplace to eat."
Soap sniffed, recovering quickly. "Aye, but we shouldn't waste too much on it, Ser."
Dym nodded. "Aye. Don't worry. I know a place."
They turned on their heels together and headed back the way they had come — toward the Kamiennogród pavilion they had only just left behind.
At the pavilion entrance, the same guard from a week past straightened at once when he saw Dym approach. Recognition came quick. He thumped fist to chest in greeting and stepped aside without question.
"Ser Dym," he said, almost proud. "You are most welcome."
No hand went out for Dym's sword.
By Ser Wladyslaw's standing order, the knight of the realm did not surrender his blade at this gate.
Dym felt the quiet lift of that — a small, private gladness. He returned the guard's nod and passed within with Soap beside him
=========
It was not long after that they sat at one of the long trestle tables within.
The open pavilion had filled further in their absence. Noise rolled warm and thick beneath the canvas: dice rattling in cups, tankards knocking wood, bursts of laughter, wagers shouted across benches. The smell of roasted meat, onions, spilled ale, damp wool, and trampled straw layered the air into something heavy but cheerful.
Dym ate absently.
A heel of bread, a wedge of cheese, something stewed he did not quite register. Ale followed in slow pulls. His eyes were not on the food.
They were on the gathering on the yard ahead.
A great rope had been dragged into the central aisle and stretched taut between two clusters of bodies. At its midpoint hung a knotted flag marker, bright red cloth tied thick so none could miss the line of contest.
On the near side stood men and women in yellows — tabards bearing the stony sigils of House Kamiennogród and the dawn-march heraldry of the Marsze Świtu. Knights, squires, retainers, even a few flushed lesser nobles stripping rings from fingers and hitching sleeves as they laughed and jostled for grip.
Opposite them gathered a greener tide — foresters, riders, marsh folk, and visiting households in leaf-toned livery. Among them Dym caught a device he knew at once: the red boar of House Borkowski, tusked and charging across a field of dark green.
The rope creaked as hands tested weight. Boots dug into straw. Someone called for wagers. Someone else argued teams. The flag at the center swayed gently between them, waiting.
And among the yellow ranks Dym spotted a figure he could not miss — tall above most, crowned by the sharp, branching antlers of an Elafian lord. Ser Wladyslaw stood braced near the fore, laughing with his people of the Marsze Świtu: Kuranta shoulders beside Zalak frames, a Feline squire hopping to catch better purchase on the rope, a broad-armed Ursus retainer digging heels into straw. Across from them, the Borkowski side showed the same mingling — Perro marsh riders, a Lupo woman knotting cloth about her palms, a wiry Liberi leaning back already as if the pull had begun.
Dym watched — but not truly.
His thoughts slid elsewhere.
A pale face framed in motionless grace. Carved eyes that did not blink. The puppeteer's hands moving with impossible delicacy as strings lived between her fingers.
Avelyn.
His mouth curved before he knew it. A foolish, soft grin. He felt again the absurd flutter in his chest from standing too close, from saying too little, from saying the wrong things entirely. Heat crept up his neck.
Then memory shifted.
Another presence. Stillness of a different kind. Measured gaze. The weight of a lord's attention, and the echo of halls like Rudnicka's — where he had once stood before great men and felt very young inside his new-made spurs.
Lord Fremont.
The flush returned, sharper. Stiffer. He took a swallow of ale that did nothing to settle it.
His fingers worried the edge of bread.
"Was that ill handled?" he said at last.
Sitting on the table beside his massive frame, Soap was midway through eating a skewered sausage. "Hmm?"
Dym's eyes stayed on the rope. "Ave—The—the puppet girl," he said, "and Lord Fremont."
Soap chewed, brow lifting.
"Oh."
Dym cleared his throat. "It—it just—" He winced faintly. "It didn't feel well-handled."
"Well. She is painting your shield." Soap said as a matter of factly.
Dym looked at him exasperatedly, "Yeah, for pay." He then looked at the group of people ahead of him who had begun their tug of war, and sipped his ale.
Soap looked forward as well, then said, "You are both... gigantic."
Dym turned to the boy, confused, "Is that promising?"
Soap took a moment to think before saying, "It's a… commonality."
Dym took a moment to think what it meant. He only knew the word common. "Right, yeah." He cleared his throat. "C-Commonality."
They watched the rope surge and sway before them, both teams digging in as laughter and wagers rose around the pavilion. The yellow ranks lurched half a step forward; Ser Wladyslaw's antlers dipped as he hauled with a booming shout, answered immediately by the Borkowski side dragging the line back again.
Dym's cup paused near his mouth.
"Do you think he mean it?" he said after a moment.
Soap's gaze stayed on the contest. "Who?"
"Lord Fremont." Dym traced his thumb along the rim of the cup. "What he said about the offer."
Soap glanced at him briefly. "Maybe."
The rope creaked as bodies leaned and boots slid in straw.
Dym exhaled slowly. "It's… a good offer."
"Mmm."
"Too good, maybe." Dym let out a breath through his nose. "It would quickly sort things out for us."
Soap nodded once. "Yeah. It would."
Dym's eyes flicked to him. "For me," he said, then quieter, "and for you."
Soap met his gaze this time. "Yeah."
Dym swallowed and looked back to the rope. "That's the part that does not sit well for me."
Soap waited.
"I don't know anything about Leithanien," Dym said. "I barely know more than its name and that it lies south east of Kazimierz. I don't know their lords, their customs and everything. I'd be starting from nothing. Again."
"You would not," Soap said. "You would start with him and his aid."
"Aye, but that's not the point," Dym murmured. "It would help. A lot. But it's... it's just does not feel right with me, Soap."
The line lurched hard toward green. A roar broke from the Borkowski side.
Dym watched the flag sway. "I know these lands," he said. "Kazimierz with all its marches. Which rivers flowed from here to there. Which abbeys tax crossings. Which banners belongs to who and stuff." He gestured faintly toward the yellow ranks. "I understand this side of the world. I am born and raised here."
Soap nodded.
"Leithanien would be… starting new again," Dym said. "And I've only just begun my life as a knight here."
They continue watching the next round of tug-of-war drag on, the rope shuddering back and forth between yellow and green while the crowd shouted itself hoarse. Someone spilled ale; someone else slipped in the straw and went down laughing. Ser Wladyslaw's antlers bobbed above the press of shoulders as the Marsze Świtu side dug in again.
Soap finished the last of his skewer and wiped his fingers on a bit of bread. He watched the teams a moment longer, then glanced sideways.
"Now that I think about it," he said, "do you think I'll ever make a knight one day?"
Dym turned to him. "Mmm? Sure, why not? You're a likely lad. I'll knight you one day when you're ready anyway."
"I'm a bit puny," Soap murmured.
Dym chuckled. "You'll grow."
Soap looked down at himself. "Even for my age. Everyone's always told me so."
Dym scoffed softly. He looked at Soap, thinking a moment. "Well, everyone's always told me I was stupid," he said at last, and turned his eyes back to the tug-of-war.
There was a stretch of silence after that — not unfriendly, just… hanging.
Soap's brows drew together, waiting.
"And?"
Dym hummed. "Hm?"
Soap blinked. "Hm? What?"
Dym glanced over. "What?"
"What did you do," Soap asked, "when people said you were stupid, ser?"
Dym raised a brow, puzzled. "What business is that of yours? My problems are my own."
Soap frowned, thrown. "Wh-I thought… aren't you trying to help me?"
Dym gave him an exasperated look. "Help you what? Grow?"
The rope snapped hard toward yellow then, and the pavilion erupted in cheers. Neither of them moved, both still half-stuck in the small, crooked misunderstanding between them.
The small knot of awkwardness between Dym and Soap had barely settled when a broad shouldered elafian passed through the passing bodies and benches behind them. A flash of yellow cloth, the sway of high antlers — and then the man himself loomed near their table.
Wladyslaw.
He came in hot, already grinning, already pointing.
"Yes! Hedge knight, you."
The finger landed squarely at Dym's chest.
Dym blinked.
Wladyslaw did not wait for recognition to ripen. He reached down, seized Dym's mug of ale, and sloshed it once in appraisal. Foam slid along the rim. He sniffed, face twisting in disgust.
"What is this piss froth?"
Before Dym could so much as protest, Wladyslaw flung the ale in a shining arc across the trampled straw and tossed the mug somewhere behind him without a glance. It bounced off a bench leg and vanished under boots.
"I need muscle."
The next instant a massive hand clamped onto the back of Dym's neck and hauled him bodily half out of his seat. Wladyslaw bent down into his space, antlers tilting forward, his broad face suddenly inches away.
"Will you heed my call to war?"
Dym's mind emptied.
He turned his head slowly toward Soap.
Soap stared back, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, skewer still in hand.
Neither of them spoke.
Wladyslaw searched Dym's face for all of half a heartbeat, then threw his head back in triumph. "Aha! Good." His palm cracked warmly across Dym's cheek in exuberant approval.
Dym rocked with it, more startled than hurt.
The elafian lord was already turning away, voice booming across the pavilion. "Go! Get up, come."
At once the yellow-clad table nearby erupted into motion. Men shoved back benches, tankards thudded down, wagers were abandoned mid-argument. Someone whooped. Someone else nearly fell climbing over a seat. The surge rolled outward like a dropped stone in water.
Wladyslaw did not check whether Dym followed.
He simply assumed.
And so Dym rose, still bewildered, and Soap slid off the bench beside him, equally bewildered, and together they were carried along in the wake of antlers and laughter toward the open center aisle.
The rope was already being dragged into place.
It lay thick and rough across the straw, fibers dark with old sweat and spilled drink, stretching from one swelling knot of yellow to a gathering tide of green opposite. Hands reached for it from both sides, testing weight, claiming position, jostling for better grip.
"Here," someone barked behind Dym, and he felt the rope shoved into his hands.
Another look passed over his shoulders, down his height, across the breadth of him.
"Yes. Back. Put him back."
He was steered — firmly, efficiently — down the length of the line until there was no one left behind him. The rope was looped across his midsection, twice for certainty. He spat into his palms, rubbed them together, and took hold, boots grinding deep into the straw. The line tugged against him already, alive with shifting bodies.
Anchor. Whether he knew the word or not, that was what he had become.
At the far front he caught sight of Soap, planted squarely at the lead. The boy's hands were wrapped twice around the rope, heels dug in, shoulders hunched with determined seriousness that made him look even smaller amid the surge of larger bodies behind him.
Wladyslaw took his place somewhere in the middle ranks, wedged among the Marsze Świtu lords and knights in yellow tabards and dawn-march heraldry. Antlers rose above the line like a banner of bone.
Across from them, the Borkowski greens were forming just as fast — foresters in leaf-toned jerkins, riders in darker livery, marsh folk with mud still dried along their boots. Among them Dym saw muzzles and horns and ears of many shapes: a broad-shouldered Ursus laughing as he set his grip, a rangy Zalak adjusting his stance, a pair of Kuranta stamping impatience into the straw. And there — unmistakable — the red boar sigil on dark green cloth, tusked and charging.
Spectators crowded close on both sides now, pressing in, shouting wagers, names, insults, encouragement. Tankards lifted. Coins flashed. The rope hummed with the restless testing pulls of both teams.
From the green line a bald-headed Kuranta cupped his hands and shouted, "Ready!"
Wladyslaw rolled his shoulders and spat into his palms. He rubbed them hard along the rope, then leaned forward and smacked the arm of the knight ahead of him.
"Hey! Dry those palms, you clam-handed cunt."
The man was already being handed a wineskin from the teammate in front of him; he tipped it back for a fast swallow, wiped his mouth, and seized the rope again.
"We're not in your sister's chambers now," Wladyslaw went on.
Laughter broke along the yellow line.
Another voice somewhere near the center called, "Ready?"
Boots shifted. Straw tore under heels. Someone spat between their feet.
The rope drew taut as iron.
Then, clear and sharp over the roar of the pavilion: "Go!"
The world lurched.
Every body dropped and heaved at once. The rope snapped tight across Dym's belly, dragging him half a step before his boots bit and held. Straw sprayed. Shoulders locked. The line bowed, then shuddered.
"Pull!" Wladyslaw roared down the rope. "If we lose this, I'll be drowning your firstborn!"
"Come on!"
"Pull! Pull!"
The cord surged a handspan yellow — then slammed back green as the Borkowskis answered. Muscles bunched. Teeth bared. Breath burst white in the churned air.
Wladyslaw's voice broke again over the din. "Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions!"
And the tug of war truly began.
The rope bit deep into Dym's midsection as both teams heaved in brutal rhythm. Straw and churned mud slid beneath boots; bodies strained shoulder to shoulder, breath tearing raw in open mouths. The line jerked a span yellow, then green again, then yellow — never settling, always fighting.
Dym leaned back with everything he had, spine bowed, arms locked. The rope groaned against his grip. Ahead of him, backs rose and fell, muscles shuddering under cloth and leather. Somewhere near the front Soap's smaller frame jerked with each surge, heels plowing twin trenches through the straw.
"Pull!" Wladyslaw bellowed from the middle ranks, voice bright with battle joy. "Pull, you cunt-strapped dandelions!"
They heaved again.
And then — in the middle of it, in the height of strain — the pressure behind Dym shifted strangely.
The rope lightened.
Not much. Just enough to feel wrong.
Dym's head snapped sideways in disbelief as, beneath the taut line, Wladyslaw suddenly ducked down and wriggled free of the rope entirely. Antlers vanished under the cord; the great elafian lord slid out from the line as if leaving a dinner bench rather than a contest.
The yellow team jolted in shock.
"What—"
"Wlad!"
"Hold!"
But Wladyslaw was already straightening on the other side, brushing straw from his sleeves as though nothing at all were amiss.
"I'll be back," he announced, perfectly calm. "I'll be back! I'll be back."
He started toward the crowd.
"Wlad!" Dym shouted, incredulous, twisting as far as the rope allowed. "Wlad! What are you doing?"
Wladyslaw passed close enough to clap him on the shoulder in easy reassurance. "I'm thirsty."
And then he was gone into the spectators.
The loss hit a heartbeat later.
The rope surged violently green.
Dym lurched forward as the entire yellow line stumbled, boots skidding through fresh mud. The rope tore across his palms. He snarled breath through his teeth and hauled back with a full-body wrench, legs digging, shoulders locking, spine screaming.
"Wlad!" he roared again, half fury, half disbelief, as he fought to stop the slide.
Somewhere ahead Soap's frustrated shout cut through the strain. The boy's smaller body had little weight to anchor with; the line jerked him nearly off his feet. With sudden, desperate ingenuity he let go with one hand, then the other, and scrambled bodily up onto the rope itself, wrapping arms and legs around it and hanging there like a determined burr.
The added drag helped — just enough.
The line steadied.
From the crowd, absurdly clear between roars and wagers, Dym could still hear Wladyslaw's voice drifting over tankards.
"I'm thirsty, cunt."
The rope jerked again. Mud splashed. The Borkowski greens howled triumph and hauled.
"I'm thirsty!" Wladyslaw complained somewhere beyond sight.
"Pull!" Dym bellowed down the line, anger lending strength. He heaved, boots grinding deeper, back bowing like a drawn bow. "Pull!"
The yellow side answered, ragged but stubborn. Inch by inch they fought the slide. Muscles trembled. Breath rasped. The rope quivered between tides.
Then suddenly a heavy palm smacked his rear.
"Looking good."
Dym twisted his head just enough to glimpse antlers and a feral grin.
Wladyslaw was back.
Mud splattered his boots, ale still wet on his beard. He ducked under the rope in one smooth motion and slid into place as if he had never left at all. The line jolted with the sudden return of his weight and strength.
Dym huffed a half-laugh despite himself and hauled again.
Momentum shifted.
Wladyslaw swaggered forward along the yellow ranks, clapping shoulders, shouting into faces, until he reached the front cluster just behind where Soap still hung stubbornly from the rope. He seized the cord again, planted his boots, and roared down the line:
"Fucking pull!"
They did.
Inch by inch the rope crept yellow. Boots stepped back. Straw tore. Mud sucked at heels. The green line began to buckle, their laughter turning to snarls, then to strained silence.
"Steady!" someone gasped.
"Back! Back!"
Dym dug in and hauled with everything left in him. His vision narrowed to rope, strain, and the rhythm of pull. Veins stood hard along his forearms; his shoulders burned white-hot. He drew one more breath — deep, savage — and wrenched backward with a final, full-body heave.
The Borkowski line broke.
Bodies pitched forward. Boots lost ground. The green ranks slid, stumbled, and collapsed into the churned mud in a cascade of limbs and curses as the rope ripped free of their last grip.
For a heartbeat there was stunned silence.
Then the pavilion exploded.
The roar hit like surf — cheers, laughter, pounding feet, tankards lifted high. Yellow surged upright in triumph, hauling one another into crushing embraces. Someone whooped directly into Dym's ear. Someone else thumped his back hard enough to stagger him.
Soap was still clinging to the rope when Dym scooped him up bodily and hauled him onto his shoulders. The boy yelped, then whooped, fists in the air as the crowd howled approval.
Wladyslaw seized both of Dym's arms in a crushing hug and bellowed into his face, wild with victory. Dym laughed outright now, breathless and flushed, and with a surge of pure exhilaration he caught Soap by the waist and tossed him once into the air. The boy flailed and came down laughing, caught again before he could fall.
Around them yellow and gold and antlers and banners wheeled in celebration.
And in the middle of it, chest heaving, mud to his knees and rope-burn in his palms, surrounded by eveyone. Dym felt something settle quietly inside him.
Not the pull of banners of both foreign and his.
Nor the thrill of jousts and lists.
Not the weight of some lord's offers.
Just this — the road, the dust, the absurdity, the comradeship that came without promise and left without warning. Moments taken as they arrived, not seized before their time.
He let out a long breath, smiling despite his fatigue.
Slow, he thought. Take it slow.
No need to rush too soon and face what the world prepared for him.
Enjoy the moment.
Slow and steady will win him his rewards.