The mountain roads of Arkiton were never kind.
Narrow paths carved through jagged stone twisted along the cliffs like wounded serpents. Loose gravel shifted beneath every step, threatening to send man and cart tumbling into the deep ravines below.
A thin farm horse strained against the incline, pulling a wooden cart stacked high with harvested grain. Behind it, another cart creaked along the road, this one dragged by two exhausted peasants.
"I am finished," groaned a chubby man in torn rags, wiping sweat from his brow. "Surely we can stop somewhere and rest."
The elderly man walking ahead of the cart did not turn around.
"No, you fool," he snapped. "Bandits roam these roads like wolves. You want to stop and invite death?"
The chubby man muttered under his breath but continued pushing.
A broad-shouldered farmer hauling the rear cart spoke next.
"How much farther, Elder Hubert? Even I am growing tired."
Hubert shaded his eyes and looked down the road.
"We should reach the outer road by noo—"
The arrow struck him directly through the eye.
Hubert collapsed without another sound.
For a moment the world went silent.
Then a voice echoed from the rocky hills above.
"Headshot!"
Another voice laughed.
"Told you I could do it."
Boots scraped against stone as figures appeared along the ridge.
"Formation!"
Forty armed men stepped forward, weapons drawn. Steel flashed beneath the afternoon sun.
A captain walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down at the terrified peasants.
"Well then," he called casually, "that was unfortunate."
The chubby man dropped to his knees immediately.
"Please, good sirs—"
"Silence."
The captain drew his sword.
"Leave the supplies and you might live."
The peasants trembled.
Then something unexpected happened.
A lone figure began walking down the rocky slope.
He moved calmly, as though the ambush had nothing to do with him.
The man wore simple traveling clothes. A blade rested at his waist, and a dark cloth covered the lower half of his face.
He stopped a few steps from the captain.
"Tell me, child," the stranger said evenly, "what is your name?"
The captain's face twisted in fury.
"You insolent lowborn!"
His sword flashed from its sheath as he lunged forward.
The stranger did not move until the final moment.
Then—
Crack.
The hilt of his blade struck the captain's temple with brutal precision.
The captain collapsed instantly.
Silence returned to the mountain road.
The remaining soldiers stared in shock.
The stranger stepped calmly over the unconscious captain.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said lightly.
"I am Sir Bartin Veltrin."
Five men immediately stepped forward from the formation of forty and knelt.
"Sir Bartin," they said together. "We are the knights of this squadron."
Bartin studied them for a moment, then nodded.
"Good."
He gestured toward the trembling peasants and their carts of grain.
"You will escort these hardworking men safely to Martin City."
The knights bowed their heads.
"Yes Sir Bartin, your wish is our command."
Bartin turned away and began walking back toward the hills.
Behind him, the soldiers quickly reorganized themselves.
The peasants were stunned.
Moments earlier they had expected death.
Now they had been granted safe passage.
One of the squires finally gathered the courage to speak.
"Sir… who exactly was that man?"
The senior knight glanced toward the distant figure disappearing over the ridge.
Then he answered quietly.
"One of the Five Great Knights."
"Sir
The squire swallowed.
"Onward to Martin City," the senior knight ordered, assuming command of the column.
His voice carried the authority of a man used to being obeyed.
The soldiers immediately reorganized themselves.
Twenty men marched ahead of the peasants.
Twenty followed behind.
The formation surrounded the two carts and their exhausted owners, forming a moving wall of steel and shields along the narrow mountain road.
It was exactly as Sir Bartin Veltrin had commanded.
Protection.
No more.
No less.
The peasants walked silently between the armored soldiers, still too shaken to speak.
They had expected to die that afternoon.
Now they traveled under the escort of the very men who had tried to rob them.
The mountain road twisted downward toward the plains, and the march continued without interruption for nearly an hour.
Then the first group appeared.
A handful of rough-looking men stepped out from behind the rocks ahead.
Bandits.
Their leader raised a hand to signal his companions.
But the moment he saw the formation of armored knights approaching…
His expression changed.
The bandits slowly lowered their weapons.
One by one, they stepped aside and knelt.
The senior knight did not even slow his horse.
"Wise decision," he said calmly as the column marched past them.
They were changed and dragged along to be sold into slavery.
The peasants exchanged confused glances.
Not long after, another group appeared further along the pass.
This one was larger.
Nearly a dozen men armed with spears and bows.
They too stepped onto the road.
And they too immediately froze when they saw the advancing column.
A moment later, their weapons clattered onto the stones.
They surrendered without a word.
The young squire riding near the rear frowned.
"My lord," he asked quietly, "why do they surrender so quickly?"
The senior knight answered without looking back.
"Because they are not fools."
The squire glanced behind them at the bandits who were still kneeling along the road.
"They know the difference between dying today…"
"…and being sold into slavery tomorrow."
He paused before finishing.
"A slave might someday buy his freedom."
The knight's voice hardened.
"But no man escapes death at the hands of trained knights."
The squire nodded with understanding.
The column continued its steady march down the mountain.
Behind them, the bandits bound by chains were dragged by the knights.
By late afternoon the stone walls of Martin City finally appeared on the horizon.
The weary peasants nearly collapsed in relief.
After hours of marching down the dangerous mountain road, the sight of civilization felt almost unreal.
The gates opened for the knights without question.
Inside the city, the column dissolved into smaller groups. The senior knight oversaw the final tasks quickly and efficiently.
The captured bandits and their weapons were sold to local authorities.
The loot taken from the ambush was divided among the knights.
As usual, the squires received none of the spoils.
Their reward was simpler.
A free meal.
And beer.
Yet even that was considered generous. In many knightly companies, squires were treated little better than slaves.
But these five knights were different.
They expected discipline, but they did not demand the impossible.
The camp maintained a strict ranking system among the squires.
The lowest five in performance handled the unpleasant tasks—washing clothes, cooking meals, and eating only after everyone else had finished.
The others were left mostly undisturbed.
And the top five were occasionally invited to accompany the knights on hunts.
Those hunts were not merely recreation.
They were tests.
Any squire chosen for such trips was considered a promising candidate for future knighthood.
The system worked well.
Competition remained fierce, but morale stayed strong.
No one felt trapped forever at the bottom.
Hard work could always move a man upward.
---
That evening, as the squires rested after supper, a messenger approached one of them.
"George," he said. "The knights want to see you."
George blinked in surprise.
"Now?"
The messenger nodded.
"Immediately."
George rose quickly.
He was not a particularly strong boy. In fact, many of the other squires were bigger and faster than he was.
Yet somehow he had managed to hold twenty-fifth place in the rankings.
Not through talent.
Through stubborn effort.
George trained longer than most.
He spent nearly his entire salary on nutritious food.
And despite the hardships, he rarely complained.
That determination had kept him alive in the camp.
But he had never expected much more than that.
Certainly not this.
---
Inside the small command room, the five knights sat together.
The senior knight occupied the center seat.
George stepped inside and bowed.
"You called for me, sirs?"
"Yes," the senior knight replied calmly.
"We have been watching your performance."
George stood quietly, unsure what to say.
The knight continued.
"We are impressed."
George blinked again.
"And because of that," the knight said, "we have decided that you will become the sixth member of the top five."
George's mouth opened slightly.
"Sixth… sir?"
The other four knights chuckled softly.
"It happens rarely," the senior knight explained.
"But this year we are sending six."
George's confusion deepened.
The knight leaned forward slightly.
"Every six months, the most promising squires are sent to serve under a noble house."
George nodded slowly.
He knew this system.
Across the kingdom there were seven major noble families, along with many smaller houses.
Each of them maintained knightly orders.
And the best squires were occasionally sent to train under them.
Such assignments were valuable.
They created connections between knightly companies and noble houses.
Connections that could later be used for favors, influence, or advancement.
But not every noble house was equal.
Only the most capable squires were sent to the great houses.
The senior knight finally said the name.
"You will travel north."
"To serve Lord Robert Belmont."
The room fell silent.
George felt his heart begin to race.
Everyone in the kingdom knew that name.
Robert Belmont.
The Mountain of the North.
The greatest knight alive.
George had been in the camp nearly two years.
In all that time, he had never once heard of six candidates being sent to a noble house.
Five was the rule.
Six was… extraordinary.
He swallowed nervously.
"Sirs… may I ask something?"
The senior knight nodded.
"Go ahead."
George hesitated before speaking.
"Why me?"
"I only rank twenty-fifth."
The knights exchanged glances.
Then the senior knight answered.
"Because your talents match what the Belmont household needs."
The other four knights nodded in agreement.
George stood frozen for a moment.
Then he straightened and bowed deeply.
"Do you accept?" the senior knight asked.
George did not hesitate.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well," the knight replied.
"You leave tomorrow morning."
"A scout will guide you north."
George stepped out of the room in silence.
His life had just changed.
And he had no idea what waited for him in the North.
---
When George stepped outside the command room, several older squires were waiting nearby.
The moment they saw his expression, they understood something unusual had happened.
"Well?" one of them asked.
George hesitated before answering.
"I'm being sent north," he said slowly.
"To serve under Lord Robert Belmont."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the older squires exchanged glances.
Some of them looked almost… sympathetic.
One of them sighed.
"Poor boy."
George frowned.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Another squire shook his head.
"You really don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
The older squire leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.
"Belmont knights are not normal knights."
George blinked.
"What do you mean?"
The man studied him for a moment before continuing.
"They follow the strictest doctrine in the entire kingdom."
He paused briefly.
"One of my friends was sent there two years ago."
George listened carefully.
"When he came back," the squire continued, "he was… different."
"How?"
The man shrugged.
"Harder."
"Colder."
George frowned.
"What did he say about the training?"
The squire let out a quiet laugh.
"When I asked him about it, he told me something strange."
He looked directly at George.
"He said…"
If someone were sent to hell…
…would you expect him to recount the memories?
A chill ran through George's spine.
The older squire pushed himself off the wall.
"After hearing that, no one in this camp has been brave enough to accept the Belmont assignment."
George stared at him.
"But the knights said it was an honor."
The man smiled bitterly.
"Oh, it is."
"Just not the kind you survive easily."
He pointed a finger toward George.
"The truth is, you aren't special."
"You're just the first one foolish enough to say yes."
George opened his mouth to argue, but the man continued.
"And once you accept…"
"…you can't take it back."
The older squires slowly dispersed, leaving George alone in the corridor.
That night, he lay awake in his bed.
Sleep refused to come.
Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined the frozen northern lands.
The fortress of Belmont.
And the knights who trained men in ways that made soldiers compare it to hell.
George stared at the ceiling for hours.
Wondering what awaited him in the North.
And whether he would return from it at all.
---