The thunder of hooves silenced the murmurs of the crowd.
Five riders burst from the haze of the dirt road, their horses broad and restless, their snorts puffing clouds into the late afternoon air. Their armor was not uniform but patched and worn—steel breastplates polished in places, dulled in others, with leather straps darkened by sweat. Spears bristled in their hands, and short swords rattled at their belts.
At their head, a banner snapped in the wind. Black cloth, stark against the wheat-gold sky, bore the image of a hawk with its wings stretched wide, a crown hovering above its head.
The effect was immediate. Villagers dropped their eyes and bent their knees, muttering hurried prayers. A woman pulled her child to her chest. Men who had moments ago stood tall with hoes and pitchforks now lowered them, heads bowed in submission.
Elias froze where he knelt in the dirt. His heart hammered. He didn't know the men, the symbol, the rules of this world. But the villagers' fear told him enough: these riders were power. Dangerous power.
The horses slowed, stamping the ground with restless hooves. One knight swung down, boots sinking into the packed earth with heavy finality. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his chainmail dark with age. A half-helm shadowed his face, but his eyes gleamed sharp as a hawk's beneath it.
He barked something at the villagers. The language was hard and guttural, each syllable striking like hammer on anvil. Several peasants pointed toward Elias at once, words tumbling out like an accusation.
Elias' stomach sank.
The knight's gaze followed their fingers until it found him. The air seemed to grow heavier.
The knight strode forward, spurs jangling. His gauntleted hand gripped the hilt of his sword as though even the presence of a stranger demanded caution. He stopped just short of Elias and tilted his head, studying him like one would study a diseased animal.
Elias swallowed hard. "I—I don't understand," he stammered. His voice shook. He raised his hands slowly, palms open, universal surrender.
The knight said something low and sharp, gesturing at Elias' clothes. Elias looked down—dusty jeans, torn shirt, blood from his lip. Completely alien here.
The knight's eyes narrowed. He drew his sword—not to cut, but to prod. The flat of the blade jabbed into Elias' chest, forcing him back a step. Another word followed, harsher this time, dripping with suspicion.
"I don't—please, I don't know what you're saying!" Elias' words fell empty.
The knight tilted his head again, then moved with sudden violence. His gauntleted hand lashed out, striking Elias across the face. Pain burst white behind his eyes. He crumpled into the dirt, dust filling his mouth as laughter erupted from the mounted men.
The villagers didn't laugh. They stayed silent, grim, their eyes downcast.
Elias coughed, spitting grit, his cheek blazing with fire. Humiliation burned hotter than pain. He had read about this—how strangers, prisoners, captives were displayed, struck down to remind the crowd who held power. But reading about it was nothing compared to the raw sting of being the one broken in the dirt.
A command snapped from the knight. At once, two riders dismounted, their boots kicking dust as they strode toward Elias. Rough hands seized his arms, iron fingers clamping down like shackles. He struggled out of instinct, but another barked word froze him—there was steel in that tone, the kind that promised pain if he resisted further.
A rope came down, coarse and frayed, and was looped around his wrists. It pulled tight until it bit into his skin.
The knights hauled him upright, dragging him before the banner. The hawk loomed above, its wings spread wide, crown shining in the fading sun. It seemed to watch him, silent, judging.
Elias panted, his chest tight. His legs wobbled beneath him, but the knights gave him no chance to recover. They shoved him forward, forcing him toward the road.
He looked back once, over his shoulder. The villagers stood still, eyes fixed on him with a mixture of pity and relief—pity for the stranger taken, relief that it was not one of their own. A little girl peeked from behind her mother's skirt, eyes wide as saucers, until the woman pulled her away and turned her back.
No one moved to help. No one said a word.
Elias felt the weight of the ropes on his wrists, the steel of their grip, and the hopeless truth sank in like a stone: he was not a guest, nor even a man. He was a prisoner.
The road stretched ahead, endless and foreign.
And Elias, bound and beaten, stumbled into it with no idea where it would lead.