Dymitr shook his head.
"Whatever. Whatever. Just—don't do this again," he said, voice low but firm. "You're fortunate I'm not like most knights. Nor someone as lenient as Ser Don Quixote. Any other knights would've beaten you for lesser than this. Or worse."
He stepped closer to Sancho, placing a steadying hand against her hindquarters as if to reassure himself more than the horse.
"Sancho here doesn't let anyone near hi—"
He paused.
Her.
Right. The boy had said that.
Before the thought fully settled, Sancho's rear leg snapped back.
Dymitr barely had time to gasp before the kick whistled past him, close enough that he felt the air shift. He stumbled back a step, heart lurching into his throat.
The boy raised an eyebrow.
"Uh huh."
He stepped in without hesitation and gave Sancho an easy pat on the same spot. Instead of lashing out, the black mare flicked her tail and let out a soft, pleased whine, leaning subtly into the touch.
The boy smirked. "Don't let anyone near her, huh?"
Dymitr stared.
First at his palm.
Then at Sancho.
Then back at his palm.
Then at Sancho again.
"...Fine," he scoffed at last. "She's very picky."
Sancho snorted, as if in agreement.
"Just be careful around her," Dymitr added gruffly, more to preserve his dignity than anything else.
He exhaled, some of the tension finally bleeding away, and fixed the boy with a look. "What are you doing here anyway?"
The boy tilted his head, giving him a flat stare. "I'm... the stable boy, my lord?"
Dymitr winced.
"R-right. Right. Yeah. I—forgot." He cleared his throat quickly, heat creeping up his neck. "I meant—why were you riding Sancho?"
The boy shrugged, entirely unapologetic. "She looked bored."
Dymitr blinked. "That's it?"
"Well," the boy added, glancing toward the scattered luggage and then back at the mare, "she didn't throw me."
Sancho snorted again.
Dymitr sighed, rubbing at his temple. He felt exhausted suddenly—not in body, but in spirit. "You could've been hurt. Or worse!"
The boy studied him for a moment, the cheek gone from his expression. "She wouldn't have hurt me."
"And how would you know that?"
The boy hesitated—just a fraction of a second too long—then shrugged again. "I just do."
Dymitr frowned, but said nothing. He had no patience left to press, not tonight. "Help me finish tidying this," he said instead, nodding toward the gear. "And keep your hands off her saddle after."
The boy grinned. "Aye, Ser Knight-Who-Doesn't-Look-Like-One."
Dymitr groaned. "You're lucky I'm tired."
Dymitr gathered the last of Ser Don's scattered belongings, looping straps back where they belonged and brushing straw from the leather, a thought struck him.
"...Wait," he said, straightening. "Then why wear his helmet?"
The boy froze.
Just for a heartbeat—but Dymitr noticed.
The lad's shoulders hunched slightly, his gaze dropping to the dirt as he scuffed at the ground with his bare foot. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, stripped of its earlier cheek.
"Well..." he muttered. "I wanted to know how it feels."
Dymitr blinked. "How what feels?"
The boy swallowed. "...To be a knight."
A short chuckle escaped Dymitr before he could stop it. Not mocking—more surprised than anything. "That," he said, "depends on who you ask."
He leaned back against a stall beam, rainwater still dripping faintly from his cloak. "When I asked my old master what it felt like, he told me—" Dymitr paused, the memory rising clear as day. "'It feels like walking forward when you don't know the road, and doing it anyway because someone has to.'"
He looked back at the boy. "For me, it's... an interesting experience."
The torchlight flickered, painting the boy's face in warm gold and shadow.
"Why?" Dymitr asked. "You want to be one too?"
The boy didn't answer at once.
He stood there, silent, fingers curling into the hem of his ragged tunic. When he finally spoke, it was barely more than a breath.
"...Yes."
Dymitr didn't hear it.
"What was that?" he asked, louder than he meant to.
The boy startled, straightening sharply. "Yes!" he said, voice cracking just a little. "I do."
Dymitr studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Well, for that, you need to be a squire first. A knight has to choose you. You train under him—years, usually—until he decides you're worthy of the spurs." He paused, "Like me."
The boy shifted his weight, hesitated... then looked up at him with something dangerously close to hope.
"Would you..." he asked carefully, "take me as your squire, Ser?"
Dymitr stared at him.
Then he scoffed. "Me? Take you as a squire?" He shook his head. "Didn't you say I don't look like a knight? Perish the thought."
He turned away, dusting his hands off. "I'm not taking any squire anytime soon. Besides—why would I take you in? You've been insolent to me and Ser Don—Well, me—all evening. And I don't know about mine, but you've already touched his things."
He straightened fully. "Besides, me and Ser Don are still on our journey east."
The boy's head snapped up. "To Rudnicka Vale?"
Dymitr froze mid-step.
"...How the hell did you know?" he raised his brow.
The boy shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Tavern gossip. Everyone's been talking about it. They say the Royal family and a lot of Great Houses from Kazimierz and beyond are going to the tourney there."
He glanced toward the stable doors, where torchlight spilled in from the inn beyond.
"Many great knights too."
Dymitr felt a chill—not from the damp, but from the weight of the words.
Rudnicka Vale.
Great knights.
And now... a boy who wanted to be one.
Dym studied the boy for a long while.
In the torchlight, with the horses shifting softly around them and the night pressing close beyond the stable walls, the lad looked smaller than before. Not insolent now. Not sharp-tongued. Just... young.
Too young to be carrying that look.
It reminded Dym, painfully, of himself—years ago, all elbows and hunger, standing at the edge of a campfire while Ser Arlan pretended not to notice him stealing warmth from the glow. Of the way his heart had leapt at the sound of armor, at the promise of something more than survival.
Ser Don's words from the dinner table surfaced unbidden.
Help others when you can. Not for thanks. Not for reward. But because one day, you may be the only hand they see.
And because... he had once stood exactly where this boy stood now.
Dymitr exhaled slowly.
Maybe Ser Don's lessons begin tomorrow, he thought. But Ser Arlan always said life teaches faster than any knight ever could.
He looked the boy in the eye—and noticed, truly noticed, the color of them. Gold, bright and clear, catching the torchlight in a way that made them seem almost luminous.
"Well..." Dymitr said at last, voice steadier than he felt. "I can't take you as my squire."
The boy's shoulders sagged, but Dymitr continued before the disappointment could settle.
"But maybe I can ask Ser Don to take you as his. Or—you could ask him yourself."
The boy blinked, surprised.
"The old knight's anything but miserly," Dymitr added, searching for the word and finding the right one at last. "He's generous to a fault. I won't promise anything—but I'll vouch for you tomorrow. And if you want to ask him first, I'll still speak for you if he turns you away."
He turned toward the stable door, boots crunching softly over straw, then paused and looked back over his shoulder.
"I won't tell him about you touching his things," Dymitr said. "But from what little I know of Ser Don from this journey, I think he'd forgive you quicker and easier if you told him yourself."
He hesitated, then added more quietly, "It might help your case. Might not. But the first lessons of knighthood is honesty."
He offered a faint, tired smile. "That's what Ser Arlan taught me. And I'm sure Ser Don would appreciate it."
Then Dymitr yawned as he turned away, stepping out into the lamplit yard and toward the warmth of the inn, leaving the boy alone in the stable—with golden eyes, a borrowed dream, and more to think about than he'd had at the start of the night.
==========
Dymitr pushed the stable door shut behind him and crossed the yard, boots splashing through shallow puddles left by the downpour. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle now, mist clinging to the lamplight like breath on cold glass.
Inside the inn, the familiar warmth hit him again.
It wasn't as lively as before—the loud laughter dulled, the music reduced to a tired hum—but there were still patrons scattered about. A pair of merchants nursing late cups, a group of locals hunched over dice, a lone traveler asleep with his hat pulled low. The fire crackled softly, throwing long shadows across the beams.
And yet...
Something nagged at the back of his head.
A faint unease. Like the sense of being watched, or of having forgotten something important. Dymitr slowed for a step, brow creasing, eyes sweeping the room. Nothing stood out. No hostile glances. No sudden silences.
He shook his head.
You're tired, he told himself. That's all.
With a quiet sigh, he made his way to the innkeeper's table.
"Evening," he said.
No response.
The woman behind the counter was staring off into nothing, chin propped on her palm, eyes unfocused and faintly glossy—like a maiden lost in some private fantasy. There was the hint of a smile on her lips, soft and dreamy.
"...Ma'am?" Dymitr tried again.
Still nothing.
He waved a hand slowly in front of her face.
Nothing.
Dymitr sighed, shoulders drooping. Then he straightened and cleared his throat—loudly.
"AHEM."
She blinked, startled, snapping back to the present as if yanked by a string. Her dreamy look vanished, replaced by a sharp, unimpressed scowl.
"Whuh-What d'ya want?" she snapped.
Tired to the bone, Dymitr rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm with Ser Don Quixote," he said evenly. "The old one-eyed knight. He already paid for the food and our rooms."
Her eyes widened a fraction.
Yet for some reason her face also reddens?
"Oh. Right—right," she said quickly, rummaging beneath the counter. "That one."
She slapped a key onto the wood and slid it toward him. "Your room's right next to his. Second floor, end of the hall. The knight's room is the one by the corner window—yours is just before it."
She paused, then added with a smirk, "If you somehow got lost, just listen. Find the noisiest room. Yours is the one before it."
"The noisiest?" Dymitr echoed, one brow lifting.
She smirked. "You'll figure it out."
"Well," he muttered, taking the key, "I suppose I will."
"Thanks," he said, more sincerely. "And... for the food."
She waved it off with an easy grin. "No problem, darling. If you need more, just ask. Might help you grow bigger than you are now."
Dymitr nearly choked on his own breath. "Th-thanks," he stammered, ears warming. "Good night, ma'am."
He turned quickly and headed for the stairs, boots thudding softly against the wood. As he climbed, he muttered under his breath, committing the directions to memory.
"Second floor... corner window... the noisiest..."
The stairs creaked beneath him as he ascended, the inn's sounds growing muffled behind him—leaving only the faint hum of voices, the crackle of the fire... and that lingering, inexplicable feeling that followed him up into the shadows.
As Dymitr reached the second floor, a faint sound drifted to his ears.
At first, he didn't pay it any mind.
The upper hallway was dim—only a few candles set in iron brackets, their flames wavering and throwing more shadow than light. The air smelled of old wood and melted tallow. He followed the innkeeper's directions, boots heavy with fatigue, key clenched loosely in his hand.
Then he heard it again.
A muffled noise.
Dymitr frowned, brow creasing. He slowed his steps, head tilting slightly. At first it was indistinct—just breath, perhaps laughter—but the closer he walked, the clearer it became. Softer. Rhythmic.
...and unmistakably feminine.
He stopped.
"What the hell...?" he muttered under his breath.
As he moved forward, the sounds grew louder. Not one voice, either—several. Different pitches. Different cadences. All blending together in a way that made his ears burn.
Moaning.
No...
Moanings.
His eyes widened as the realization hit him all at once.
"Oh," he breathed.
"Oh... oh."
He found himself standing before a familiar door—the one by the corner window.
Ser Don's room.
From behind the thick wood came a chorus of muffled noises, rising and falling, punctuated by laughter and breathless sounds that left very little to the imagination.
Suddenly, that strange feeling he'd had downstairs made sense.
No wonder, he thought, heat rushing to his face. There weren't any female servants in the tavern...
He dragged a hand down his face, mortified. "Damn," he muttered. "This old dog..."
Shaking his head, he hurried past the door, ears burning. As he reached his own room—the one just before the noisiest, just as the innkeeper had said—he fumbled the key into the lock.
Something crashed loudly in Ser Don's room.
Dymitr froze, half-turned, instincts flaring. His hand twitched, ready to move—ready to barge in if something had gone wrong.
Then the sounds resumed.
Undiminished.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders slumping. "...Nope," he decided. "I am far too tired for this."
As he slipped into his room, he couldn't help but mutter under his breath, baffled and faintly impressed, "How in all the hells does he even manage this...?"
The thought lingered, unbidden.
I should ask him tomorrow, he added silently, scowling at himself. For... educational purposes.
He closed the door and leaned his sword carefully against the wall before shrugging off his cloak and loosening his rope belt. The room was mercifully quieter—its walls thick enough to muffle most of what was happening next door.
He collapsed onto the straw bed with a groan.
Unfortunately, it was far too small.
His long legs hung over the edge, boots still on, exhaustion finally catching up to him. He stared at the ceiling, feeling sleep tug at his eyelids—
BANG.
The wall shuddered.
"Co do diabła?!" Dymitr barked, jolting upright.
Another muffled thump followed, then laughter, then the same relentless sounds from before.
He groaned, dragging his hands over his face. "Of all the nights..."
Lying back down, he stared into the darkness, thoughts spiraling despite his fatigue. Ser Don—the wise, patient knight. The man of measured words and earnest teachings.
And then this.
"What have I gotten myself into..." he whined quietly.
The noises continued, on and off, turning the attempt at sleep into a losing battle. With a long, resigned sigh, Dymitr shifted on the too-small bed, resigned to a restless night.
It seemed that, for the tall "knight," tonight's sleep would not come easily at all
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A/N:
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