Morning came thin and pale, the kind of dawn that crept rather than announced itself.
Mist still clung to the low ground beyond the inn, silvering the grass and the worn earth of the yard. A few merchants were already stirring—checking wheels, tightening straps—but the space near the fence had been left mostly open. Quiet enough for instruction. Alive enough to remind Dymitr that eyes could always be watching.
Ser Don stood with his hands clasped behind his back, helmet nowhere in sight, hair tied loosely, looking far more like a tutor than the laughing veteran from the night before.
"Right," he said. "First lesson of the day. Posture."
Dymitr straightened immediately.
"Too stiff," Ser Don said at once. "You look like a broom someone forgot to lean against a wall."
He stepped closer and, without ceremony, tapped Dymitr lightly between the shoulder blades with two fingers. "Stand as if you belong where you are. Not like you're bracing for a blow, and not like you're begging pardon for existing."
Dymitr adjusted, awkwardly at first, then steadier.
"Better," Ser Don nodded. "Now—bowing."
They practiced it again and again. A shallow bow. A deeper one. One meant for equals. One meant for someone with just enough rank to be dangerous. Ser Don corrected the angle of Dymitr's back, the placement of his feet, the speed at which he rose.
"Too fast," he said once. "That reads as impatience."
Another time: "Too slow. That looks like groveling. Groveling makes people uncomfortable, and uncomfortable people get cruel."
Between repetitions, Ser Don began to talk.
"You remember the stable boy from last night, yes?" he said casually, as if commenting on the weather.
Dymitr winced. "Yes, ser."
"You wanted to snap back at him."
Dymitr hesitated, then nodded. "He was… insolent."
"He was," Ser Don agreed. "And if you'd dressed him down there and then, what would have happened?"
Dymitr thought. "I would have made a scene."
"And whose scene would it be remembered as?"
"…Mine."
Ser Don hummed. "Exactly. In court—or anywhere close to it—control is worth more than righteousness. You don't lash out. You don't raise your voice. You observe."
He folded his arms. "If a servant oversteps, you do not punish them yourself. Not unless you outrank their master, which you don't. Not now. Maybe not ever."
Dymitr frowned. "But they were in the wrong."
"Oh, very often they are," Ser Don said dryly. "Doesn't matter."
He gestured with his chin toward the inn. "In feudal societies—Kazimierz included—a servant is a reflection of their master. What the servant does, the court assumes the master allows. Or encourages."
Dymitr absorbed that in silence.
"If you publicly punish someone else's servant," Ser Don continued, "most masters will protect them. Surprising, I know. You'd think they'd be embarrassed."
He snorted softly. "Some do it to preserve their honor. Some because admitting fault weakens their standing. And a rare few—rare—because they actually care about their servants."
He glanced at Dymitr. "Favoritism muddies things. So do… other kinds of attachment. The bond between master and servant can be confusing. But most of the time, it's rigid. Unyielding."
Ser Don's expression hardened a touch. "So beware when you intrude on it."
They resumed practice, this time walking—how to approach, how to stop at the proper distance, how to turn without showing your back too fully.
"The right way," Ser Don said, "is to take the matter to their master. But never directly. You sugarcoat it. You wrap it in courtesy. You make it sound like concern rather than accusation."
He smiled thinly. "You make your point clear without ever saying it aloud."
Dymitr swallowed. "And if you say nothing?"
"That hurts you too," Ser Don said. "If you're wronged and do nothing, people assume you lacked standing—or courage. Your credibility suffers."
"And if you just... report it? Out loud?" Dymitr asked.
"Then you've dug your own grave," Ser Don replied. "Deep and with enthusiasm."
He let that sit.
"The court," he went on quietly, "is its own battlefield, Dym. Different from the fields of tourneys where Ser Arlan fought with steel and horses. This one is fought with words, silences, glances."
His gaze sharpened. "Backstabbing is as natural as breathing to those who thrive there. One misstep—one poorly chosen action—can be the difference between life and death."
Dymitr felt a chill despite the morning sun.
"And for hedge knights like us," Ser Don said, voice lower now, "the stakes are simple. Employment under a lord… or a lifetime of unemployment. Sometimes with a fate worse than death attached."
He paused, then added, "Now—there's another thing you need to understand."
He turned fully to Dymitr.
"The same rules apply between a knight and their squire. If someone harms or insults another knight's squire, they'd best be ready to face the knight's wrath. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day."
Dymitr blinked. "Even if the squire is… lowborn?"
Ser Don's mouth twitched. "Especially then."
He softened slightly. "One day, when you have your own squire, you'll understand. The bond isn't always gentle. It's not always kind. But it is… protective."
He tilted his head. "Almost paternal, yes?"
Dymitr thought of long rides, shared meals, quiet corrections rather than public scoldings.
"…Yes," he said softly.
Ser Don nodded once. "Good. That tells me you're paying attention."
He stepped back and gestured. "Again. Bow to me—this time as someone who might hire you. And remember, Dym…"
His voice carried no humor now, only weight. "Remember, always tread carefully."
=========
Ser Don did not send Dym to rest.
Instead, he made him think.
They sat on a low stone wall near the yard, the inn behind them slowly waking into full noise—voices, hooves, the clatter of pots. Ser Don leaned back with his arms crossed, one boot hooked over the other.
"Now, onto the next lesson," he said. "Judgment. Or, the arts of Judging"
Dymitr straightened slightly. "Judging…?"
"People," Ser Don replied. "All of them. Me. You. That stable boy."
Dymitr hesitated.
Ser Don caught it at once. "Now, I want to hear your honest thoughts only. This is instruction, not confession. I won't punish you for thinking. Say anything that comes to your mind."
"…Very well," Dymitr said slowly. "The stable boy was... rude. Too familiar. He spoke above his place."
Ser Don nodded. "Good. Me?"
Dymitr glanced at him. "You're blunt. Loud. Generous. Contradictory... And... Promiscous?"
A corner of Ser Don's mouth twitched and he snorted. "Accurate enough. And yourself?"
Dymitr swallowed. "…I was angry. Embarrassed. I wanted to prove I wasn't someone he could mock."
Silence followed.
Then Ser Don said, "All fair judgments."
He leaned forward. "Now here's the lesson this time: having those thoughts isn't the danger. Showing them is."
He tapped two fingers against his temple. "Just like before, in public: your face, your voice, your posture—those are weapons whether you mean them to be or not. Courtly etiquette is not just about being polite. It's about control. Of yourself first. Of others second."
Dymitr frowned. "Control… others?"
"Steering," Ser Don corrected. "You steer conversations the way you steer a horse. Not by yanking the reins, but by guiding pressure. A question here. A pause there. A smile when someone expects a frown."
He gestured toward the inn. "You let people reveal themselves. You never rush to show your hand."
They practiced it, then—small scenarios spoken aloud. Ser Don played the role of a dismissive merchant, a suspicious guard, a bored minor lord. Each time, Dymitr answered, sometimes stumbling, sometimes surprising himself.
"No," Ser Don said once. "You defended yourself. Don't. Redirect."
Another time: "Better. You let him justify himself."
By the time the sun stood high, sweat dotted Dymitr's brow—not from exertion, but from effort.
"Good," Ser Don said at last. "That's enough thinking and prancing about for one morning. Now, let us hit each other."
Ser Don turned back toward the tree, the grin fading into something more focused. He reached the equipment first, tugging loose the straps that kept the practice weapons bundled together. He tossed a blunted training sword toward Dymitr, who caught it on instinct. With it came a familiar weight—Ser Arlan's old shield, scuffed, its rim nicked and worn smooth by years of use.
Dymitr's fingers tightened around the grip.
Ser Don, meanwhile, took only a single weapon for himself.
A two-handed bastard sword—longer than Dym's, broad in the blade, its edge dulled but its presence undeniable. He rolled his shoulders once, testing the balance, then—almost casually—let one hand drop away.
He held the bastard sword one-handed.
Dymitr's brows rose despite himself.
The blade didn't waver. Not even a tremor. The old knight carried it as if it weighed no more than a longsword, wrist steady, forearm relaxed.
Ser Don nodded toward the yard. "Position."
Dymitr stepped forward, feet apart, shield raised, sword angled low. It was a stance Ser Arlan drilled into him since boyhood—solid, defensive, reliable.
Ser Don watched him for a moment.
Then he shifted.
He planted one foot forward and turned his body slightly sideways, shoulders opening rather than closing. The bastard sword lowered behind him, still held in that single hand, blade trailing back like a wing unfurled. His chest lay exposed, his centerline seemingly unguarded.
The stance looked… dangerous.
Dymitr frowned. "Ser…?"
Ser Don smiled, sharp and knowing.
"Looks open, doesn't it?"
Dymitr hesitated. It was open. Recklessly so. Any half-decent strike to the torso—
"Good," Ser Don said, catching the thought immediately. "You see it."
He held the stance, utterly unbothered, weight coiled and ready despite the apparent vulnerability.
"Now," he continued, "use what you learned this morning."
Dymitr blinked. "You mean—"
"Control," Ser Don said. "Judgment. Reading what's shown to you and deciding whether it's truth or bait."
He shifted the sword a hair's breadth, the heavy blade humming softly. "This stance invites attack. It wants you to commit. Just like a sneer in court. Or an insult spoken a touch too loudly."
Dymitr swallowed.
"Don't rush," Ser Don said calmly. "Think. If you were in public, what would you do?"
Dymitr adjusted his footing, eyes narrowing—not at the sword, but at Ser Don himself. His breathing. His balance. The tension in his legs.
"…You're ready to counter," Dymitr said slowly. "If I strike where it's open, you'll punish the overreach."
Ser Don's grin widened. "There it is."
He finally moved—bringing the second hand to the hilt only at the last moment—as the open guard collapsed into a brutal, sweeping counter that would have split shield and man alike if the blade were sharp.
"This is called an invitation," Ser Don said. "On the field, and in court. Most fools take it. The clever ones ask why it's there."
He straightened, stance relaxing. "Again. From the start. Show me you can keep your head when your instincts scream at you to charge."
Dymitr raised his shield once more.
This time, his eyes stayed sharp.
And the lesson continued—steel meeting steel beneath the rising sun, where control mattered just as much as strength.
=========
-Timeskip
By the time the sun climbed higher, Dym's arms felt like lead.
The old knight had drilled him relentlessly—advance and retreat, guard and counter, feint and restraint. Again and again Ser Don forced him into situations where instinct screamed one thing and discipline demanded another. Every mistake was answered, not cruelly, but decisively: a tap to the ribs he hadn't protected, a knock to the thigh when his stance grew lazy, the dull thud of a blunted edge against his shield when his timing slipped by a heartbeat.
Dymitr learned.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But not fast enough.
Eventually, his legs buckled. He stumbled back, caught himself once, then failed to do so a second time. He hit the grass on his back with a breathless groan, shield clattering beside him, sword slipping from numb fingers.
"Gods…" he rasped.
His body throbbed everywhere at once. Purple and blue already bloomed beneath his skin—along his arms, across his ribs, along his thighs. Bruises layered over older bruises, a map of every lesson he'd failed to absorb in time.
He stared up at the sky, chest heaving, wondering dimly how in all the hells Ser Don was still standing.
The old knight hadn't even broken a sweat.
Ser Don stepped into his vision, blotting out the sun. He looked down at Dymitr, hands resting on his hips, his sword planted tip-down in the dirt like a walking staff.
"You're still breathing," Ser Don observed mildly. "That's a good sign."
Dymitr groaned again. "How… how do you still have this much energy?"
Ser Don chuckled. "Because I've had decades of having my arse kicked." He crouched, close enough that Dymitr could see the lines at the corners of his eye, the old scars half-hidden beneath beard and skin. "That, and a lifetime of exercises. You think this ends once you're knighted? God, no. You just start losing to better people."
He gave Dymitr's shoulder a light, reassuring pat. "Remember, you're still learning. That's what matters. Nothing to be ashamed of. All knights are still learning to find their own bearings."
Dymitr let out a long breath, tension draining from him despite the ache. The grass was cool against his back. Too cool. Too comfortable.
"Now rest," Ser Don said, standing again. "I'll fetch one of your horses. We'll begin the joust after. Which one do you want to ride on for jousts?"
Dymitr turned his head weakly.
"Thunder," Dymitr groaned. "The white one."
Ser Don nodded once and said nothing more.
Dymitr heard the shuffling of boots through the grass as the old knight walked away. The sound faded, slow and steady. The world blurred at the edges. Fatigue—true, bone-deep exhaustion—finally claimed its due. The sleepless night, the morning drills, the bruises… it all pressed down at once.
His eyes slid shut.
Just for a moment.
Then—
Shuffle.
Dymitr's eyes snapped open.
He squinted, turning his head toward the sound—and immediately hissed as light stabbed through his vision. The sun reflected off something smooth and bright, burning white across his eyes.
"…Gods damn it," he muttered.
A bald head leaned into view, glowing like a polished shield beneath the sun.
The stable boy grinned down at him.
"Don't worry, my lord," the boy said cheerfully. "Even if you fall asleep here, you'll be fine. This place is secure enough."
Dymitr groaned.
"And if Ser Don comes back," the boy continued, tapping his own shining scalp, "my head'll reflect the sunlight straight into your eyes and burn through your eyelids to wake you up."
Dymitr stared at him for a long second.
"…Oh I hate you," he muttered.
The stable boy only laughed, unapologetic, as the day—and the next lesson—pressed on.
Dymitr exhaled through his nose, still staring up at the sky, when the stable boy plopped himself down beside him as if they were old friends sharing a patch of grass.
The boy squinted at him, then at the training field beyond, where the scuffed earth and trampled grass told a clear story.
"…How does a big man like you," the boy began, genuinely puzzled, "get beaten up so badly by an old Liberi half your size?"
Dymitr groaned. "He's not half my size. And he is no Liberi. I don't know what he is"
"Still old," the boy said, unhelpfully.
He reached into a small cloth pouch at his side and pulled out a stick of cooked fish, browned and glistening with fat. The smell made Dymitr's stomach twist painfully.
Without thinking, Dymitr lifted a hand.
The boy promptly pulled the fish back.
"Ah-ah." He grinned and extended his other hand. "That'll cost you, my lord."
Dymitr let his arm fall back into the grass. "You're lucky I'm tired."
The boy tilted his head, eyes narrowing with sudden interest. "Didn't you say the same thing last night?"
Dymitr frowned. "What?"
The boy leaned closer, clearly pleased with himself. "How're you still tired, my lord?"
Dymitr shot him a look. "And you? You get any better sleep last night?"
The boy took a loud bite of the fish and munched happily. "Yeah. Slept like a log."
Dymitr blinked. "How?"
The boy shrugged. "Stable. Quiet enough."
Dymitr stared at him. How? "Everyone else in the tavern looked half-dead this morning."
The boy chewed thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it… yeah. Folks were grumpy. Red-eyed. The servant girls were walking kinda funny too." He paused, brow furrowing. "What happened?"
Heat rushed up Dymitr's cheeks.
"Nothing you need to know," he said quickly. "You're too young."
The boy frowned. "What does that even—", swallowing the last of the fish. "Anyway," the boy brushed his hands on his dirty trousers, "did you ask Ser Don Quixote about my squirehood?"
Dymitr opened his mouth—
"Ah! There you are!"
The booming, cheerful voice cut clean through the moment.
Both of them turned.
Ser Don strode toward them across the grass, guiding Thunder by the reins. The white horse snorted softly, mane catching the sunlight, utterly unbothered by the scene. Slung casually over Ser Don's shoulder was a length of lance—its blunted training tip wrapped in leather and cloth—resting there as easily as a walking stick. His grin was wide, his step steady, as if the morning's training hadn't touched him at all.
"Been looking for you in the stable, lad!" Ser Don called, his one good eye flicking briefly to Dymitr sprawled on the ground. "And I see you've made yourself a friend, Dym."
Dymitr groaned again, lifting one arm weakly as if that might somehow explain everything.
The stable boy stood at once, sheepish but bright-eyed, brushing grass from his trousers as Thunder's hooves came to a stop beside them. The horse lowered his head slightly, breathing warm air over Dymitr's shoulder, as if inspecting the fallen knight with mild concern—or judgment.
Ser Don shifted the lance on his shoulder, amused. "You look lively enough," he said to the boy, then glanced back down at Dymitr. "Unlike some people."
Dymitr cracked one eye open. "You're enjoying this. Old man."
"Immensely," Ser Don replied without shame.
"Hold her, lad," he said simply.
He placed Thunder's reins into the stable boy's hands. The boy accepted them a little too eagerly, straightening at once as if he'd been handed a sacred relic. Thunder flicked an ear but allowed it, calm as ever.
Ser Don then turned back to Dymitr. "Stretch yourself out. Properly this time. I don't want you snapping in half the moment you tilt forward."
Dymitr groaned but obeyed, rolling onto his back and then onto his side, dragging one knee up and stretching an arm over his head. His joints protested loudly.
Before leaving, Ser Don paused and looked to the boy. "We'll speak of your squirehood soon enough. Stay put."
The boy nodded so hard his bald head caught the sun again.
With that, Ser Don walked off toward the far end of the yard, the blunted lance still balanced on his shoulder. He began setting up rough targets—old barrels, straw bundles tied to posts, a cracked shield hung crookedly from a beam—humming faintly to himself as he worked.
Left behind, Dymitr stretched again, arms extended, back arched, legs drawn in and out as he loosened the soreness.
The stable boy watched for a moment, then tilted his head.
"You know," he said thoughtfully, "the way you stretch like that—kind of reminds me of a feline stretching in the sun."
Dymitr shot him a glare from the ground. "Shut up."
The boy grinned.
Dymitr flailed his arms once more, then rolled forward and pushed himself upright with a grunt. He bent at the waist, cracking his back with a sharp pop, then straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders. Another crack followed, louder this time.
He exhaled, long and steady.
"Alright," he muttered, reaching out to pat Thunder's neck as the horse snorted softly in response. "I'm ready now."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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