The road to Rudnicka Vale stretched long and pale beneath the open sky, a ribbon of packed earth bordered by tall grass and the occasional crooked fence. Three riders moved along it at an easy pace.
Ser Don rode at the front as always, straight-backed despite his age, humming some half-forgotten tune. Dym followed, towering in the saddle, his armor catching the light in dull flashes. Behind them rode Soap atop Thunder, the horse's steady gait doing more to soothe the boy's nerves than anything else these past few days.
The journey itself had been… quiet. Uneventful.
They stopped often—beneath lone trees, near streams, beside old milestone stones. Ser Don trained Dym whenever the ground allowed it, correcting his stance, tapping his knee with a cane when it drifted, barking reminders about balance and breath. Dym, in turn, taught Soap the less-glorious but far more constant duties of knighthood: how to clean his mail without rusting it, how to oil his leather equipment so it wouldn't crack, how to check straps twice because the one time you didn't would be the time they failed.
At night, when inns grew too crowded the closer they came to Rudnicka, they slept beneath the stars. Sometimes all they could get from an inn was bread and stew ladled into travel bowls. Other nights meant quiet poaching in the woods or careful purchases from village markets and wandering merchants.
It costs coins.
Mostly Ser Don's.
Yet somehow, impossibly, the old knight always had more by the next morning.
Dice, cards, knife throwing—whatever game was being played, Ser Don won. Calmly. Casually. With a smile that never quite explained how. Dym and Soap had stopped questioning it by the third night. Some mysteries were safer left untouched.
By the fifth day, the rhythm of the road had settled into their bones.
That was when Ser Don spoke up again.
"So," he said, turning slightly in his saddle, "what kind of name is Soap, eh?"
Both Dym and Soap sagged in unison.
"This is the…" Dym paused, brows knitting together as he tried to count. "…I forgot how many, but it is the fifth day you've asked that, Ser Don. Please stop."
Soap let out a long, exhausted sigh. "I'm begging you."
Ser Don scratched the back of his head. "Sorry, sorry. It's just—what kind of parents name their child Soap? I mean, you're a Kuranta, right?"
Soap nodded. "Yes."
"Born in Kazimierz?"
"Yes."
"Not Kazdel?"
"No."
Ser Don fell quiet, staring down the road as if the dust itself might explain it to him. Then he shook his head sharply.
"It's just… what kind of parents name their kid Soap?" he blurted. "Hell, not even Kazdel names their children like that these days!"
Both Dym and Soap winced at the sudden shout.
Ser Don continued, waving a hand. "It's as if your parents hated you for some reason and decided to screw with your life!"
Soap's ears flattened, tail stiffening.
"…It used to change," Soap muttered after a moment. "Sometimes people called me Soup."
Ser Don blinked. "Soup?"
Soap nodded. "Didn't stick. Soap did."
Dym shot Ser Don a warning look. "Ser Don."
The old knight exhaled and softened at once. "…Right. That came out wrong."
He was quiet for a few steps, then spoke again—slower this time.
"A child's name," Ser Don said, "is their parents' prayer."
Both Dym and Soap glanced at him.
"If the prayer's good," he went on, "the child gets a good name. Or at least a simple one. Honest. Strong. Something the world won't chew up too badly."
He snorted.
"If the prayer's bad?" He shrugged. "They get a shit name."
Soap huffed despite himself.
Ser Don looked at him sidelong. "And I don't know what was going through your parents' minds, lad. Truly."
Then he turned his head toward Dym. "This," he said, tapping the air with a finger, "is another lesson for you, Ser Dymitr. We're not talking swordwork. Not honor or any courtly stuffs. This time, we talk about: Life."
Dym straightened unconsciously.
"One day," Ser Don continued, "when you decide to retire, settle somewhere, grow roots instead of blisters—maybe have a child of your own—remember this." His gaze was sharp but warm. "Think carefully about what your prayers are for that child. Because the name you give them is the first thing the world will throw back in their face."
Dym swallowed and nodded.
Ser Don turned back to Soap. "You too."
Soap blinked. "Me?"
"One day," Ser Don said firmly, "you give your own child a good name." He jabbed a finger toward the boy for emphasis. "Or else they'll be bullied by the world for eternity—and that's a cruelty no parent should ever leave behind."
Soap stared ahead for a long moment, fingers tightening in Thunder's mane.
"…I'll remember that, Ser Don." he said quietly.
Ser Don nodded, satisfied. "Good."
The road stretched onward, dusty and bright beneath the sky, carrying three riders toward Rudnicka Vale—each of them, whether they liked it or not, carrying lessons heavier than armor.
=========
The talk of names lingered longer than the dust on the road.
Dym rode in silence for a while, Thunder's steady gait rocking him gently as his thoughts wandered—uninvited—into unfamiliar territory. A home that didn't move. A fire that didn't need putting out at dawn. A child with his height, or his eyes, or—gods help them—his awkwardness.
The thought startled him.
He glanced at Ser Don, then away again, weighing the question carefully. He remembered the inn. The lessons. Where not to tread.
Still… curiosity gnawed at him.
"Ser Don," Dym began, cautiously. "May I ask you something?"
The old knight didn't answer at once, but he didn't wave him off either.
Dym cleared his throat. "Do you… have children? Or—" he hesitated "—grandchildren?"
He half-expected an answer immediately. A crude jape. A vulgar boast. Something loud and laughing. Dym knew just how… virile the old knight was. He could easily imagine a trail of sons and daughters scattered across half the continent—legitimate or otherwise.
But Ser Don didn't laugh.
He didn't speak at all.
His shoulders seemed to sag, just a little, as if something unseen had settled there. His gaze fixed ahead, unfocused, the road no longer holding his attention.
Dym felt his stomach tighten.
Before he could scramble for a retreat, Soap spoke up.
"Ser Don?"
The old knight blinked, as though woken. "Yes? Yes?" He shook his head slightly. "What was it, lad?"
Soap swallowed, ears twitching. "I was asking… do you have any children. Or grandchildren, Ser?"
Dym stiffened. He was about to cut in—take the question back, apologize, shoulder the mistake—but he caught Soap's glance. Quick. Intentional.
I'll take it.
Dym met his eyes and gave a small nod. Thank you.
Ser Don was quiet again.
The road creaked beneath hooves. Wind stirred the grass. Sancho snorted softly, unbothered.
Then, at last, the old knight spoke.
"I do," he said. "I have a daughter."
The words landed softer than Dym expected—but no less heavy.
"From my second wife," Ser Don added after a moment.
Soap's tail stilled.
Dym frowned, confused rather than relieved. He hesitated. "I… I'm sorry, Ser Don."
The old knight glanced at him, genuinely puzzled. "What for?"
Dym blinked. "You said… second wife. I thought—"
Realization struck Ser Don like a misplaced lance, and he barked out a laugh.
"Oh! Hah!" He shook his head. "Gods above, no. My first wife is very much alive. And well. Loud, too." He smiled fondly at the memory. "Still sharp enough to skin me alive with words alone."
Soap stared. "So… you had two wives?"
"Aye," Ser Don said easily. "Still do, in their own ways. Life's strange like that." His smile faded just a touch. "My daughter's alive too. Strong. Clever. Took after her mother."
"Then why…?" Soap began, then stopped himself.
Ser Don answered anyway.
"Well, I haven't seen her in years, lad." he said. "Nor her mother. Roads pull a man apart. So does pride. So does thinking... that you've got time later."
He exhaled slowly. "I don't even know if I have grandchildren. If I do, they've grown without knowing my name."
Silence settled—not sharp, not crushing, but deep.
"That," Ser Don went on quietly, "is why I talk about names the way I do." He glanced at Soap. Then at Dym. "A name's a prayer. And prayers don't always fail because God ignored them." He tapped his chest once. "Sometimes we do."
The words lingered between them.
After a moment, Ser Don straightened in his saddle and cleared his throat loudly, as if shaking dust from his bones.
"Well," he said, forcing a lighter tone, "enough of that. You two look like someone just stole your breakfast."
Soap sniffed. "You're allowed to talk about it, Ser."
Ser Don smiled at him—soft, sincere. "Aye. And you're allowed to ask."
He turned his gaze back to the road. "Just remember—when you get old and loud like me—some questions carry more history than you expect."
Dym nodded slowly.
He didn't trust his voice yet.
But he rode on, carrying the lessons that the old knight had imparted him—quiet, complicated, and heavier than steel.
Soon, they found a river not long after midday—a slow, clear ribbon cutting through the low grass, shaded by a broad, old tree whose roots clawed at the bank like grasping fingers.
Ser Don reined Sancho in first and surveyed the spot with a satisfied hum.
"Well, this'll do," he said. "Let's rest here. Clean up, lads." He glanced at Dym. "You too. Clothes and boots. No sense riding into Rudnicka smelling like road and horse sweats."
Dym nodded easily, already loosening his shoulders at the thought of cool water.
Soap, however, stiffened.
"I—uh—Ser Don," the boy said quickly, ears flicking back. "I'll bathe later. I still need to do some… maintenance. On Ser Dym's equipment." He gestured toward the saddle and gear. "I haven't finished checking the mail shirt's ties and the arming points on his greaves and vambraces. One of the leather thongs came loose this morning, and if it twists wrong again, the plates'll bite when he moves."
Dym blinked, then nodded. "He's right. The mail rides up if those ties slip, and the greaves rub like hell." He paused, then added, "You should fix that."
Soap exhaled in relief. "Aye."
They guided the horses beneath the tree, reins looped and tied carefully. Dym helped Soap down from Thunder's back, steadying him by the waist before setting him lightly on the ground. All four horses were secured—Thunder flicking her tail lazily, Sancho already settling in as if she owned the shade.
Ser Don was the first to shrug free of his cloak.
"Well then," he said cheerfully, tugging at his tunic as he headed for the river, boots already unlaced. "I'll be off first."
Dym watched him go, then turned to Soap. "Keep watch."
Soap grinned, far too quick. "Don't worry, Ser. I'll scream and fight back wth your sword if anyone tries to steal from you."
Dym sighed. "That's… not reassuring. Just be careful with it."
Still, he followed Ser Don toward the water, keeping his clothes on until he reached the bank. The river was cool and inviting, sunlight dancing across its surface. He knelt and began working methodically—dipping his shirt and trousers into the water, scrubbing dust and sweat from the fabric. His boots came next, thick with dried mud from days on the road. He worked it loose with his fingers, rinsing them clean, setting them aside on a smooth rock.
The road fell away from him then—the heat, the noise, the weight of travel—leaving only the sound of water and distant hoof-shifts behind him.
For a moment, at least, they could breathe easily.
==========
Dym hadn't meant to stare.
Truly.
It was supposed to be nothing more than a glance—just enough to make sure Ser Don hadn't slipped on the stones or decided to drown himself in a river barely deep enough to hide a horse—
And then the old knight straightened from the water.
Ser Don dipped fully beneath the surface and rose again with a sharp exhale, water streaming down a body that defied every expectation Dym had ever held about age. Broad shoulders still carried their full width. His chest was thick with muscle, layered and heavy, marked by numerous old scars that spoke of battles long survived rather than wounds that weakened him.
Especially that one jagged scar from his left shoulder to his right hip,
This wasn't the taut strength of youth.
It was earned strength.
The kind carved by decades of riding, swinging steel, and sleeping in armor when beds weren't an option. Age had not withered him—it had tempered him. His frame was still powerful, dense, like something built to endure rather than impress. There was a solidity to him that made Dym think, absurdly, that Ser Don could be knocked down a hundred times and still rise on the hundred-and-first.
What confused Dym most was what wasn't there.
No sagging flesh. No deep lines carved into muscle. Time had rounded some edges, yes, but it had stolen nothing essential. If anything, it had only made the old knight look more… complete.
And—gods help him—his gaze betrayed him further.
Well.
There was no polite way to put it.
Ser Don was… well-equipped.
Dym swallowed hard and abruptly looked down at his own reflection rippling in the water. He wasn't weak—not by any measure—but beside Ser Don, his build felt unfinished. Slightly soft in places his height usually hid well beneath armor and cloaks.
I need more drills, he thought sourly. A lot more.
He washed himself almost on instinct now, hands moving through familiar motions as his thoughts spiraled unhelpfully—
"Like what you see?"
Ser Don's voice cut through the river's hush.
Dym startled so violently he nearly dunked his head under.
"I—what—Ser Don—!" Heat flooded his face as he twisted halfway around. "I wasn't— I mean—I was just—checking you weren't—"
Ser Don laughed, deep and unbothered, water dripping from his beard as he leaned back against a smooth river stone like the whole world belonged to him.
"Easy, lad," he said, grinning. "If a man can't admire another's hard-earned condition without panicking, the court will eat him alive."
Dym groaned and covered his face with both hands. "Gods, strike me down now."
Ser Don chuckled, clearly enjoying himself far too much. "Besides," he added lightly, patting his chest, "this takes work. And spite. Mostly spite."
"…your wives were very lucky," Dym muttered into his palms.
"Aye," Ser Don agreed without hesitation. Then, with a wink, "They still are~"
Dym made a strangled sound and promptly dunked his face into the river, the cold water a mercy.
Behind him, Ser Don's laughter echoed along the bank—warm, easy, and very much alive.
The more Ser Don shifted in the water, turning slightly to rinse the river grit from his side, Dym's eyes caught on it at last.
The scar.
It wasn't a single mark so much as a path of violence etched into flesh.
A long, pale seam began high on Ser Don's left shoulder, jagged and uneven, as if a blade had bitten deep and refused to let go. It cut across his chest at a brutal angle, dipping past the ribs and muscle under his skin, running all the way down toward his right hip. The wound must have split him nearly in half once—there was no other way to describe it.
Dym's breath caught.
That should have killed him.
Any sane man would have bled out screaming in the mud.
If hey're stil conscious when that happened.
And yet Ser Don stood here, alive, solid, washing himself like it had been nothing more than a bad day.
Then Dym noticed the arm.
Ser Don's right arm bore another ruinous mark—thick scar tissue circling the upper limb, uneven and tight, as if the arm had once been nearly severed and only stubborn refusal had kept it attached. The muscle there was dense but slightly misshapen, the kind of healing that spoke of crude battlefield stitching and pain endured without complaint.
"How…?" Dym whispered without meaning to.
How could a man live through that?
He looked at Ser Don again, whole and breathing, laughing even—and his mind rebelled against it.
It dragged him back, unbidden, to his earliest days as a squire.
To Ser Arlan.
He remembered that skirmish on the border of Kazmierz—what had once been Ursus soil, before Kazdel took it and soaked it in blood. They had been hired cheap by some petty border lord who wanted plausible deniability and expendable steel.
Hedge knights.
Meat in armor.
The Kazdelian knights had come like black iron demons, their armor swallowing the light, their blows heavy enough to crush bone through plate. Ser Arlan had taken a strike square to the chest—his armor caved inward like soft clay. If not for the padding beneath, the old knight would have died there, lungs pierced, heart shattered.
Dym remembered the sound.
The thunderous bang.
The awful, hollow thump.
He remembered screaming for help.
And he remembered how fortune—nothing but cruel, indifferent fortune—had spared them.
The fighting had ended not with victory, but with a command.
A Sarkaz stepped forward.
Their leader.
Ser Phineas Duqa Convalliss.
The Sun Knight.
The Undefeated. Sword of the Sun. Bearer of a dozen titles Dym could no longer recall, though the weight of them still pressed on his chest. The man had been radiant even in a land of endless snow, his presence alone enough to still the battlefield.
It was he who had ordered his physicians forward.
He who had commanded that Ser Arlan—and the others—be treated.
Their employer hadn't even looked at them.
No thanks. No coin. No apology.
Just turned away and rode off.
Ser Arlan had said nothing.
Not a word.
At the time, Dym hadn't understood. He had burned with fury on his mentor's behalf, had sworn never to be so meek, so silent.
But now—standing by the river, staring at Ser Don's impossible scars—Dym felt that anger twist into something else.
Understanding.
Ser Don's lessons echoed in his head. About pride. About knowing when to speak—and when to endure. About how surviving was sometimes the only victory left.
Dym exhaled slowly, eyes lowering back to the water.
Maybe Ser Arlan hadn't been weak.
Maybe he had simply been tired.
And Ser Don… Ser Don was what came after.
A man ridiculously too stubborn to die.
+++++++++
A/N:
Sorry for the late update, two days ago my car broke down, twice; and I had to do the repairs on the side of the road, luckily, my contact who had his own workshop can come and help me repair the old bastard and we managed to get it to his place to get it repaired, which fortunately was close to my home.
Been tired since then, it was through my own pure stubbornness that I managed to squeeze out a chapter for this fic before I lost the inspiration and forgot the contexts.
I'll see you guys on the next chapter, see ya!