By the time dusk settled in, the river had gone quiet.
The sun bled low across the treeline, staining the water in copper and gold, and the air cooled just enough to make the campfire welcome. They had made camp beneath a broad old tree whose roots clawed deep into the riverbank, its branches forming a crooked canopy above them.
The fire crackled softly.
Tonight's meal lay skewered above it—strips of game meat from earlier, and several fish slowly roasting, their skins blistering and snapping as fat dripped into the flames. Dym turned them carefully, watching the colour change, brushing them now and then with the few spices they'd bought yesterday. Nothing fancy, but it smelled good and warm for their bellies.
He glanced up at Ser Don across the fire.
For a man so patient, so measured in word and deed, Dym still couldn't quite wrap his head around what had happened earlier.
Fishing.
Of all things.
When Ser Don had first taken the rod, Dym and Soap had exchanged looks, already bracing themselves for a lecture—about stillness, patience, waiting for the right moment. The sort of virtues knights or decent men were always meant to absorb through metaphor.
Instead, Ser Don had frowned at the water, muttered something sharp under his breath, shoved the rod into Soap's hands, and said, "Hold this."
Then he'd jumped straight into the river.
What followed had left both of them staring like idiots.
Ser Don had waded upstream, eyes narrowed, shoulders tense—and then, gods help him, he lunged. Hands flashing beneath the surface, water exploding around him. One fish had gone flying onto the bank, another clamped between his fingers, and a third—
A third he'd caught with his teeth.
Dym still wasn't sure how to process that.
Soap had just stood there, rod dangling uselessly, mouth open.
They'd eaten well because of it.
Dym flipped one of the fish again and leaned back slightly, satisfied. Across from him, Ser Don sat on a fallen log, cloak draped beside him, sharpening his dagger out of habit more than need.
"So," Ser Don said at last, eyes still on the blade, "you recalled the talks going around the folks?"
Dym glanced up. "About the tourney?"
Ser Don grunted. "Aye."
Soap, sitting cross-legged near the fire, perked up immediately. "Heard plenty," he said, wiping his hands on a rag. "They say knights and lords are already riding in from three directions. Some big names, too. Sponsors with heavy purses."
"Prize is supposed to be generous," Dym added. "Gold. Favor. Maybe even a permanent banner for the winner."
Soap nodded eagerly. "And rumors say the list keeps growing. Hedge knights, sworn knights, sellswords pretending they're knights—whole lot of steel for one field."
Ser Don stopped sharpening.
The dagger lowered slowly.
"I don't like this," he said.
The words were flat, heavy.
Dym frowned. "Why, Ser Don?"
The old knight stared into the fire, watching sparks rise and die.
"Too much... noise," he said after a moment. "Too many riders coming too fast. Tourneys draw steel and fortunes, yes—but they also draw men who don't care about honor, only opportunity."
He looked up then, eyes hard in the firelight.
"And when that happens, lads, it's never just a game anymore."
The fire crackled between them as dusk deepened into night.
Ser Don shifted, turning one of the fish in his hands before taking a slow bite. He chewed in silence for a moment, eyes still fixed on the fire.
"And as you said," he said. "Kings and royals too. Foreign ones. And Kazimierz's own."
That made Dym look up sharply.
"Their great knights are coming with them," Ser Don went on. "Not tourney champions. Not glory-seekers. Their real blades."
The fire popped.
Dym felt something cold settle in his gut. "That seems... excessive, now that I think about it."
Ser Don nodded once. "It sets a precedent."
"For what?" Dym asked.
The old knight exhaled through his nose. "For something greater."
Dym frowned. "Greater, Ser?"
Ser Don's gaze lifted from the fire, sharp despite his age. "More... sinister."
He turned slightly toward Soap. "Lad. Last we spoke of this, you'd been listening more than either of us. From what you've heard—from the talk on the road, the inns, the markets—tell me again."
Soap straightened, suddenly serious. "Which countries are sending men to the tourney?"
"Aye."
Soap nodded and took a breath. "Well... I heard that Victoria's sending knights from the Towers. And one of their emperors is going too—along with the royal family."
Dym blinked. "Which one?"
Soap grimaced. "I don't know. Could be the Lion or the Dragon. Maybe both. No one seemed certain."
Ser Don merely nodded, grim, and took another bite of fish. Dym notices the finger of his left hand started drumming.
Soap continued, voice steadier now. "Gaul's emperor is coming as well. Brought his Gendarmerie with him. Ursus is sending their prince—the heir—escorted by the Emperor's Blades."
Dym's jaw tightened.
"Leithanien's sending the Witch King's own battle wizards," Soap said. "The elite ones. And Laterano..." He hesitated. "Laterano... sent the Pope's Gun Knights. Holy See envoys, officially—but everyone knows what that means; Oh! Kazimierz also sent their Silverlances as well!"
The silence after that was thick.
Dym stared into the fire, the flames blurring slightly as his thoughts raced. Tower Knights. Emperor's Blades. Apostolic Gun Knights. Wizards.
This wasn't a tourney.
This was a gathering of an army.
He tried to imagine himself riding onto the field against men like that. Against Ser Don, perhaps—on a good day. But against them?
He doubted he—or Ser Don, or any hedge knight with dreams of testing their mettle—would win even a small victory. Not in the lists. Not in the melees. Not anywhere that mattered.
Ser Don seemed to read the thought on his face.
Before Soap could go on, the old knight cut in sharply.
"What of Kazdel?"
Soap stopped. "Ser?"
"Are there any envoys?" Ser Don pressed. "Any talk of them attending? In any form?"
Soap fell quiet, brow furrowing as he searched his memory. The crackle of the fire filled the gap.
"...No," he said finally. "I haven't heard anything. No rumors. No banners. Nothing about Kazdel at all."
Ser Don did not nod this time.
He stared into the fire, jaw tightening, fingers curling slightly around the stick he used to turn the fish.
"...As I have feared," he said.
The words were quiet. Too quiet.
Dym frowned. Soap's ears twitched uneasily.
"As you feared?" Dym asked. "What do you mean, Ser Don?"
The old knight exhaled, long and tired, as though the air itself weighed on him.
"It means," he said slowly, "that fortune may yet favour us hedge knights."
Neither of them spoke.
The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the soft crack of burning wood.
Ser Don continued, voice rough. "In the most morbid way possible."
Dym's stomach sank.
Ser Don poked at the fire once, sparks leaping upward. "Both you and I," he said, "and all of Terra. Stands on the brink of another war."
Soap's head snapped up.
"A war," Ser Don went on, "against Kazdel. Again."
Both Dym and Soap stared at him, mouths parting in unison.
"But—" Dym began, then stopped, forcing himself to think. "You said... Kazdel didn't send any envoys."
Ser Don's gaze lifted, sharp and knowing. "Aye."
He leaned back slightly. "Remember what you said, lad."
Dym swallowed. "Then... why?"
The old knight's voice dropped. "Because what if Kazdel was never invited to begin with?"
The words landed like a blow.
Dym's breath caught. "...This isn't just a tourney," he said slowly. "It's a gathering for an alliance."
His eyes widened as the shape of it finally came together.
"A war alliance."
Ser Don nodded once. "Aye."
He took another bite of fish, chewing as if it tasted of ash. "And when war breaks out, lads like us—hedge knights with no banners and no lords—will be hired in droves."
Soap's hands clenched in his lap.
"Muscle," Ser Don finished. "Bodies to bolster numbers. Names to be forgotten. Graves to be filled."
The fire crackled softly.
No one spoke after that.
And for the first time since the road began, the warmth of the campfire felt very far away...
The fire had burned lower by the time Dym finally spoke again.
"Now that I think about it..." he said slowly, eyes fixed on the coals as he picked one up and fuel the dying fire, "I've... seen—no, experienced something like this before."
Ser Don looked up at him, one brow lifting. "Have you now?"
Dym nodded. "When I was still a squire. During my early days under Ser Arlan."
Soap leaned forward slightly, curious despite the tension. Ser Don said nothing, letting Dym continue.
"There was an... assembly," Dym went on. "Called by a Kazimierzan border lord. I don't remember his name—only that his fief lay close to the old Ursus frontier. Land Ursus once took... and that Kazdel now holds."
The words tasted sour in his mouth.
"He called for swords. Thousands of them. Hedge knights, gloryseekers, anyone who could hold steel and shield in both hands." Dym's jaw tightened. "He promised glory. Golds. Employment under his house—if we reclaimed what he claimed was stolen from him."
Soap frowned. "And Ser Arlan?"
Dym nodded grimly. "He took the offer. As did many others. He was younger, and a bit more desperate back then."
He swallowed.
"I remembered watching him ride out," Dym said quietly. "On Cloud—his old horse. He had four back then. Thunder, Chestnut, Swift... they were still young. Used mostly to haul supplies. Me, too."
Soap glanced at Thunder, ears lowering.
"They raided Kazdelian border settlements," Dym continued. "What followed wasn't a battle. It was... chaos. Fire. Screaming." His hands curled slowly into fists. "I was young, and don't really understand much of it, but I remembered that Ser Arlan was disgusted. So were a few others. They tried to keep order. Tried to hold the discipline of knights."
He shook his head. "It didn't matter, all lf it was for naught."
The fire crackled softly.
Ser Don let out a slow breath through his nose.
"Aye," he said at last. "That's how it always begins in wars."
He leaned back, brown eye reflecting the flames. "Men hear promises of coin, land, honour, glory—and they stop hearing anything else."
Soap asked quietly, "Even knights?"
Ser Don's mouth twitched, humourless. "Especially knights."
He tapped the side of his head. "Steel on your back doesn't make you better than other men. It just gives you sharper tools to be worse than those lesser than you."
Dym stared into the fire.
"Greed," Ser Don went on, "is a fine blindfold. Wrap it tight enough, and even vows disappear beneath it." He looked at Dym then. "Discipline dies first. Mercy follows. Then, anything that made you... Human than Beasts. And once those are gone... well."
He gestured vaguely toward the darkness beyond the firelight.
"What's left isn't war," he said. "It's massacre..."
Soap swallowed. "And then... what happened next, Ser Dym?"
Dym looked at the boy for a long moment.
Then he sighed.
"It went on for weeks," he said quietly. "That madness. Burning and pillaging villages. Skirmishes that weren't really fights. Men growing bold... then cruel."
His gaze drifted past the fire, into memory.
"And then," he said, voice lowering, "Kazdel answered."
The flames flickered.
"I was near the treeline when I saw them," Dym continued. "Black armour. Black capes. Marching as one. Their banner—black and orange—flew above them like living flame."
His jaw tightened.
"The noise came first. Not shouting, nor horns." He shook his head slowly. "Thunder. Rolling, cracking thunder that didn't belong to the sky."
Soap's ears twitched uneasily.
"Ser Arlan and the Kazimierz's hedge knights charged," Dym said. "It was a glorious sight, I thought. Lances, spears, and swords pointed low at the infantries. Their armours; mismatched they were... gleamed like stars in the night. Hundreds of them, riding straight at the enemy's ranks."
He paused.
"The Kazdelian infantry stood in great squares," he went on. "Long pikes bristling outward like a field of thorns. Between them, I saw men holding strange long metal tubes fixed with small blades at the end. I didn't know what they were then, sorry."
Ser Don's expression darkened, but he did not interrupt.
"When our riders came close," Dym said, "their horses swerved from the pikes, just as they were trained to do. For a heartbeat... I thought they'd break through their outnumbered foes."
He swallowed.
"Then the light flashed."
Soap flinched.
"Bright, sudden," Dym said. "And the thunders followed—deafening. The ground shook. Men and horses fell together, torn open. Armour didn't save them. Shields didn't matter."
His voice grew hollow.
"It wasn't a battle anymore," he said. "It was a massacre."
The fire popped loudly.
"Then, the Kazdelian squares opened," Dym went on, "and from within them rode their knights."
Black-armoured riders emerged, cutting down the broken, the fleeing, the wounded. And at their head—
"There was one in gold," Dym said. "Armour shining as if the sun itself had chosen him. A sword in his hand that burned—not with smoke, but with bright light. Like flame made solid."
Soap stared, unmoving.
"He cut through men and horses alike," Dym said. "Not wildly. Not cruelly. Efficiently. Wherever he rode, resistance ended."
Dym's hands trembled slightly, and he clasped them together.
"I ran," he admitted. "Through smoke. Through the screamings. Through the routed knights."
His voice cracked. "And I found Ser Arlan where he'd fallen, but I did not find Cloud anywhere."
"His chest was... crushed. Caved in. His armour bent inward as if struck by a giant fist, or a warhammer. He couldn't breathe. He—He sounded like a dying swine."
Dym closed his eyes.
"I shouted for help. Anyone. I didn't care who."
He opened them again, staring into the fire.
"And then... the golden knight came."
Soap sucked in a breath.
"He stopped," Dym said. "Looked at us. Then he sheathed his burning sword, dismounted, and knelt beside Ser Arlan."
Ser Don's gaze sharpened.
"He examined him," Dym continued. "Quickly. Calmly. I can't see his face through the slits in his helmet because I was crying then... Then, he turned and ordered one of his knights to fetch physicians. 'This battle is finished,' he said."
Dym laughed once, bitter and breathless. "Just like that."
The fire crackled.
"I couldn't move," Dym said softly. "I don't remember falling. Only waking later, far from the field. Tended by the demon physicians, as well as many other survivors that were lucky."
Silence swallowed the camp.
Even the horses were still.
Ser Don finally spoke, voice low and heavy.
"Aye," he said. "That man in gold, that would be the Sun Knight."
Dym nodded weakly.
"Ser Phineas Duqa Convallis," Soap muttered.
Both knights turned to look at him.
"The Sun Knight. The Undefeated. Sword of the Sun. Dragonsbane. Lionsbane..." The boy shrugged lightly and took a bite of his fish. "And a dozen other titles I couldn't say since it would take the whole night."
Ser Don raised his brow. Dym just stared.
"What?" Soap said around his food. "I know knights. The good ones. The great ones. Everyone does."
Dym let out a quiet breath and nodded. "True... true..."
He poked at the fire once with a stick, then continued.
"And after that..." He hesitated. "Well, I can't really remember much. It's... fuzzy. I was young, and everything went so fast..."
The flames shifted, casting long shadows.
"But I do remember this," Dym said. "Ser Arlan did survived. Some of the hedge knights did too. Not many, hundreds or less perhaps."
His jaw tightened.
"And the border lord," he went on, "he cheated us. He broke his word. We got no pay. No gratitude. Not one proper acknowledgement for the dead."
Soap frowned. Ser Don's expression darkened, unsurprised.
"Ser Arlan didn't... no, couldn't argue," Dym said. "He never could." A pause. "He gathered those of us still standing, mounted Cloud, that lucky old horse, I don't know how he survived the massacre, but he was there with Thunder and the others as if nothing happened, and then we left."
He exhaled slowly.
"After that, we kept moving. Took smaller employments. Ser Arlan would always watched how things went first, and joined in later. He chose carefully since then." He gave a faint, humorless smile. "Even if it meant fewer coins for us."
Ser Don nodded once, approving.
"Aye," the old knight said. "That's how a man survives long enough to grow old."
The fire crackled softly.
And for a while, the past stayed where it belonged—between the flames and the dark, neither forgotten nor allowed to rule them.
Ser Don leaned back, the firelight carving deep lines into his face.
Into his one brown eye.
"Listen well, both of you..." he said, voice rough but steady. "War isn't what the songs tell you. It never is. Not the grand charges. Not the last stands. Not even the victories people build monuments for."
He poked the fire with a stick, sparks rising like fleeing souls.
"Bards would sing of glory because the truth would empty taverns and their pockets."
Dym stayed quiet. Soap did too.
"Even the greatest battle," Ser Don went on, "even the most desperate defense... none of it is as epic nor heroic the way it is sung. What you described, Dym—that madness, that greed, that rot inside every heart and soul of men—that is war."
He exhaled slowly.
"War makes men mad," he said. "And it makes good men..."
Debauched.
"I once served on a campaign long ago," Ser Don continued. "Employed under Leithanien's banners as a hedge knight. It was during one of Ursus' many attempts to stretch its borders again—after Kazdel had kicked their teeth in for the thousandth time or more. So they looked elsewhere. Smaller prey. Easier glory."
His mouth twisted.
"I had heard tales of Ursus before then. Their discipline. Their cruelty. I can confirm this much—those bears are deranged in the every ways they wage war."
Soap's ears flicked uneasily.
"Barbaric," Ser Don said. "That's the polite word. And whatever slurs folk like to throw at the Sarkaz—whatever stories they tell to make themselves feel cleaner than the... demons—when you face Ursus..." He shook his head. "They make the Sarkaz seemed more... human."
Dym stiffened.
"Aye," Ser Don said grimly. "I'll say it plain. There are times I've seen no difference between the great Ursine army and a warmongering Sarkaz tribe drunk on conquest in my travels."
The fire cracked loudly.
Ser Don looked at Dym. "You remember my lessons about honour, Dym?"
Dym nodded. "Yes, Ser."
He glanced at Soap, then explained—quietly—about restraint, responsibility, about choosing when to draw steel and when to stay it. About honour not being what others see, but what you can live with when no one is watching, and how it should not blind, but to guide one towards a better path.
Ser Don listened, then nodded once.
"Well remembered."
He turned back to the fire.
"War," he said, "is where honour and humanity die first. Stripped away the moment fear takes hold." His gaze sharpened. "The only things that keep men from becoming beasts are self-control... morality..."
A pause.
"And power."
Soap frowned. "Power, Ser?"
"Aye," Ser Don said. "The power to choose restraint. The power to say no when the world tells you yes. The power to steer and command men from falling into madness. Most men never learn it. Fewer keep it."
"That," he finished quietly, "is why wars don't end even when the fighting stops."
The night pressed in around them, stars twinkling in the sky, winds waving heavily around them, as the fire crackled on—small, stubborn, and barely enough to keep the dark at bay.