Ser Don let the silence stretch just long enough to settle into their bones.
Then he spoke again.
"Now," he said, voice low, deliberate, "again, I want you both to listen carefully."
Dym straightened without thinking. Soap did the same, their tails going still.
"What we're walking toward," Ser Don continued, "is not just a tourney. Not just banners and trumpets and fat lords wanting to see steel clash for their amusement." He looked from one to the other. "The gathering of kings, emperors, their heirs, their personal knights, their blades and spellcasters and gunmen... that is a precedent..."
He paused, hand gripping the skewer tight.
"For war," Ser Don gritted. "A large one. Likely the largest you will see in your lifetime."
Dym felt his stomach tighten.
"And I would wager my good leg," Ser Don went on, "that it will be against Kazdel. Again."
The fire hissed as a log collapsed inward.
"Long ago," Ser Don said, staring into the embers, "the nations of Terra were very good at one thing—uniting to destroy Kazdel." His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Time and time again. Whenever the Sarkaz raised a kingdom, a crown, a home... the world answered with crusades."
Soap swallowed.
"Every Terran nation," Ser Don said. "Knights, armies, banners without number. They shattered Kazdel again and again. Left the Sarkaz wandering. Stateless. Hated. Feared. Homeless." His fingers tightened slightly around his cup. "That was the pattern."
Dym nodded slowly. He knew the stories. Everyone did.
"And then," Ser Don said, "it stopped."
Both Dym and Soap looked up.
"When a century ago," the old knight continued, frowning. "Or thereabouts. I forget the exact year—gods know I've seen too many." He shook his head once. "That was when he appeared."
Both Soap and Dym's ears perked.
"The Sun Knight," Ser Don said.
The name alone felt heavy.
"Ser Phineas Duqa Convallis," Ser Don went on. "No one knows what hole in Kazdel he emerged from, or what Sarkaz race he belongs to—or if he even is Sarkaz at all. Frankly, I doubt it the latter."
Dym felt a chill creep up his spine, "Why?" He asked.
Ser Don grinned at him, "Because I've met some Sarkaz who were older than him."
"They told me that he arrived when Kazdel should have fallen once more," Ser Don continued. "Led them through war after war. Battle after battle. Against enemies stronger, richer, more numerous."
"And he never lost," Soap murmured.
"Not once," Ser Don confirmed. "Not a skirmish. Not a campaign. Not a war." He exhaled slowly. "Baffling. Impossible. And yet... we've seen the aftermaths."
He lifted his gaze, eyes reflecting the dying fire.
"Kazdel, the home of the Sarkaz, still stands," he said. "Independent. Strong. Unbent. Unbroken. Unconquered."
The words rang like iron struck against stone.
"Because of him," Ser Don finished. "Because the Sun Knight stands between them and the world."
Silence fell again, heavier than before.
Dym finally spoke. "Then... if the kings are gathering now—"
"It means they're testing the waters," Ser Don said. "Measuring each other. Counting blades. Seeing who will stand where when blood is finally spilled."
Soap hugged his knees closer. "And us?"
Ser Don looked at them both.
"Us hedge knights?" he said quietly. "We'll be where we've always been. In the middle. Hired. Used. Broken if we're unlucky." His voice hardened. "That is why you must be careful. That is why I warn you now."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Rudnicka Vale will be loud. Glorious. Tempting. Full of promises and coin." He pointed at Dym. "You, me, we will all be tested." Then at Soap. "And you will be shaped."
The fire crackled softly.
"But remember this," Ser Don said. "When the world sharpens its swords, it is not doing so for sport."
Neither of them spoke.
Above them, the stars burned cold and distant—watching, as they always had, while men prepared to do terrible things again.
Dym swallowed hard.
"Then... what should I—we—do, Ser Don?"
The words felt heavy leaving his mouth. Fear gnawed at him, sharp and unfamiliar in its clarity. No handful of roadside lessons from Ser Don Quixote—no matter how sharp or wise—could prepare him for what might be coming. Nor could the hard years under Ser Arlan. Not for this.
And worse—
He glanced at Soap, sitting there by the fire, young, bright, trying so hard to look brave.
I lied, Dym thought bitterly. Lied and strutted and called myself a knight in front of a boy.
The idea of dragging his squire into the same blood-soaked madness he had once survived made his chest ache. His conscience twisted in on itself.
Ser Don watched him for a long moment, then sighed.
"You could," the old knight said simply, "choose not to join the war, Dym."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Soap blinked. "What?"
Dym frowned. "But... how? Wouldn't we be drafted anyway?"
Ser Don shook his head slowly. "No. Not as simply as you think."
He poked at the fire with a stick, sending sparks upward. "During war, forces fall into tiers. Always have."
He held up a finger. "First—mercenaries. That includes hedge knights like us. Sellswords. Free blades."
Another finger. "Second—levies. Farmers. Townfolk. Men pulled from ploughs and workshops and given spears they barely know how to hold."
A third. "Last—the bannermen. Professional soldiers. Household guards. Proper knights. Men who serve their lords directly and are trained for war from the start."
Soap listened intently. Dym felt a knot forming in his gut.
"When war begins," Ser Don continued, "who do you think goes first?"
Neither answered.
"The mercs," Ser Don said flatly. "The hedge knights. The levies. The cheap men. The ones a lord can afford to lose."
His eyes hardened.
"If things go well," he went on, "there's no need to call more banners. No need to bleed the core. The war is won on borrowed blood."
Dym felt sick.
"And that," Ser Don said, "is where you still have leeway. Hedge knights who choose not to fight? They're ignored. Uncelebrated. Unpaid." He shrugged. "But alive."
Soap shifted uneasily.
"No glory," Ser Don added. "No loot. No songs."
He gave a thin smile. "But you wake up the next morning, still alive and well."
Then his expression darkened.
"But," he said quietly, "if these wandering hedge knights started being forced into drafts—rounded up alongside fresh levies—then you can assume the worst has already happened."
Dym's breath caught.
"That means," Ser Don finished, "the bannermen are also dying as well, and faster than they can be replaced."
The fire crackled.
"And when that happens," Ser Don said softly, "the world is already on fire. You're just deciding whether to walk into the flames... or try to live around them."
Silence settled over them once more—thick, uneasy, and full of choices none of them wanted to make.
Ser Don poked at the fire once more, then let the stick fall into the embers.
"I would advise," he said quietly, "that both you and Soap do not take part in the war that's coming."
The words were firm, not a command—an old man's warning, heavy with things already seen.
He sighed, long and weary. "You're both still young. You've got wide roads ahead of you, more than you can see from where you stand now. Don't throw all that away for misplaced glory."
The flames reflected in his eyes as he went on.
"War is foul," Ser Don said. "Not just the madness of it—but what comes after, if you survive." He shook his head. "If you're poor, you sleep in mud. If you're sick, you're ignored. Or worse—kept at a distance like a curse."
He paused, jaw tightening.
"Especially if you're touched by those black stones."
Both Dym and Soap shuddered at the mention.
They didn't need further explanation. Everyone knew the stories—men wasting away, shunned by their own comrades, feared more than the enemy. Lives turned into slow, grinding torment. No proper name for the illness yet, only dread and whispers.
"It isn't for the faint of heart," Ser Don continued, sadness threading his voice. "Nor does even the strongest heart stay whole forever."
He stared into the fire, watching it eat away at the wood.
"And when a man breaks," he said softly, "so does the camp. Morale dies long before bodies do."
The night pressed in around them.
The fire crackled.
And somewhere beyond the dark road ahead, the world was already beginning to move toward war—whether they followed it or not.
Noticing how far the night had crept while they talked, Ser Don cleared his throat and pushed himself to his feet with a groan that was only half for show.
"Well," he said, stretching his back, "I reckon that's enough grim lessons for one night."
He waved a hand loosely, as if brushing the darkness aside. "We could look at it from a brighter angle. Maybe it's just a gathering of kings and emperors to strengthen ties. Marriages, handshakes, fancy feasts. Who knows?" He shrugged. "Maybe there's no war coming at all. Maybe they're just celebrating something."
The fire popped softly.
"The tourney will still be full of spectacle and fun," Ser Don went on, tone lighter now. "And aye, it's a chance to earn some glory too." He smiled faintly. "So cheer up. For now, we sleep on it. No sense breaking your head over things that haven't happened."
He yawned wide. "Even if war comes, that's the business of crowns and lords—not ours. We're just men trying to get by."
Another yawn followed.
"I'll take first sleep," he said, already turning. "Old bones need it." He wandered over to Sancho, tugged his blanket free, then returned to the camp and lay down with a sigh of contentment.
"Good night, both of you," he muttered—and within moments, he was asleep.
Dym and Soap finished their meal in quieter spirits. When the plates were set aside, they glanced at one another.
"Watch?" Soap asked.
"Rock, paper, scissors," Dym replied.
Three rounds later, Dym lost.
Soap grinned smugly. "You're too easy to read, Ser Dym."
Dym rolled his eyes as Soap laid out his blanket and settled in. Within minutes, the boy was out cold.
With a quiet sigh, Dym took up the first watch.
He stood beneath the open sky, stars scattered like cold embers above him. The horses shifted softly nearby. Ser Don snored—loudly—somewhere behind him.
Dym tried to take the old knight's advice. Don't overthink it.
But his thoughts drifted anyway. War. Kings. His experiences of battle. Choices that hadn't yet been forced upon him—upon them—but might be soon.
He exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving the dark horizon.
The night was calm.
And somehow, that made the gnawing feeling in his chest all the worse.
Time slipped by in quiet pieces.
The night was clear, the air cool and still, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the distant murmur of the river. Dym kept the flames alive out of habit—snap, crack, poke—breaking dry branches he'd gathered earlier, nudging embers back into a steady glow. Beyond the firelight, the world sat in patient darkness, tree trunks looming like silent sentries, shadows shifting lazily with every flicker.
"Try not to think about it," he muttered.
He rubbed his face and sighed, then picked up a piece of fish and bread—not to eat, but to keep his hands busy, to bleed off whatever tension still lingered in his chest. Little by little, the weight eased, replaced by the simple rhythm of watch duty and the comfort of routine.
A faint shuffle came from behind him—cloth against earth.
"Can't sleep?" Dym asked without turning.
"No…" came the soft reply.
Soap sat up from beneath the cloaks he'd wrapped around himself, hair mussed, eyes reflecting firelight. Dym sighed, softer this time. "Try to sleep, kid. My watch hasn't even reached halfway yet. You'll need it when it's your turn. And don't think about waking Ser Don to cover for you—he's old, and he spent his time teaching us. He needs the rest more than we do."
"I know… I know…" Soap hesitated. "It's just—"
"Don't worry about it," Dym cut in gently. "Remember what Ser Don said." He paused, then added with an awkward smile, "I'm recently knighted. I'm not planning on losing that by dying for someone else's glory."
Soap hummed. He stood, went to his things, and pulled out a change of clothes.
"Where are you going?" Dym asked.
"A bath."
Dym frowned. "It's late. The road's dark. You could slip, or worse."
"I'll be fine," Soap replied, lifting the lantern. "I forgot to wash up after fishing. I'll take this, and if anything happens, I'll shout."
Dym studied him for a moment, then sighed and drew his dagger, handing it over. "Just… be careful. Hang the lantern where I can see you."
"Okie dokie."
Soap walked off toward the river, the lantern bobbing gently as he went. The light shrank with distance, until it became a small, steady glow between the trees, shadows stretching and dancing faintly along the forest floor.
Dym watched until the light settled, then turned back to the fire. He finally took a bite of his snack, listening to the quiet night—the fire's crackle, the far-off water, and the steady breathing of those asleep behind him.
For now, at least, the world was still.
Dym let out another quiet sigh and reached into his kit, fingers closing around the familiar grit of a whetstone. If he finished his snack too early, his thoughts would wander again—and he had no desire to let them. Better to keep his hands moving.
He drew the sword free.
Ser Arlan's blade caught the firelight, steel dulled by use but well cared for, its edge honest rather than ornamental. Dym set the whetstone against it and began to work, slow and steady. Scrape… scrape… The sound was soft, almost meditative, blending with the fire's low crackle. He didn't rush. There was no need. This wasn't preparation for battle—just a ritual, a way to calm his mind.
Absentmindedly, he followed the length of the blade, angle consistent, pressure even. The motions came from muscle memory more than thought. Ser Arlan had drilled that into him relentlessly—let the stone guide you, not your impatience. Dym exhaled as he worked, watching faint sparks wink and vanish when the edge kissed the light just right.
When he was done, he tested the blade with his thumb, careful, respectful. Sharp enough.
Satisfied, Dym sheathed the sword and stood, stretching the stiffness from his back. His eyes drifted to his maintained armour, neatly laid out near the camp. He crouched and inspected them—plates cleaned, straps checked, buckles aligned, maille fixed enough, boots dried and placed properly. Even the small things hadn't been overlooked.
Dym nodded to himself.
"For your age… that's decent work," he murmured, more praise than he'd ever received at that stage.
The sight stirred an old memory, unbidden. He could almost feel it again—fumbling fingers, straps slipping from his grasp, armour crashing to the ground with a noise far too loud. Cut fingers stinging, blood smeared clumsily across polished steel. He'd dropped helms, mismatched pieces, forgotten steps he'd been shown not an hour earlier.
And Ser Arlan—standing there, arms crossed, not scolding. Just waiting.
Again, His late mentor had said, calm as ever.
Experience is the best teacher after all.
Dym huffed softly at the thought. He'd been a disaster in his early days, no two ways about it. But Ser Arlan had been patient—patient enough to let him fail, patient enough to let him learn at his own pace. Without that… he doubted he'd be standing here now, sword sharp, mind steady, wearing a knight's title he was still learning to live up to.
He straightened, glanced once more toward the distant lantern glow by the river, and returned to his post by the fire—hands steady, thoughts calmer than before.
As Dym took another bite of his snack, something caught the corner of his eye—a flash, sharp and bright.
He froze mid-chew.
Light?
He turned his head toward it, brows knitting. What the—? For a split second, a foolish thought crossed his mind. Is the sun rising already?But the world told him otherwise. The air was still thick with night. Insects chirred lazily, the sky remained ink-dark, and the horizon showed no hint of dawn.
His stomach tightened.
"Is my mind playing tricks on me…?" he muttered.
The light flared again.
This time he traced its source—downriver, toward the bushes near the water. Toward where Soap had gone.
Dym was on his feet instantly.
"Ser Don," he hissed, reaching down and shaking the old knight's shoulder. "Ser Don—"
Nothing.
The man didn't stir at first, his breathing deep and steady, sunk far too deep into sleep to be roused easily. Dym's gaze snapped back to the river, then to the camp—weapons, packs, horses—and then back again to the distant light.
Then Ser Don shifted.
He let out a low grunt and muttered thickly, half-dreaming, "Ramiél… five more minutes…"
"Ser Don," Dym whispered urgently, shaking him again.
The old knight merely rolled onto his side, turning his back to Dym as a rough snore followed, utterly unbothered by the world—or the danger—around them.
Panic began to claw its way up his chest.
Did something happen to him?Soap wasn't reckless—well, his mouth was, but he was young. Too young. And that light… it wasn't firelight. It was too clean. Too bright.
If he left the camp, Ser Don would be alone. Their belongings would be unguarded. Wild beasts, thieves—worse. But if he stayed—
His thoughts spiraled, eyes flicking back and forth until they suddenly stopped.
As a pair of black eyes stared back at him.
Sancho.
The black stallion sat quietly, ears forward, gaze unnervingly sharp. She snorted softly, then tilted her head toward the river—as if urging him on.
Dym swallowed.
He made his decision.
He reached for his sword and drew it free, the steel whispering in the dark. Keeping low, he cast one last glance at Ser Don, then at the campfire, committing it all to memory. If this was a mistake, it would be his alone.
With jaw set and heart pounding, Dym stepped away from the safety of the embers and marched toward the river—toward Soap, and toward the unnatural, shining light that pulsed in the dark.
As Dym advanced through the brushes, the tall knight swept aside the bushes in silence. The light only grew stronger—warm, golden, almost comforting in its glow, bright enough to stain the leaves and stones with amber.
Then he heard it.
A hum.
Soft. Aimless.
A… song?
He squinted as he moved closer, the light biting at his eyes. "Soap?" he called quietly.
The humming stopped.
Dym pushed on, half-blind now, his steps uncertain as the glow washed everything else away. "Soap?" he said again, louder. "Where are you? Talk to me."
Water shifted ahead. A splash—close.
His jaw clenched. "Soap!" he roared. "Where are you?!"
A flutter of feathered wings answers his call.
"Who are you?" he shouted into the light, fear and fury twisting together. "What have you done to my squire?! Show yourself—"
His words died in his throat.
His boot slid.
Stone slick with river moss gave way beneath him, and the world lurched. As he fell, he caught a single, impossible glimpse—
Golden hair.
Then darkness took him.