Dym dreamed of streets.
Narrow ones. Crooked ones. Streets that bent like broken teeth and never seemed to lead anywhere good.
He was small again—barefoot, ribs sharp beneath skin, knees always bruised. The city wrapped around him in layers of rot and smoke and noise. Kazimierzan stone, pale once, now stained dark with soot and piss and old blood. He tried to remember its name.
Something like… Kawa—? No. Kawale—? That wasn't right either.
It slipped away the harder he reached for it.
The streets smelled of boiled cabbage gone sour, of cheap tallow, of wet leather and rust. They tasted of ash. Everything tasted of ash. Even bread, when he was lucky enough to steal some, carried the bitterness of smoke and desperation.
People lived stacked atop one another there—ten to a room, sometimes more. Windows were rare; shutters rarer. Sunlight had to fight to reach the ground, and most days it lost. Above him, laundry lines sagged with grey rags that never truly dried. Below him, gutters carried things best not named.
This was where boys like him grew up.
If they grew up at all.
He remembered waking each morning curled beside walls that still held a little warmth from the day before. He remembered learning, early and brutally, which adults would kick you aside and which would pretend not to see you at all. He learned to read boots before faces—soldier's boots meant trouble, merchant's boots meant coin, noble boots meant danger of a different sort.
He never knew his parents.
Only rumors. Half-whispered insults thrown his way by other street brats when fights got ugly.
Whore's son.
Bastard.
Someone once told him—laughing, breath stinking of rotgut—that his mother had worked the alleys at night, selling herself for coppers until she vanished. Dead, probably. Or worse.
He never bothered wondering which.
Wondering didn't fill your belly.
So he stole.
Scraps first—bones gnawed clean, crusts too hard for rats. Then purses, if he dared. Rings off corpses when the city guards dragged the bodies in from outside the walls after border skirmishes. Sometimes the dead wore armor split open by blades or arrows. Sometimes their hands were still warm.
Sometimes they were on their last breaths.
Those days paid better.
He fought too. With sticks, stones, fists, his broad body. Over food. Over territory. Over nothing at all. He learned how to run fast, hide his tall body well, and get back up even when something cracked inside him.
And through it all—through the hunger, the grime, the endless scramble—there was a voice.
A girl's voice.
It echoed through the dream, threading itself through the streets like a ghost. He turned, heart stuttering, trying to place it.
He knew her.
He had known her.
She was older than him. Sharper. Eyes that missed nothing. She had laughed like she'd already decided the world wasn't worth taking seriously.
But her name—
Her name was gone from his memory.
The streets blurred, melting away like wet paint, and suddenly he was indoors.
A narrow room this time, colder than he remembered. Rain drummed steadily against the roof above them, seeping through cracks, dripping into a bucket placed beneath a leak. The sound filled the silence, relentless, impossible to ignore.
A single candle burned on a crate between them, its flame guttering every time the wind pushed through the shutters.
She stood near the window, back half-turned to him, watching the rain like it owed her something. Her hair was damp, strands clinging to her neck. Her clothes were darkened by wet, patched in places that had been mended too many times to count. The knife at her belt caught the candlelight when she shifted.
"This city," she said at last, voice low but clear over the rain, "is much too small for us, Dim."
He sat on the edge of a pallet, arms wrapped around himself, still shivering from the cold outside. "You always say that."
"And I'm always right."
He scoffed weakly. "Where would we even go? It's the same everywhere. Different walls, same boots on your neck."
She turned then, rainlight flashing in her eyes. "That's what people say when they're scared to move."
"I'm not scared," he shot back.
She raised an eyebrow. "You a bad liar Dim."
Thunder rolled somewhere far off.
She stepped closer, boots splashing softly against the wet floor. "I never got nothing by waiting around," she continued. "Not here. Not anywhere. You sit, you rot. You wait, you starve."
He looked at the candle, watching melted wax drip down its side. "And running fixes that?"
"It gives you a chance."
She stopped in front of him. Rainwater dripped from her sleeve onto the floor between them.
"You want a family?" she asked suddenly.
The word hit him harder than the thunder.
"A… family?" His voice cracked, just a little.
"Yeah," she said. "Not the kind they sing about. The kind that doesn't leave you to die in an alley."
He swallowed. "People don't just… take you in."
"No," she agreed. "You find them. Or you build it yourself."
The rain grew heavier, pounding the roof like fists.
"This place," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the walls, the city beyond, "it chews people up. You stay long enough, it takes everything. Your name. Your face. Whatever good you got left."
He shook his head slowly. "And what if we go out there and it's worse?"
Her expression softened—not much, but enough that he noticed.
"Then at least you chose it," she said. "Better than dying here pretending this is all there is."
She leaned in, close enough that he could smell rain and iron on her. "You want a family, Dim? Go out there. Find one. Don't wait for this city to give it to you."
Silence fell between them, broken only by the rain and the candle's faint hiss.
He opened his mouth. Wanted to ask her to come with him. Wanted to say he was afraid.
But the room was already fading.
"What's your name?" he asked, desperate now, as her outline began to blur.
She smiled—small, crooked, sad.
"You forgot once already," she said softly. "Try harder next time."
The candle went out.
The rain became light.
And the dream broke apart.
The rain did not follow him into this memory.
Instead, there was wind—cold, wide, empty.
Dim stood in the dark wilderness beyond the road, breath coming hard, chest burning, legs aching from the sprint. The city lights were far behind him now, a dull smear on the horizon. Ahead lay nothing but fields and hedgerows and the looming shapes of trees, black against a starless sky.
He clutched what he had stolen in his fist.
A small leather pouch. Light. Too light.
Coins clinked softly inside, and the sound felt suddenly deafening.
He crouched low, heart hammering, listening for pursuit. None came. No shouts. No boots. No hounds.
Only the wind, whispering through grass.
That was when it hit him.
Not fear—he had lived with fear all his life—but something heavier. A tightness in his chest that for the first time had made his breathing hurt. His grip loosened, and the pouch slipped from his fingers into the dirt.
He saw it again then, as clear as if it were happening now.
The village.
A black haired Kuranta knight in armour, blue cloth in his chest, riding in at dusk, scuffed and dusty, cloak torn at the hem. The way the villagers had gathered around him, wary at first, then hopeful. The knight had listened—actually listened—as an old man spoke of bandits and stolen grain. He had nodded, dismounted, handed over bread from his own saddlebag to a crying child.
Dm had watched from behind a cart, hungry and invisible.
He remembered the way the villagers' faces had changed. Relief. Gratitude. The way they had pressed food into Ser Arlan's hands, tried to offer him a bed, a place by the fire.
And he had taken from that man anyway.
The realization made his stomach twist for the first time in his life.
"What have I done," he whispered into the dark.
The wilderness suddenly felt vast and merciless. Wolves howled somewhere far off. The road behind him seemed just as dangerous as what lay ahead.
For the first time, Dim felt truly alone.
His legs moved before his mind finished arguing.
He turned back.
He saw the knight sat by a small fire when Dim found him again, horse tethered nearby, helm resting on the ground. The knight had not gone far. He was sharpening his sword, slow and methodical, the rasp of steel against stone steady and calm.
Dim stepped into the firelight and dropped to his knees.
The pouch hit the dirt between them.
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "I—I stole from you."
The knight looked up.
He did not reach for his sword.
He studied the boy in front of him instead—too thin, too tall for his age, dirt-streaked, shaking despite himself.
After a long moment, Ser Arlan spoke.
"Do you have a name, thief?"
Dim swallowed. His throat felt raw.
"Dim, milord," he said quietly.
The knight did not laugh.
That almost made it worse.
Ser Arlan tilted his head slightly, as if weighing the word. His eyes flicked over the boy again, sharp and assessing, and Dim knew—knew—that the man thought the name fit. Small boys could be cruel. Grown men too.
He returned the whetstone to his belt. "Dim, eh? No other name?"
"N-no, milord."
Ser Arlan nodded once.
"Well, Dim," he said, voice even, "by rights, I should beat you bloody and send you on your way."
Dym flinched but did not look away.
"I could drag you to the city watch," the knight continued, "and let them cut your hand off. That would be justice, of a sort."
Dym's fingers curled into the dirt. Shaking. Bleeding.
"But," Ser Arlan went on, "I am not cruel to children. Nor to desperate folk."
He rose to his feet, standing tall in the firelight. "Truth is, I have no pavilion, and I have no squire either."
Dym looked up, hope and fear warring in his chest.
"So I ask you this," the knight said. "If you'll swear to do as you're told, I'll let you serve me as my squire. Consider it your penance. And your second chance to do good."
Dym's breath caught.
"I'll give you three months," Ser Arlan continued. "Prove to me you're worth my time. Prove to me that even the lowest of the low can change to be better."
He gestured vaguely down the road. "If you're not, I'll release you in some city. What happens after that is up to you. Die in a gutter for all I care."
The words were harsh, but honest.
"If you are worth it," the knight said, softer now, "you'll have clothes on your back and food in your belly. The clothes might be roughspun, or something that was mine. The food will be salt beef and salt fish."
Dym's stomach growled at the thought.
"You won't go hungry," Ser Arlan said. "Nor aimless. I promise not to beat you—except when you truly deserve it." A pause. "Mostly."
Tears blurred Dym's vision.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, dirt smearing his face further, and bowed his head.
"Thank you," he said, voice breaking. "Milord."
Ser Arlan shook his head.
"Ser," he corrected. "I am only a hedge knight."
Then he studied the boy one last time, "And from now on," he said, "your name shall be Dymitr."
The fire crackled.
And for the first time in his life, the future—his future, did not look like a dead end.
The wilderness blurred, folded in on itself, and became something else.
And so, time passed in pieces.
There were mornings that smelled of wet grass and iron.
Ser Arlan's voice cut through the dawn as Dym learned how to stand properly, how to hold a blade without letting it shake, how to clean armor until his fingers ached and his back screamed. He learned how to wake before the sun and sleep after the fire burned low. He learned that a sword was not just swung, but to be respected. He also learned how to care for and ride his horses.
"Again," Ser Arlan would say.
Dym would fall.
"Again."
He would rise.
There were days of marching until his boots split, nights of salt beef and hard bread eaten under open skies. Ser Arlan taught him how to read a battlefield from a hill, how to listen for lies in a man's voice, how to tell when mercy was wisdom and when it was weakness.
Dym learned to groom horses—Cloud first, then Thunder when he was still young and skittish. He learned to mend straps, hammer dents from armor, stitch torn cloaks with clumsy fingers that bled more often than not.
He learned shame, too.
The shame of mistakes. The shame of being slow. The shame of anger when he failed.
And Ser Arlan let him feel it.
But never alone.
When Dym collapsed from exhaustion, the knight handed him water. When Dym burned a stew black, Ser Arlan ate it anyway. When Dym snapped back in frustration, Ser Arlan's rebuke was firm—but never cruel.
"You will not be perfect," he told him once, as they camped beneath a crooked oak. "But you will be a better man than you were yesterday. That is all I ask."
Months passed.
Dym grew taller. Broader. Harder.
And then came the final three months.
The sparring ring was nothing more than packed dirt and trampled grass.
Dym stood across from Ser Arlan, heart hammering, fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of his blunted sword. Sweat already slicked his palms.
Ser Arlan rolled his shoulders, relaxed as ever.
"Begin," the knight said.
Dym attacked.
Too fast. Too eager.
Steel met steel, and the impact jarred his arms to the bone. Ser Arlan deflected, stepped inside his guard, and struck Dym square in the ribs.
Pain exploded through his side.
Dym hit the ground hard.
"Up," Ser Arlan said.
Dym staggered to his feet.
They clashed again.
This time the blow caught his shoulder. Then his thigh. Then his helm rang as the sword kissed the side of his head.
Each strike sent a sharp, surging pain through his skull.
Dym!
The name echoed strangely, distorted.
He fell again.
"Up."
He rose.
His breath came ragged now. His vision swam. The world felt too loud, too close.
Ser Dymitr!
He swung again, slower now, desperate. Ser Arlan parried and swept his legs out from under him.
Dym hit the dirt, tasting blood.
Something throbbed behind his eyes. The ringing grew worse.
Dym!
Wake up!
He forced himself up once more, legs trembling, arms barely responding. His sword felt like lead.
Ser Arlan struck him down with a clean, controlled blow to the chest.
Dym sprawled onto his back, staring up at the sky, lungs burning, ears roaring.
This time, he did not rise.
Footsteps approached.
The ringing eased just enough for the world to return.
Ser Arlan stood over him, sword lowered. He placed the blunted edge gently against Dym's blade, pinning it to the ground.
"Well fought," the knight said.
Dym blinked, confused.
"You fell," Ser Arlan continued, "but you did not yield. You rose every time you could."
The knight met his eyes.
"You are worthy to be my squire."
For a moment, Dym could not breathe.
"So," Ser Arlan said, voice warm now, "what is your decision?"
Dym swallowed, chest heaving. It took everything he had to speak.
"Yes," he said shakily.
His vision blurred.
"Yes! I will follow you as your squire, Ser Arlan!"
Tears spilled freely now, and he did not care.
Ser Arlan smiled.
It was the first time Dym had ever seen it—a real smile, unguarded and proud.
"Well done," the knight said. "Now rise."
The world tilted.
The ground fell away.
"Get up! Dym! Wake up, boy!"
The voice was older. Rougher.
Another voice overlapped it, higher, urgent.
"Wake up, Ser Dymitr! Please—wake up!"
Dym's body felt heavy, unresponsive, as if buried beneath water.
And then—soft, familiar, impossibly gentle—
"Rise, Ser Dymitr the Tall."
Ser Arlan's voice.
"Your journey is not yet ended here, son. So stand up,"
Darkness cracked. Shattering all around him.
"and rise…"
A blinding golden light shines upon him.
"A Knight of Kazimierz."