Ser Don cleared his throat, the easy humor fading into something firmer, teacherly."Well. I think that's that." He gestured vaguely at the camp, the soup bowls, the quiet river beyond the trees. "Since you're still injured, I've decided we postpone both our journey—and our more… physical lessons."
"What?!" Dym protested immediately, pushing himself up on an elbow. "But the tourney—Rudnicka's tourney!"
Soap nodded sharply. "We'll miss it if we delay. At least the opening rounds."
Ser Don waved them off without missing a beat. "For a tourney the size of what's happening in Rudnicka?" He scoffed. "Those don't end in a week. Or two. They would run a month—sometimes months."
He looked between them, utterly unbothered."So what if we're a day or two late? We'll still be able to join whatever competitions are left. Plenty of blood and glory to go around for hedge knights like us."
He folded his arms. "So calm yourselves, and trust me."
Soap hesitated. "You're sure?"
"When have I ever been wrong?" The old knight said easily. "Calm yourselves. Trust me."
Then he cleared his throat, the easy humor draining away, replaced by something firmer—teacherly.
"Well. I think that's that." He gestured vaguely at the camp, the soup bowls, the quiet river beyond the trees. "Since you're still injured, I've decided we postpone both our journey—and our more… physical lessons. Well, for you at least big man. Your Squire would still need to do his tasks."
Soap groaned under his breath. Dym only nodded.
"Today," Ser Don continued, folding his arms, "we speak of philosophicals. And of what we can learn from your injuries." His gaze locked onto Dym. "Today's lesson is mortality—and how it affects not only our lives as knights, but as mortal men."
His tone sharpened."This is an important lesson for you, Ser Dymitr."
He tapped Dym's knee twice with his fingers. "You were only knighted recently, and you nearly lost your life. Worse—you would have stranded your own squire because of your actions."
Soap stiffened.
"I would berate you for it," Ser Don went on, "if not for the fact that you seem to have a mild case of… amnesia." He waved a hand. "So I won't."
Dym frowned. "What's amnesia?"
Soap tilted his head. "Sounds Lateranian."
Dym shot him a confused look. "How'd you know it's Lateranian?"
Soap suddenly found the dirt very interesting. "I… I read books."
"Oh." Dym nodded, satisfied.
Ser Don snorted softly. "It's actually a Minoan word. Amnesia means the loss of memory. In the worst cases, a man forgets everything—his name, his past, even how to speak. In milder cases…" He pointed at Dym. "He forgets what happened around a certain time. A day. A night. Like you, lad."
Dym grimaced. "That explains the white light."
"Well, the cases varied between patients, so I can't really tell how it felt." Ser Don nodded. Then he clapped his hands together once. "Oh—almost forgot. Let's do this sooner, before my lecture truly begins."
He crouched slightly. "How are your legs? Can you still feel them? Try curling your toes."
Dym concentrated, then flexed his feet. "I... I can."
"Good," Ser Don said. "Soap—punch and tickle his legs."
Soap's face lit up far too quickly. "With pleasure."
He grabbed a stick first and gave Dym's leg a light tap.
"Ow!" Dym barked. "I felt that!"
"Excellent," Ser Don said approvingly.
Soap didn't stop there. He crouched, unlaced Dym's boots, and before Dym could protest, dragged them off and dug his fingers into the soles of his feet.
"Hey—HEY—!" Dym burst into laughter, legs jerking instinctively.
Ser Don joined in, gripping Dym's calves to keep them from flailing. "Good response! Strong reflexes!"
"Ser Don—stop—!" Dym laughed helplessly, legs kicking anyway.
Soap giggled. "Legs are fine. Lower body too. Looks like you won't be a cripple after all."
After a moment, Ser Don released him and stepped back, clearly satisfied."Good. You feel pain. You still feel the touch. You can move." He nodded once. "That means your legs and lower body are sound. Whatever damage you took, it didn't take that from you."
Dym lay there catching his breath, half-laughing, half-groaning. "That was… unnecessary."
"On the contrary," Ser Don replied calmly. "Very necessary."
He straightened, his expression hardening, the humor draining away as something heavier took its place."Mortality isn't just about death, lad. It's about knowing how close it is—and choosing how you live with that knowledge."
Soap fell quiet, glancing between them.
Ser Don clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly."Every knight learns how to fight. Very few learn what it means to survive."
He stopped in front of Dym."And that," he said evenly, "is today's lesson."
Ser Don remained standing before him, hands clasped behind his back, the river murmuring softly beyond the trees. When he spoke again, his voice was lower—steadier—like a man choosing his words with care.
"Mortality," he said, "is not about the fear of dying. Any fool can fear that."
He turned, pacing slowly now, boots pressing into damp earth."It is the understanding that your body will fail you one day. That steel, strength, and skill are only borrowed things. You do not own them." He glanced back at Dym. "And neither does your courage."
Soap sat quietly, knees drawn up, listening.
"A young knight may believe himself invincible," Ser Don continued. "Not because he is an arrogant prick—well, maybe—but usually because he has not yet been corrected." A faint, humorless smile tugged at his mouth. "Correction would come swiftly. Often painfully."
He stopped beside Dym again."You charged ahead. You trusted your training, your blade, your will." His tone did not accuse. It explained. "And the world reminded you that bone breaks, blood spills, and luck is not loyal."
Dym swallowed.
"That does not make you weak," Ser Don said gently. "It makes you mortal. And it made you humble."
He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to eye level."A knight who ignores this lesson becomes reckless. He fights as if his life is expendable—and so he spends it cheaply. His own first. Then those who follow him."
Soap shifted at that.
"You now have a squire with you," Ser Don went on, voice firm but warm. "He is not your shadow. Not a tool. He is a living soul who trusted you teach him to a better knight than you, and to guide him to return home." He rested a hand briefly on Dym's uninjured leg. "Leadership begins there."
The river filled the pause.
"Mortality teaches restraint," Ser Don said. "It teaches patience. Humility. It teaches you to ask whether a fight is worth the cost—not whether you can win it."
He straightened again."A dead knight learns nothing. A crippled one learns painfully. A living knight—one who survives—learns to choose."
Ser Don looked between both of them now."You will still fight. You will still bleed. That is our path." His voice softened. "But you will do so with care. With thought. With responsibility."
He exhaled slowly."That," he said, almost kindly, "is how mortal men become good knights."
Ser Don let the silence stretch, giving his words time to settle. Then he drew a slow breath, one that carried old cold with it—snow, iron, smoke.
"What I've said, is one of the many important lessons I learned in my entire lifetime. This one, I'm using my experiences of campaigning in Ursus," he said at last.
Soap looked up. Even Dym stilled.
"Campaigns there last years," Ser Don went on. "Not months. Years. Long enough for ideals to froze if you let them." He walked a few paces, boots scraping softly. "Ursus attracts a certain kind of man—glory-seekers. Knights who dream of songs, soldiers who want medals, generals who want their names carved into stone."
He shook his head."I knew many of them. Fought beside them. Drank with them. Laughed with them."
His voice grew quieter.
"Most of them are dead."
Soap's jaw tightened.
"And the ones who lived?" Ser Don continued. "Some are worse off." He gestured vaguely, as if pointing toward distant roads and nameless towns. "Crippled men dragging stumps of what were their legs. Blind men who once commanded armies. Knights who cannot lift a sword, reduced to begging outside city gates."
A bitter huff of breath escaped him."They call them beggar-knights. Crippled knights. Mock them. Spit near them." His eyes hardened. "As if fate cannot reach the mocker next."
He stopped in front of them and raised a hand to his bandaged right eye, tapping it lightly.
"This," he said, plainly, "is one example for you both."
Dym's gaze fixed there at once.
"But I did not earn this chasing glory," Ser Don added, and his voice softened immediately. He rubbed the bandage with two fingers, not with regret—but with something close to affection. "I earned it protecting someone very dear to me."
He glanced at Dym."I'm sure you remember my body when I bathed yesterday."
Dym's ears flushed red in an instant. "Y—yes, Ser Don."
A faint, amused breath escaped the older knight."Impressive, was it?"
"Y-yes," Dym managed, mortified.
"But full of scars," Ser Don pressed gently.
Dym swallowed. "A… aye."
Ser Don nodded."Well. Those are the wages of this life." He spread his hands. "I was young, dumb, and reckless. And I paid dearly for each cut I received."
He looked down at his own hands—strong, steady, older than they looked."It hurts when you get them. It hurts worse when you survive them." A pause. "But you live with them. You learn where your body fails. Where it holds. Where you must be careful."
He met Dym's eyes again."Mortality is not a lesson meant to frighten you. It is meant to humble you."
Soap shifted, thoughtful.
"In Ursus," Ser Don continued, "or even Leithania, Sargon, Victoria, Minos, Gaul; Hell, even Kazdel! I watched men throw themselves into battle for nothing more than applause. They died loudly. And were forgotten quietly." His jaw set. "The ones who lasted were not the bravest. They were the ones who knew when to step back. When to shield another. When to endure."
He placed a firm hand on Dym's shoulder."You are alive and complete. Your legs are whole. Your squire still sits beside you." His grip tightened slightly. "That is not luck alone. That is a second chance."
Ser Don straightened, drawing himself up not as a commander, but as a father might."Remember this pain. Remember this fear. Not to weaken you—but to guide you."
His gaze moved between both of them."A knight who understands mortality fights to return. He fights so others may return. He does not gamble lives, his or others, for songs."
The river murmured on.
"That," Ser Don said quietly, "is the difference between dying gloriously… and living honorably."
Ser Don exhaled, some of the weight lifting from his shoulders, and his tone shifted—still serious, but now edged with dry amusement.
"Now," he said, settling back onto a log, "about the coming tourneys."
Soap perked up immediately. Dym did too, despite himself.
"They'll be chock full of gloryhounds," Ser Don went on. "Young folk like you, Dym—freshly knighted, hungry for clout, fame, and the idea that a single good showing will change their lives." He gave a knowing look. "It rarely does."
He ticked points off on his fingers."Tourney knights. Campaign knights. Men and women from half the nations in Terra." A pause, then a faint smirk. "Well. All except Kazdel, of course."
Soap snorted softly.
"They'll come for different reasons," Ser Don continued. "Some for sport. Some for coin. Some because peace bores them." His eyes sharpened. "And some because they cannot live without proving they are still better than the next blade."
He leaned forward."If you decide to join the melee or the joust, Dym, I suggest you do not enter right away."
Dym frowned. "Why? I—I've seen jousts and melees when I was squired under Ser Arlan, Ser Don. I know what they're like."
Ser Don nodded, approving."Good." Then, smoothly, "And what did Ser Arlan do before he fully committed to a tourney?"
Dym hesitated. "Well… he, uh…" He scratched his cheek. "He looked around the camps? Went to the game master. Told me to watch the horses and our things. Armor maintenance and stuff."
Snap.
Ser Don's fingers clicked sharply."Exactly. Observation."
He rose, pacing slowly now."You see, the first thing rookie knights do at a tourney is rush straight to the game master. They sign up, polish their helms, and wait—chests puffed out—for their names to be called."
His voice hardened.
"And more often than not, they're paired against experienced knights."
He stopped walking."And they lose."
Soap's grin faded.
"They lose their horses," Ser Don said calmly. "Their armor. Their coin. Sometimes their teeth. Sometimes their legs." A beat. "Sometimes their future."
Dym opened his mouth. "But surely the chances of that happening to me—"
Ser Don laughed, loud and genuine, cutting him off."Oh, sweet summer child."
He shook his head, still smiling."The chances of that happening are very high."
Dym blinked. "Why?"
He frowned, thinking hard. Soap tilted his head."Is it for… exercise?"
"Exercise?" Dym thought.
Ser Don nodded, pleased."Yes. Exercise."
He lifted his waterskin, took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Or more accurately," he said, voice low, "they're warming themselves up."
He looked straight at Dym."Young knights are used as whetstones. To loosen joints. To test armor. To get the blood moving."
Another pause.
"Before the real bouts," Ser Don finished, "against foes who are their equals—or their betters."
The fire crackled.
"So," he said gently, but firmly, "Word of advice from an old knight who've seen a lot, it's better if you watch the situation first. You learn who fights how. Who favors who. Who tires quickly. Who hides an old injury. So on and so forth." A faint smile returned. "And only then do you decide whether the glory is worth the price."
His gaze softened."That is how a knight survives long enough to become old… and scarred… and still standing."
He looked between Dym and Soap, expression warm but in that brwn eyes, there was a hint of an unyielding iron."So, I say this again. When you walk into a tourney camp tomorrow, don't ask who looks strongest. Ask who looks tired. Who fights too often. Who smiles too easily." His eye narrowed slightly. "Those are the dangerous ones."
"And if you ever feel that pull," Ser Don finished quietly, "that urge to prove yourself before you're ready—remember this injury you had. Remember my lessons. Remember that you were spared and favored by fate."
A pause. Then, softer still:"A patient knight will live long enough to write his own legends."