Dym spent two full days recovering.
They passed slowly, measured not by distance traveled, but by smaller victories: standing without the world tilting sideways, breathing without pain biting into his ribs, remembering names and faces—though some memories still slipped through his grasp no matter how hard he tried to hold them.
The dizziness never returned. His legs were strong. His body obeyed him.
What lingered was the gap in his memory.
He remembered who he was, his vows, the faces of those he trusted. But the moments before his injury—the night before—were gone, swallowed by a blank white haze. Every time he tried to force it back, his head throbbed, and Ser Don would tell him, firmly, to stop.
Instead, Ser Don kept him occupied.
While Dym rested, Ser Don Quixote turned his attention to Soap.
And not gently.
Soap, who had once been little more than an eager tagalong, was suddenly treated like a proper squire. From morning until dusk, Ser Don kept him busy, instruction following instruction, his sharp one eye missing nothing.
"Steel's like a horse," Ser Don said one morning, resting Dym's sword across his knees. "Treat it poorly, and it'll betray you and your master when it is needed most."
He taught Soap how to clean a blade properly—Do not rush it, but also don't be careless. How to check the edge, how to spot hairline cracks, what not to do unless you wanted grit chewing through the fuller. He explained which oils were good for long travel, which would ruin maille, and why animal fat was a last resort if you ran out of good oil.
Soap soaked all the knowledge and information the old knight shared. Dym's maille was laid out on the ground. "Maille rots quietly," Ser Don warned. "Sweat made it rust faster than blood. Moisture also made it rust as well, so always tend to his armor as often as you can."
He showed Soap how to clean it, dry it without warping the rings, tend to leather straps so they wouldn't crack. Even Dym's boots weren't spared—cleaned, restitched, soles and heels checked thoroughly.
Soap followed every step with care.
Dym watched from where he rested, half amused, half proud.
On the second day, Ser Don finally allowed Dym to stand.
Both the old knight and Dym's own squire flanked him as he rose, the latter hovering near his knees, holding a stick the length of Dym's leg. The tall knight planted his feet, bracing for the world to spin—
It didn't.
He took a step.
Then another.
No dizziness. No nausea. Even when Ser Don deliberately shoved his shoulder to test his balance, Dym stayed upright.
"Well?" Ser Don asked.
"I... feel fine," Dym said quietly, almost surprised.
Soap grinned. "Let's take another step, Ser. Use this stick I found, in case something happened."
They had him walk along the riverbank, Ser Don correcting his posture, Soap offering a hand he no longer truly needed by the end of the day.
That night, while eating, Dym frowned.
"Soap," he said, "what happened yesterday?"
Soap froze.
"Yesterday?" he echoed casually.
"Before... this." Dym tapped his temple. "I can't remember."
Soap scratched his cheek, eyes sliding away. "Uh... not sure. You looked tired? Maybe?"
"Oh." Dym nodded. "That makes sense."
By the third morning, Dym declared himself ready.
Ser Don tested him one last time—his footing, his grip, his awareness—then nodded once.
"Strong like a Sarkaz, or well... a Forte. Nimble as a Kuranta indeed."
And so, they set off toward Rudnicka Vale.
The closer they drew, the busier the roads became. Knights of many various banners traveling in groups, banners folded or flying, merchants hauling carts heavy with food and gear, dice clattering, laughter filling the air. Everything felt alive, buzzing with anticipation.
Along the way, Dym and Soap talked more than they ever had.
Soap still asked Dym about his own experiences attending tourneys under Ser Arlan, about the wounds, fear, and whether pain hurt less if one was brave. Dym answered honestly, without glorifying it. In turn, Soap spoke of places he'd passed through, small jobs he'd taken, stories he half-believed himself.
Then, in the middle of that easy chatter, realization struck both knights at once.
Ser Don stopped dead.
"...Dym."
"Yes, Ser Don?"
"We... never asked about his parents, right?"
Dym went pale.
Kurwa.
"...We didn't."
They both stared at Soap.
Soap stared back, chewing on dried meat.
Ser Don whispered, horrified, "Fuck! We kidnapped a child!"
"Gods above," Dym muttered.
They exchanged a look, briefly imagining gallows and well-earned outrage.
Ser Don cleared his throat. "Soap, lad. Your parents... where are they?"
Soap blinked. "Dead."
Silence.
"No relatives?" Dym asked carefully.
Soap shrugged. "None. I had no one to tell that I was coming along."
Dym swallowed. "Right..."
Ser Don let out a long breath, then grumbled, "My fucking age and memory." He smacked Dym's arm lightly. "And you—why didn't you even ask the boy?"
Dym winced. "I didn't think. Everything happened fast."
Soap smiled faintly. "I don't mind you know. We were all got caught up in the moment. And even you took me home, I have no one in Kawalerielki."
They resumed walking, tension dissolving into awkward laughter.
"Imagine the scandal," Ser Don muttered.
"Rudnicka Vale's City Watch would hang us," Dym replied.
Kawalarielki? Dym thought. The boy must've been from the slums like me.
Soap walked ahead, cheerful as ever.
Behind him, the two knights shared a glance—relieved, guilty, and newly aware of the weight they carried.
In the distance, the banners of Rudnicka Vale rose over the hills.
Whatever awaited them—glory, loss, or hard lessons—they would face it together.
========
They crested the last rise just before noon.
Rudnicka Vale, their final destination spread out before them—and Dym stopped walking without realizing it.
It wasn't a camp.
It was an unbelievably great lake of colours.
The valley floor was filled wall to wall with tents, packed so densely they looked like a vast, living body. Crimson, cobalt, ivory, gold, deep forest green—pavilions rose and fell across the land like ripples on water, their silks snapping in the wind. Flags fluttered everywhere, layered over one another, banners crossing and tangling in the air as if the sky itself had been claimed.
Smoke drifted upward in dozens—no, hundreds—of thin columns. Cooking fires. Forges. Incense. The smell reached them even from here: roasted meat, oil, sweat, steel, horses.
People moved through it all like currents.
Felines with sharp ears and sharper eyes.
Cautus darting between tents.
Perros laughing loudly near a line of pickets.
Kurantas like himself, tall and proud, armor glinting as they walked.
And others—broader silhouettes, strange horns, tails swaying—folk Dym couldn't identify from this distance.
"Good Gods..." Soap whispered.
Brightly hued pavilions marked the great Houses of Kazimierz, their banners planted proudly before their eyes. Dym recognized some only vaguely, half-remembered names from Ser Arlan's stories and long nights spent cleaning armor by firelight.
Then one sigil caught his eye.
A golden lion rampant, claws bared, set upon a field of deep crimson and black. The cloth was thick, expensive—no expense spared. Beneath it stood a massive pavilion trimmed with gilded cord, guarded by knights in polished plate.
His breath hitched.
"...House Złotowir of the East," Dym murmured.
Ser Arlan's voice echoed faintly in his memory. Unhorsed their heir clean off the saddle. Never forgave me for it. Proud and rich lot they were. Heard they shat gold, and if they did—no wonder their house never went under!
The current lord of Złotowir Keep—Kazimierz's answer to the great fortress-holds of legend—now ruled that House. And here they were, banners flying high, daring anyone to challenge them and the pride of Krainy Wschodu.
Dym swallowed.
He felt excitement surged through him like fire through dry grass.
He'd been to tourneys before. Dozens of them. But always behind Ser Arlan, always holding reins, counting blows, watching knights clashed against each other while he remained mostly unseen as but a helper for his master.
This time—
This time, he was here as a knight.
Not a shadow. Not a helper.
A participant.
Is this what Ser Don meant? he thought, his chest tightens.
Rookie knights.
Gloryhounds.
By the Gods... now I did feel it.
Heat flooded his body, his right fingers flexing unconsciously on Thunder's rein as if already gripping a lance, while the other on his sword.
Calm down, he told himself, sharply.
Look first.
Judge. Decide.
He forced his gaze wider—and that was when he noticed them.
Foreign banners.
They were grouped apart, each faction marking its own space, flags raised with careful distance between them. Different colors. Different cuts. Different pride.
Soap pointed. "Those must be the foreign nations' dignitaries and their knights, Ser."
Ser Don squinted, shading his good eye with a hand. "Aye. And with my one good eye, I can spot Ursus Hippogryphs' black and iron-grey." He tilted his head. "Laterano, holy white and gold. Leithanien Caprico's there too—black, white, gold, and... violet, always that colour... violet. Victoria's Aslan and Draco, Gaul..."
He paused.
"And Iberia. Those folks must've been dragged here by Laterano."
"And Kazimierz's Pegasi!" Soap adds excitedly.
Ser Don grinned. "The host nation, aye."
Dym's pulse thundered in his ears.
Knights and Great Knights from all across Terra. Campaign veterans. Tourney champions. Glory-seekers and killers alike, all gathered in one place.
The air itself seemed to hum.
He felt giddy—not from his previous injury, but from the anticipation. His skin prickled. His heart raced. Somewhere deep in his chest, something dangerous stirred.
Ser Don glanced at him, just once, and his smile softened.
"There it is," the old knight said gently. "That feeling."
Dym exhaled, slow and steady, forcing himself to breathe.
"I'll look around first," he said. "Like you taught me, Ser Don."
The old knight nodded. "Aye. Good. Keep your head clear, lad. No need to rush in. Fortune may favor the bold, but it also favors the cautious." He motioned Sanch to move forward.
Below them, Rudnicka Vale waited—bright, loud, merciless.
And Dym reined Thunder to step forward, followed by his Squire on top of Swift, into the great lake of colours.
========
The road narrowed as they drew closer to Rudnicka Vale's outer approach.
Their luggage horses plodded along behind them, packs swaying gently with each step, tack creaking under the weight of armor, tools, spare clothes, and feed. The sound of it all blended into the growing noise ahead—voices, laughter, arguments, the ring of metal on metal.
They had reached the entrance, or near enough to it.
Dym slowed, taking in the views all around him.
People milled about everywhere. Merchants shouting prices from hastily raised stalls. Commonfolk in travel-worn clothes gawking at passing knights. Smiths already at work under open awnings, sparks flying as they hammered dents out of helms and breastplates. There were felines bartering loudly, Cautus children darting between legs holding toy swords, Perro farmer leading ducks and chickens, Kuranta merchants mounted on their horses, proudly showing off their would-be wares.
Knights too—so many knights.
Some bore clear heraldry, bright and proud colours on shields and surcoats. Others wore mismatched armor, dented and dull, banners absent or rolled away. Hedge knights, like him. Men and women who owned little beyond their blade, their horse, and their nerve.
At the edge of the approach stood guards and men-at-arms, posted in pairs. They wore the colors of Rudnicka Vale: deep lake-blue cloaks edged with white, over mail and simple plate. Their sigil was stitched plainly on their tabards—a white stag standing atop three silver reeds, set against the blue field. Some stood watch with spears grounded, others patrolled slowly.
Sancho snorted softly as Ser Don reined him in.
The old knight slowed the black mare, then turned her neatly around, facing Dym and Soap. For a moment he just looked at them, measuring, weighing, committing the sight to memory.
Then he grinned.
"Well," Ser Don said lightly, "I suppose this is where we part."
The words landed heavier than Dym expected.
He had always known this moment would come. Ser Don had never promised to stay—never offered anything beyond lessons, shared roads, and borrowed time.
Still... it felt sudden.
Too soon.
Memories surfaced without warning.
Ser Don kneeling and digging a ditch in the rain beside him with his own hands, helping bury Ser Arlan.
The many lessons that followed.
Then Soap.
The riverbank.
The accident.
Campfire talks that stretched long into the night.
It all felt painfully close to him, like it had just happened yesterday.
"Yeah," Soap said quietly.
Dym lowered his gaze.
His squire's shoulders were hunched, eyes fixed on Sancho's reins. He looked smaller somehow. Younger. And he wasn't trying to hide how much this hurt.
Ser Don noticed.
He didn't speak right away. Instead, he leaned down from the saddle and rested a broad, calloused hand on Soap's head, giving it a gentle pat.
"Now, now," the old knight said, his voice softer. "It'll be alright, lad."
Soap blinked, startled, then looked up.
"Meetings and farewells," Ser Don went on, "they're part of the road. Part of life as human. Knight or common man—it makes no difference." His hand lingered a moment longer. "You walk with people for a time. Then your paths would sooner or later... split."
He straightened. "You learn to live with it. And one day—aye—you even get used to it."
The words cut deeper than he probably meant them to.
Something twisted in Dym's chest.
Ser Arlan came to mind—their first meeting, sharp and ugly. A failed theft, followed with the guilty conscience that dragged him back. The confession. Years of service. Hard-earned lessons. The Battle against Kazdel. His tourneys. Oddworks. Then the death.
Then meeting Ser Don Quixote.
Their time together had been short. Far too short.
And now... another goodbye—no, a farewell.
But still, it stung his heart.
Dym let out a slow breath and looked at Soap. "Aye," he said, steadying his voice. "I've... been through it more than you."
He set a hand on Soap's shoulder. "You'll get used to it."
Ser Don nodded once. "Aye. You will."
There was a brief pause. Then the old knight reached into his satchel.
Dym recognized the sound at once—the familiar weight of coins.
Before he could object, Ser Don pressed the satchel into his hands.
"Take it," he said. "For the both of you. Your savings, as a Knight of the Realm."
Dym stared. "S-Ser Don, I—this is too much. I can't—"
"Bah." Ser Don waved him off. "I'm one old man. It's wasted on me. Go on, take it."
He pushed it back until resisting felt pointless.
Dym hesitated, then nodded and secured the satchel to Thunder's packs.
"By my reckoning," Ser Don added casually, "that'll keep you fed and housed for three months. Six, if you don't start buying shiny armor and nonsense."
"T-Thank you," Dym said, voice catching. "Truly."
"No worry, lad."
Soap tilted his head, the sadness easing just a little. "But, what about you, Ser Don? How would you live for the coming months?"
The old knight smirked. "Ah, you know me. One Gold Pegasi is all I need to end the week richer than most."
Dym let out a quiet huff, Of course, Gambling. Then hesitated. "Will you... enter the joust as well, Ser?"
"Aye," Ser Don said. "Just not today. Or tomorrow. Maybe next week."
"Why not sooner?" Dym asked.
Ser Don lifted his hands. "Do I look like I've got a shield or a lance on me?"
Dym shook his head. "Now that I think about it" He thought to himself, "We sold that old lance I used for my first jousting lesson four days ago. It's been rotten to the core..." He shuddered, "Ser Don's right, I'm very lucky it did not break and gore me."
Soap chimed in, thoughtful. "You could rent a lance. The game masters usually prepare them."
Dym frowned. "How do you know that?"
Soap shrugged. "I've... been to a few tourneys, Ser."
"Huh," Dym muttered.
Ser Don chuckled. "True enough. But I've got my own way. I always preferred to order a custom lance that suits my jousting style."
He paused, then added, "And... I've business to attend to an old friend of mine." He glanced at Soap, cupped a hand to his mouth, and murmured to Dym, "Not gambling, mind you. Nor proclivities." He blinked with his one eye in a way that Dym was sure he winked at him.
Dym grinned. Soap looked between them, confused and mildly irritated by whatever had just passed over his head.
"Oh!" Ser Don said suddenly. "Before I forgot, if you need me and can't find me, try the Leithanien camp. I may be there."
He thought for a moment. "If the guards stop you, say you're looking for Lord Fremont. Or Professor Fremont—from the Ludwigs-Universität. He'll help."
A lord?
Dym blinked. "Whoa..." The old knight's connections to one so high above him and Soap surprised the tall knight.
Soap frowned. "How do you know him, Ser?"
Ser Don's grin turned sly. "Old travelling friend of mine he is, and that nerd owes me a lot."
"Nerd?" Soap echoed.
"Bookworm," Ser Don said. "It's a word used to describe someone who spent his life chasing knowledge and reading books."
"Ah," Dym said slowly.
"By the way, before I forgot." Ser Don cleared his throat, growing serious again. "Time for one last lesson."
Both Dym and Soap straightened at once.
"At gatherings like this," Ser Don said, "you'll make friends. And enemies. Often without meaning to." His gaze sharpened. "Mind who you speak to. Mind your pride. Your words. Your temper."
"There are people above you," he continued. "Be careful. Keep your heads down. Don't draw the wrong sort of attention."
"Understood?"
Both nodded.
The words settled in Dym's mind, clear as ever.
Judge.
Observe.
Understand.
Ser Don smiled, satisfied. "Good."
"You'll feel excited. You'll panic. When that happens—control yourselves." He made a small gesture, like holding reins. "Firm hands. Clear mind."
"Yes, Ser Don," Dym and Soap answered together.
And with that, the old knight smiled and turned the black mare toward the road, riding on and leaving them at the edge of Rudnicka Vale—heavier in coin, and heavier still in heart.
As he watched the old knight slowly blend with the crowds, Dym and his squire stood there longer than he meant to.
Soap sniffed once, quickly, and squared his shoulders.
"...We should go in as well, Ser," he said.
Dym nodded, though his chest felt tight.
"Aye, come on." he replied.
Together, knight and squire took hold of their horses' reins and stepped forward, into the Grand Tourney of Rudnicka Vale.
+++++++++
A/N:
And so, their legends began.