Ever since he was a boy in some forgotten slum at the edge of Kazimierz—where the cobbles were broken, the roofs leaked, and winter bit harder than it should—Dym had dreamed of one thing.
Is it Kawalerielki?
He could not remember.
Back then, he had owned nothing worth stealing. Not boots that fit properly, not a blanket without holes. But he had owned stories. Stories passed between drunkards and mercenaries alike, muttered by veterans missing fingers, whispered by old men who claimed they had once seen silver armor crest a hill at dawn towards the realm's borders.
From the day Ser Arlan took him in as a squire—fed him, cuffed him, trained him, believed in him—those stories stopped being distant fantasies and became something sharper. Something dangerous.
From the first time he saw silver armor catch the Kazimierz sun and blaze like a second dawn, he fixed his soul upon a single star.
The Silverlance Pegasi.
The most noble knights of Kazimierz. The undying light of hope. The undefeated bulwark of the realm. Walking fortresses clad in silver plate who had turned back invasion after invasion for centuries untold. Songs claimed they shattered armies like glass. Tales insisted a single Silverlance could stand against ten foes and not yield an inch. Ballads swore they had broken the Nightzmoran raids time and time again, thrown back Ursus incursions, crushed Kazdelian advances before they could take root.
Century after century, they had ridden into smoke and come out gleaming.
Dym had grown on those stories.
He had bled for those stories.
Under Ser Arlan's relentless tutelage, he had shaped his body into something thick with muscle and stubborn endurance for those stories. Every bruise, every split lip, every dawn spent swinging an axe until his arms trembled—each was a step toward that shining image.
Now, as he stood and watched them from afar—steel bright as winter dawn, lances upright like a forest of silver pikes—his heart beat so loudly he could feel it pressing at his throat. The rhythm of it nearly matched the thunder of their armored mounts striking the earth in perfect unison.
He imagined himself among them.
Silver armor fitted to his vast frame, custom-forged to accommodate his breadth and height. A lance resting in his grip as easily as a walking stick. Thunder, Chestnut, and Swift clad in polished plates and white bardings, their manes braided in ceremonial knots. The weight of their oath settling onto his shoulders not as burden—but as something natural.
He was not a Pegasi Kuranta—or at least, he did not think so. He did not even know what strain of Kuranta he truly was. He had grown too large over the years, too broad across the shoulders, too heavy-boned. The pegasi were spoken of as people of grace and proportion, their movements swift and elegant, their builds balanced between speed and power. And not to mention their magical ability to become the brightest beacon of light against the darkness.
Dym was... none of that.
He was a wall.
A tower planted stubbornly in the path of whatever dared approach.
A battering ram with a pulse.
Not a walking fortress like the knights in silver.
But strength was strength.
And he had that in abundance.
He was certain—utterly certain—that whatever trials they demanded, he could endure. If they tested endurance, he would outlast. If they tested arms, he would overpower. If they tested resolve, he would not bend.
And now—
Now he had a squire.
Soap would learn beneath them as well. The boy would be hammered into shape by discipline and the perfect examples to be a true knight of the realm. Dym could see it so clearly it almost hurt: Soap clad in polished silver years from now, standing straighter, speaking wiser, bearing the mark of a Silverlance long after Dym himself had earned his place.
Two Silverlances.
Master and squire.
The thought made him giddy—almost foolishly so. His breath fogged in the cold air as a smile crept across his face, unguarded and boyish.
The peak of Kazimierz's knighthood rode before him.
And then—
A tug.
Small.
Trembling.
The dream fractured.
Dym blinked, dragged down from silver clouds to cold morning air.
Soap's hand clutched the back of his cloak.
The boy was shaking.
Dym frowned faintly and turned. "What—"
"P–Perhaps I should go back, ser," Soap stammered, voice thin and strained. "Check on the camp. Make sure no thieves have been nosing about. And our savings are safe."
Dym stared at him properly now.
The boy's face was pale—not irritated, not sulking.
Afraid.
Dym followed the line of Soap's gaze.
Not at the Silverlances.
Not at the gleaming Pegasi whose armor dazzled the crowd.
But beyond them.
Toward the foreign riders.
Toward the two golden-haired Kurantas in white.
Toward the two silver-grey, horned figures in red and blue.
Soap's grip tightened, fingers twisting into the fabric of Dym's cloak.
Only then did Dym feel it—the tremor running through the boy's arm and into his back.
He lowered his voice.
"Soap."
The boy did not respond.
"Look at me."
Slowly, reluctantly, Soap lifted his eyes.
And there it was.
Not awe.
Not envy.
Raw, unmasked terror.
Dym felt the swell of his excitement cool, just a fraction.
"They're just knights," he said gently. "No different than any other. Well, leagues better than us. But still, they're knights."
The words rang hollow between them.
They both knew it.
Soap swallowed hard, throat bobbing.
"Ser… I think I should go..."
The procession kept coming, silver flashing like a river of light spilling toward the bridge.
Dym stood where he was, but his thoughts were already running ahead of him.
They were close now—close enough that he could see the way the sunlight slid along the curve of their pauldrons, the way the lances were held not stiffly, but with the ease of men who had carried them their entire lives. The horses did not fidget. They did not toss their heads wildly. Even the animals moved as if aware that they bore history on their backs.
If there was ever a chance, it was this.
He knew the odds. He knew how it would likely end. A polite refusal at best. A dismissive glance at worst. Perhaps a quiet warning not to overstep his station.
But what of it?
He had been refused fourteen times already this week. What was a fifteenth—if that fifteenth came from the very peak of Kazimierz's knighthood?
To speak to them. To stand before a Silverlance and give his name. To say Ser Arlan's name where it mattered most.
Even if he failed, he would not regret trying.
"Aye, you should-" he murmured, resolve settling into him like armor being strapped on. "-I have an idea."
He pressed Thunder's reins into Soap's hands without looking back and stepped toward the flow of people drifting aside for the riders.
Behind him, Soap struggled to gather the reins properly as Thunder shifted her weight. "Can I have your sword?" the boy called out. "To run people off with? Or—something else?"
Dym did not slow. "You have a knife. Tie it to a stick. That's a spear. That's enough."
He walked a few paces more before adding, "You'd best be here when I come back."
He turned just enough to point at the boy, eyes narrowing. "Rob me, and I'll hunt you down. With hounds."
"You don't have hounds!" Soap shouted back.
"I'll get some."
"Where?"
Dym stopped, turned fully this time, and fixed Soap with a grave stare.
Then he barked.
Soap flinched hard enough to draw a few amused looks from bystanders. Muttering darkly, he dragged Thunder back toward camp.
Dym turned back to the road.
The cheering swelled as the Silverlances reached the bridge. Up close, the brilliance was almost blinding. The armor was flawless, polished to such a sheen that it mirrored sky and faces alike. The lances were identical in height and gleam. Even the horses' barding bore subtle engravings that caught the light like frost.
At the head rode the two golden-haired Kurantas, white cloaks flowing behind them. Their posture was effortless, their expressions composed—not arrogant, but full of warmth, and confident, as they waved when they passed the crowd.
Behind them rode the silver-grey, black-horned youth in red and blue, his reptilian tail swaying with quietly. Now that Dym saw him more clearly, he realized the young Draco was not alone.
To his right rode another of the same race—older, broader of shoulder, beard thick and neatly kept. His hair was the same silver-grey as the younger's, their resemblance unmistakable even at a distance. The older Draco's gaze was harder, more measured, his bearing less curious and more guarded. If the youth watched the crowd with calm assessment, the elder watched it like a commander calculating risks.
Dym felt a faint prickle along his spine.
Then something else caught his eye.
Nestled among the mounted formation, riding slightly behind the Victorian contingent, was a smaller figure cloaked in a deep hood. The rider's frame was noticeably slighter than the armored knights around them. The hood concealed their face entirely, shadow swallowing whatever features lay beneath.
That earned Dym a slight raise of the brow.
A child? A page? A noble too important to be seen plainly? The figure rode with confidence, not clinging or uncertain, and their mount was as finely kept as the others'.
Strange.
The Victorian banner—yellow above, blue below, crowned shield and winged beasts split in inverted colors—snapped sharply in the wind behind them. Their knights rode disciplined and silent, shields upright, eyes forward. They did not bask in applause; they observed.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"Victoria—"
"Alliance—"
"Nearl—marriage—"
"Dragon and Pegasus—"
Dym let the words pass. Courtly matters were distant things, too intricate and delicate for a hedge knight's concerns.
The column slowed before Castle Rudnicka's gates. Orders were murmured, formations adjusted with seamless precision. Silverlances peeled into position, then advanced in ordered ranks beneath the raised portcullis.
The cheers followed them, then faded as each shining figure disappeared within the stone maw of the castle.
Dym waited only long enough to avoid drawing immediate reprimand.
When the last of the visible riders passed through and the crowd began to loosen again, he stepped forward and slipped in behind the trailing attendants. Not close enough to be bold. Not distant enough to lose sight of them.
His heart hammered in his chest.
Madness, perhaps.
But turning away now would haunt him far longer than another refusal ever could.
So he followed—toward his idols, toward the gates of Rudnicka Castle, and whatever answer awaited him inside.
=========
The climb to Castle Rudnicka was long and steep, the road curling upward like a challenge carved into stone. By the time the riders passed beneath the gatehouse, the cheers from below had thinned into distant echoes carried on the wind.
Dym slipped in with the lingering crowd—far enough back not to draw notice, close enough not to lose sight of the procession. No one stopped him. The yard was chaos in its own orderly way. Guards barked instructions. Stable hands rushed forward. Servants bowed low as hooves clattered against stone.
Inside the outer courtyard, the grandeur began to loosen into motion.
Silverlance mounts were led carefully toward the stables, barding unclasped with reverence. The Victorian riders dismounted in disciplined silence. The air smelled of leather, sweat, oil, and damp stone from the morning air.
Dym drifted toward the stable entrance, instinct guiding him there. Horses he understood. Their moods, their breathing, the twitch of their ears—those things made sense.
The first of the two golden-haired Kurantas dismounted from a white horse so immaculate it looked sculpted rather than bred. The man moved with contained strength, tall and broad-shouldered, posture straight without stiffness. His blonde hair was tied back neatly; matching equine ears rose proudly from his head, and a thick hair of golden tail hung behind him. When he turned slightly, Dym caught a glimpse of his face—sharp features, steady gaze.
For a moment, the man looked toward the yard.
The light caught his eyes.
Dym could not make out the color from this distance—only that they seemed to gleam.
The second blonde rider followed, similar in build but subtly different. He carried himself with a tighter energy, as though something beneath his composure strained to be released. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes. His movements were efficient, almost clipped.
And when he handed his reins to a waiting groom, Dym saw it—
His left hand was silver.
Not a gauntlet.
A hand.
Crafted metal where flesh should have been.
Before Dym could piece together who these men might be, a thin, elderly herald shuffled forward, scroll trembling in hand. Trumpets sounded again, sharper within the stone walls.
"Our Lord Rudnicki humbly welcomes the great and honorable Ser Młynar Nearl, the Radiant Spear!"
The name struck the courtyard like a hammer.
Dym's head snapped slightly toward the first blonde rider.
Nearl.
So this was him.
"Firstborn son of Knight Primus Piotr Nearl the Bold! Grand Knight of the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi Kazimierz! And heir to House Nearl!"
A ripple of murmurs spread among the gathered guards, knights, and servants alike.
Heir of a legendary House Nearl of Kazimierz.
The Grand Knight.
Dym felt something twist low in his chest.
"And his brother, Ser Aleksandr Nearl!"
The herald gestured toward the second blonde rider.
"Secondborn son of Knight Primus Piotr Nearl the Bold! One hundred and seventeenth Lord Commander of the Silverlance Pegasi! The Silver Hand!"
Lord Commander of the Silverlances.
Silver Hand.
Dym's gaze dropped instinctively to the silver prosthetic again.
So that was why.
The title carried weight. Even among Silverlances, this man stood at the peak.
The herald exhaled audibly, his shoulders sagging for a fraction of a second as though he believed his duty nearly done. He swallowed thickly, likely fighting the dryness in his throat from the repeated announcements.
Then movement behind the Nearls drew his eye—and his relief vanished.
The Victorian riders entered the courtyard.
The older Draco dismounted first.
"A–And Prince George Artorius of Victoria!" the herald stammered, scrambling to raise his voice again. "Heir of the Red Dragon of Victoria!"
The man who stepped forward bore a striking presence. His hair was a pale grey—not white, not silver, but something storm-touched. Two horns curved back from his brow, elegant and deliberate. A scaled tail moved behind him with calm restraint. He wore his beard neatly, lending him a dignity that softened the sharpness of his features. His expression, despite the grandeur of the welcome, seemed measured. Composed. Almost kind.
Behind him came the younger Draco.
The resemblance was immediate—same grey hair, same horns, same scaled tail—but the air around him felt... different.
"A–And Son, Prince Alexander Artorius!" the herald added awkwardly, voice cracking slightly.
The younger one carried himself with palpable arrogance, his chin angled high as if he couldn't be bothered to wait. He surveyed the courtyard not with awe, but with a critical, calculating eye. There was something sharp in his eyes, something faintly vain in the way he stood, as if he expected the world to arrange itself properly around him.
The Victorian yellow and blue banner behind them as their escort formed ranks.
Dym stood half-hidden by the stable doorway, pulse steady but heavy.
He had followed greatness' footsteps into the castle.
Now he knew their names.
The Pegasi Brothers.
The Lord Commander of Kazimierz's finest.
Heir of the Dragon of Victoria.
Titles of men who shaped kingdoms.
And he stood among hay bales and harness straps, a hedge knight with mud still dried at the edge of his boots, staring at the summit of everything he had ever dreamed and wanted.
The courtyard rang with the soft chorus of horses nickering as reins were handed off and boots struck stone.
The three great figures—Ser Młynar Nearl, his brother Aleksandr, and Prince George of Victoria—dismounted in practiced unison, each movement economical and precise. Their escorts followed suit, steel shifting, leather creaking, banners settling as if even cloth understood ceremony.
Dym, half-hidden near the stable doors, found himself rising onto the tips of his boots.
Which was ridiculous.
He towered over most men present. Broad enough to block a doorway, tall enough that stable beams felt uncomfortably close to his head—and yet here he was, stretching like an overeager child just to catch a better glimpse.
Still, the view improved.
From afar, he saw the Lord of Rudnicka Vale waddling forward to greet them—a portly Kuranta whose long face and slightly protruding teeth gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a well-fed donkey rather than the proud lines common among his kind. He was richly dressed, though the fabric strained at his middle, and he moved with the careful pomp of a man who understood exactly how important this moment was.
His family stood behind him, bowing deeply.
"My Lord of Rudnicka Vale," Ser Młynar greeted warmly as he clasped the man's hand, his tone courteous but firm. He even patted the lord's arm in a gesture that managed to look both respectful and subtly reassuring.
The portly lord beamed. "It is a great honor to receive you, my Lord Nearl."
"My lord," Aleksandr Nearl—the Silver Hand—inclined his head stiffly behind his elder brother. The silver prosthetic caught the sunlight as it rested at his side, gleaming coldly.
"It is a great honor to be received," Młynar replied with easy diplomacy.
The Lord of Rudnicka Vale then extended an arm toward the young woman at his side. "My daughter, Gwin."
The brown-haired Kuranta girl curtsied neatly, eyes lowered.
Dym squinted slightly.
She does not seem so fair to me.
The thought arrived unbidden and mildly treasonous.
If he were honest—and he rarely was with himself—he found his mind drifting instead to the Elafian puppeteer in the lower town. For the last six days, he had found reasons to wander past her pavilion each evening. At first, he had told himself it was for the storytelling, honest! The skill of her hands. The delicate way she made carved figures dance and weep and fight beneath lantern light.
And it was.
Mostly.
But it was also the way her chestnut hair caught the glow of oil lamps. The way her voice dipped and rose with practiced charm. The way her fingers moved with impossible grace.
He had been mesmerized.
Not just by her.
Though mostly her.
Her puppetry was extraordinary, he would insist. The stories were woven well. But if pressed, Dym would admit that he had been equally captivated by the storyteller herself.
Compared to that memory, the young lady of Rudnicka seemed… plain.
As Dym continued gawking—and wandering dangerously far into his own thoughts—he realized the procession had already begun moving inward. The Nearl brothers and Prince George were being ushered through the inner gate toward the keep proper.
He blinked.
Wait.
He had not seen the younger Victorian prince being formally greeted.
He saw this Prince George's back when he entered with measured calm.
But where was the other—
His question was answered from his left.
Hooves struck stone softly.
"Boy," came a sharp voice, edged with impatience. "Stop gaping."
Dym turned.
A black horse stood beside him, its coat glossy as ink—Reminds Dym of Sancho, Ser Don Quixote's mount. Atop it sat the younger Draco prince.
Up close, there was no mistaking him. Pale grey hair framed sharp features. Two branching horns curved back elegantly from his brow. A black scaled tail flicked once behind him. His steel-grey eyes fixed on Dym boredly.
"See to my horse," the prince commanded, already glancing toward the castle entrance where his father had disappeared.
Dym cleared his throat, heart thudding against his ribs. "I–I'm not a stable boy, my lord."
That caught the prince's full attention.
Alexander Artorius snapped his gaze back toward him, lip curling slightly. "Not clever enough?"
Dym felt every lesson Ser Don had ever drilled into him evaporate like morning mist.
Bow properly. Speak clearly. Never contradict a noble outright. Know your place.
He had already blundered any lessons he had when he partied like animals with the Laughing Catastrophe himself. He wonders what the Elafian lord is doing now. He hadn't been able to attend any of his parties' invitations due to his exhaustion from searching for lords and knights willing to vouch for his knighthood. But every night, Dym could hear the fanfares of his tent going on for five nights straight.
But now he was speaking to a foreign prince. A Draco prince. From Victoria.
None of the old hedge knights' five days of lessons he had learnt yesterday could have prepared him for this moment.
"Um…" he managed, eloquence abandoning him entirely.
Alexander rolled his steel-grey eyes. "Well, if you cannot manage horses—" He swung down from the saddle with fluid ease, boots landing lightly. "—then fetch me wine. And a pretty wench."
Dym balked so visibly it was almost comical.
"Oh—my lord, pardon," he stammered, forcing a strained chuckle. "I'm—I'm no serving man either."
He straightened instinctively, spine locking into a rigid posture.
"I have—" Dym swallowed. "—the honor to be a knight."
The courtyard noise seemed to dull around them.
For a brief moment, Alexander Artorius said nothing.
He simply looked up at him.
His steel-grey eyes traveled slowly from Dym's boots—muddled and dusted from the road—to the breadth of his chest, to the worn leather straps across his shoulders, to the calloused hands, to his frayed rope belt. The prince's gaze lingered on the sheer size of him, the way Dym had to angle himself slightly beneath the stable eaves to avoid brushing the beam overhead.
A sneer curved faintly at the corner of the Draco prince's mouth. "Oh," he said lightly, almost pleasantly. "Well…"
His eyes flicked once more over Dym's rough edges, the unremarkable heraldry of his old master, the absence of shining sigils, the plain and poor state of his gear.
"Kazimierz's famed knighthood has indeed fallen on sad days."