Dym stood where he was, as though someone had driven a post through his boots and into the stone beneath.
For a moment, he did not even feel the yard around him—the movement, the noise, the jostle of men and animals. There was only the echo of the prince's voice, cool and effortless as a blade drawn without haste.
Kazimierz's famed knighthood has indeed fallen on sad days.
The words did not ring outward like a public insult meant to wound before witnesses. They dropped straight into him instead, heavy and certain, and settled somewhere deep beneath his ribs where they could not be shaken loose.
Beside him, the black mare stamped once, tack creaking softly, a reminder of the moment that had just passed. A stable hand hurried in from the side, bowing low and reaching for the reins Alexander had never intended Dym to hold in the first place. The prince himself had already turned away, cloak sliding behind him in a dark, costly ripple as he crossed the yard toward the archway where his father had disappeared into the castle. He did not look back. He did not need to.
Dym realized distantly that his mouth had opened at some point. He could not remember when. It hung there uselessly now, no word forming, no protest rising—only the stunned absence of speech that comes when a blow lands too cleanly to answer.
Something hot began to gather in him.
Not the dull, familiar ache of rejection he had swallowed again and again these past six days, standing before lord after lord while they shrugged, frowned, or searched their memories and found nothing of Ser Arlan. Not the hollow disappointment when that drunken Włodarzewicz knight had waved him off with bored indifference, failing even to recall the man who had served his own house and father. Those wounds had been weary things, worn smooth by repetition.
This was different.
He did not much care when men argued over knighthood itself. Well... he felt a bit disappointed. But Kazimierz was the land of knights; everyone carried their own notion of what the word meant. To some, it was glory. To others, coin. To many, spectacle beneath bright banners and louder crowds. Even Dym's understanding had never been fixed. Ser Arlan had shaped it first with rough, stubborn decency; Ser Don Quixote had widened it later with wandering, impossible idealism.
Both of them had been hedge knights.
Both flawed.
Both are in ways poor.
But both had carried their honor like a torch in bad weather and tried—through rain, hunger, darkness, mockery, and failure—to keep that flame alive.
Dym carried that torch now.
Poorly, perhaps. Imperfectly. But honestly.
He had upheld it as best he knew how.
And this—this was not doubt, nor debate, nor the careless dismissal of a stranger's plea.
This was contempt.
Open. Easy. Certain.
To sneer at knighthood itself, and do so in Kazimierz, in the very yard of a castle whose stones had watched generations of riders swear vows and break them and swear again—before a man who was a knight, however small his name—that struck somewhere far deeper than pride.
The heat in him surged.
His hands curled without his willing them, fists tightening until the knuckles blanched beneath road-rough skin. His jaw locked hard enough to ache. He could feel his pulse hammering up his throat, loud and heavy, drowning the yard's bustle to a distant wash.
He was enraged.
Not the sulking anger of wounded ego.
Not the boy's fury at being mocked.
Something older rose instead, pulled from Ser Arlan's memory, from every cold roadside fire, from every blunt lesson spoken into smoke and darkness: You are what you carry, lad. No lord can grant it. No lord can take it.
And, unbidden, another voice followed—Soap's, earnest and stubborn from that first night in Rudnicka Vale: to be a knight… is to be the noble light that illuminates the land.
Aleksandr. Alexander.
Both arseholes. Damn them.
The thought came hot and coarse, and he held it for a heartbeat because anger was simpler than the hurt beneath it.
He drew in a breath.
Held it.
Let it go slowly through his nose.
Again.
The fists loosened by degrees. His shoulders dropped a fraction. The roaring in his ears thinned until the world crept back: hooves striking cobble, harness buckles clinking, a groom shouting for oats, the low murmur of noble voices drifting from within the gate.
Dym did not move for several heartbeats more.
Then at last he turned—stiffly, deliberately—and walked deeper into the stable yard, jaw still tight, anger banked but not gone, carrying it the only way he knew how.
Inside.
But he had taken only a handful of steps when the courtyard behind him seemed to tear open with sound.
A horse screamed.
Not the sharp, playful whicker of a spirited mount, nor the indignant snort of a warhorse balking at the bit, but a high, tearing cry that spoke of blind panic. He turned at once, and there she was—the black mare—rearing almost straight upward, forelegs lashing the air as though she meant to claw her way out of the world itself. The rein trailed loose from her bridle where some unfortunate groom had lost his grip, and another man, either braver or more foolish, rushed in too close at the wrong instant.
The kick landed clean.
Iron met bone with a sound that carried across stone and timber alike, and the man spun and dropped without grace, blood already bursting across his mouth and beard. The surrounding stable yard recoiled as one body—servants crying out, handlers stumbling backward, someone shouting for space, for help, for the saints—but Dym was already moving, his long stride devouring the distance before thought could so much as catch up to instinct.
He caught the rein near the bit just as the mare crashed back down, still plunging, still fighting something no one else could see. His other hand came up along her neck, not to seize or wrench, but to anchor and feel, palm braced against hot muscle shuddering beneath sweat-darkened hair. Her breath came in ragged bursts against his sleeve; the whites of her eyes flashed; foam flecked the corners of her mouth.
"Whoa, whoa—easy now," he murmured, voice dropping into that low, steady cadence Ser Arlan had always used when a horse's mind had slipped its tether. "Easy, girl. No harm here."
Behind him, someone shouted again for people to clear away, and two men dragged the fallen groom across the cobbles, the man groaning thickly through blood. Dym flicked a glance, just long enough to mark that he was being seen to, and then forced his attention back to the creature trembling in his hands, because this was where the danger still lived.
The mare tossed her head, testing the pressure, seeking the chaos she had lost sight of. Dym did not haul on the rein; instead he softened it, letting his grip become a steady presence rather than a contest. His thumb found the place beneath her jaw that calmed more surely than any bit, working slow circles there while his body shifted to stand between her and the milling yard, broad shoulders cutting off the worst of the movement and noise.
"Shh," he breathed, leaning close enough that his breath warmed the damp hair at her cheek. "You're all right. Nothing chasing you. Nothing touching you now."
She quivered once more, a shudder that ran from poll to flank, but the wild edge had begun to dull. A second groom edged near, hesitant, and Dym tipped his chin toward the injured man being carried off. "Go on," he said quietly. "I've her."
Relief flashed plain across the man's face before he hurried away.
Dym stayed where he was, letting the mare feel him without threat, stroking along the crest of her neck in long, patient passes that matched the slowing of her breath. When at last he felt the rigid brace begin to melt under his palm, he shifted his weight and asked her to turn, guiding rather than pulling. She resisted for a heartbeat, ears flicking back toward the noise, and then she yielded, hooves stepping uncertainly at first and then more willingly as he led her away from the press of bodies and banners and clamor.
They slipped into the shadowed aisle of the stable, where the air was cooler and the sounds of the courtyard dulled to a distant wash. Straw rustled underfoot; the scent of hay and leather closed around them; the thunder of armored mounts passing outside became only vibration through timber and earth. Dym steered her toward a corner stall half-screened by stacked bales, a place quiet enough that even a frightened mind could rest.
"There you are," he said softly when she stopped, sides still heaving but no longer frantic. "Far from too many folk and too much shining nonsense."
Her head lowered a fraction.
The tremor left her flank.
He rubbed her neck again, slower now, feeling the heat ease beneath his hand, until her breathing settled into something like normal. Only then did he loop the rein about the post and tie it fast with a neat, practiced knot that would not slip nor bite. For a moment he rested his brow against the hollow of her cheek, an old habit learned in a hundred quiet mornings with Ser Arlan's horses.
"Good girl," he murmured.
Beyond the stable walls, glory still rolled past—Silverlances, Victorian Knights, banners bright as sunrise—but here in the dim hush of straw and wood, the black mare finally stood calm, head drooping, the storm spent out of her.
The mare's sides had finally stopped heaving.
Her ears, which had been pinned and flicking at every sound, now rested loose and forward as Dym stood beside her in the quieter corner stall he had chosen. The press of people and armor noise was muffled here, swallowed by timber beams, hay bales, and the warm, dusty smell of animals. She watched him with one dark, liquid eye as he slipped a hand into his pouch.
"Well then," he murmured, voice dropping into the soft cadence he had learned long ago, "let's see if you're of the sensible sort after all."
He drew out the apple.
It was small and a little bruised—travel fruit, bought cheap from a cart outside the lower gate—but her nostrils flared the moment the scent reached her. Her head dipped at once, lips reaching, and he laughed under his breath as she nickered low and eager.
"Aye, I agree," Dym said, offering it flat on his palm.
She took it carefully, teeth crunching, juice wetting his skin.
The simple act tugged something older loose in him. Ser Arlan's voice seemed to stir in memory, rough and fond: Always share apples with a good horse, lad. They remember kindness longer than men do. The old knight had done it whenever coin allowed—half for the animal, half for the ritual of it. Apples for Thunder, apples for Chestnut, apples for Swift, even when their own supper had been no better than stale bread and broth. Dym had learned the habit young, and he had never broken it. A horse that trusted your hand was worth more than any polished spur.
The mare crunched contentedly, head bobbing once against his shoulder as if in thanks. He stroked her neck, palm smoothing along the sleek dark hair.
"There now," he murmured. "Far too fine to be wasting your temper on crowds."
Somewhere farther down the row, a man's voice rose sharp with strain. "Where the fuck am I meant to put all these horses? This place can't hold all of them! We barely have stalls for the Silverlances, never mind the Victorians!"
"Figure it out!" someone snapped back. "Or start sleeping them in your own bed!"
Dym ignored the exchange. Stable yards before great arrivals always dissolved into chaos; there was nothing new in that. He kept his hand moving along the mare's neck, steady and rhythmic, feeling the last of her tension melt beneath his fingers.
Then, close behind him, another voice spoke—low, dry, edged with clinical detachment.
"The beautiful ones are always so high-strung."
Dym, still bent slightly toward the mare, answered without thinking. "Ah, she just got a bit excited, that's all."
A pause.
Then the same voice replied, faintly amused, "He meant the Dame, not the palfrey."
Dym blinked and turned.
Two figures stood just beyond the stall rail, tall enough that the lamplight caught the pale shine of their hair even in the stable gloom. Both were Kuranta, both broad-shouldered beneath silver-white plate that gleamed like winter frost, their cloaks falling in disciplined lines from their pauldrons. One's hair was near white, the other's a warmer gold, but both bore the unmistakable poise of riders who lived in the saddle and the saddle only.
Silverlance Pegasi.
The realization struck like a drumbeat in his chest.
His heart lurched hard enough that he felt it in his throat. For an absurd instant he was again the slum boy staring up at distant armor glinting in sun. He straightened too fast, nearly knocking his shoulder on the stall post, then caught himself and dragged in a breath.
Clear it. Speak properly. Don't gape.
He stepped away from the mare, wiped apple juice from his palm against his tunic, and dipped his head in a rough but earnest bow.
"Excuse me, my lords," he said, voice catching once before he forced it steady. He cleared his throat. "I'm— I'm Ser Dymitr the Tall."
The near-white-haired Silverlance inclined his head in courteous acknowledgment, his expression composed in that easy, practiced nobility that seemed to come as naturally to some men as breathing.
"Well met," he said. "I'm Ser Roland Krajewski, and this is my sworn brother, Ser Tomasz of Zmierzchowo."
He let his gaze travel unabashedly over Dym's height, breadth, shoulders, and sheer mass, astonishment breaking through his courtly composure in a low whistle. "Gods, boy. Do you ride your horse into battle, or does it ride you? You're the largest of our kindred I've ever seen."
Tomasz's mouth curved into a warm, apologetic smile. "Forgive Ser Roland. It is not often he must look up in order to look down. Not to mention we were not supposed to say our names privately to anyone, nor take off our helmets without the Grand Knight's leave. But today and days ahead are special days, so we were all allowed to."
Roland rolled his green eyes skyward with theatrical resignation. "Yes, yes, I am infamous for my wicked tongue and zero care for rules." He shifted his stance, one hand pressing lightly to his abdomen as his face tightened. "Now then, Ser… Duncan, was it? Tell me— is there a proper place to shit in this castle, or must a man disgrace himself behind a hedge? I've not had opportunity for three days."
Dym blinked once at the sudden turn, then shook his head. "Uh… not really, no."
Roland sighed with the air of a tragic martyr and turned away, muttering as he strode off down the aisle between stalls. "A man of such birth and achievement, reduced to negotiating with hay and buckets to clean his arsehole." Ser Tomasz quipped.
Dym snorted softly after him. "He'll deign to negotiate before the week's out, I'd wager."
Tomasz lingered, his attention settling back on Dym with quiet curiosity. Up close, the Silverlance's presence felt different from Roland's sharp brightness— steadier, deeper, like a banked fire rather than a spark. He studied Dym's face, his hands, the road-wear in his gear.
"Where are you from, friend?" Tomasz asked. "You don't smell housebred. Yet you know how to address a man of rank without stumbling. That's a rarer blend than you might think."
"No place, really," Dym said with a self-conscious chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "I had a good teacher who drilled it into me."
Tomasz's smile deepened in easy recognition. "Ah. Then I know the sort. My family's from Zmierzchowo, on the Dusk Lake."
Dym's brow furrowed. "You're not a Zmierzchowski of House Zmierzchowski?"
The Silverlance shook his head, amused. "No lord's blood in me. We were crabbers in Zmierzchowo. My grandsire traded Gloompincers up and down the rivers long before I was born, and his sire before him. Nets, tides, baits and fightings those hardy crabs— that was our history."
Behind him, a voice called across the stable aisle, "Ser Tomasz?"
Both men turned. Another Silverlance Pegasi stood beside a supply cart while grooms and armored riders moved around him in purposeful streams, the silver of their plate catching slants of light through the stable doors. Tomasz inclined his head toward Dym in parting.
"Well. Duty calls," he said. "Been a pleasure to talk to fellow knight of the realm. May lady fortune favor you, Ser Dymitr. Perhaps we'll cross lances or blades yet, before this merry gathering of seven nations is done."
He stepped away, cloak shifting against polished greaves, then slowed as Dym's voice followed after him.
"Ser— if I may—" Dym cleared his throat. "How does the son of a Gloompincer crabber come to the honor of the King's own lances?"
Tomasz turned back over his shoulder, that same warm, steady smile touching his eyes. "The same way we became crabbers."
And then he was gone into the flow of silver armor and stable bustle.
"Same way we became…" Dym murmured, the words sitting oddly in his mind as if they belonged to a riddle he almost grasped. The thought of nets and harpoons passed from father to son, of craft learned by hand and season rather than granted by parchment or patron— it stirred something hopeful in him, something stubborn and bright. He had spoken to a Silverlance Pegasi. Stood in front of one, close enough to see the wear on his gauntlets and the road dust in the seams of his armor. Not a legend of song, but a man. A good man. A true knight.
....
...
.....
Gods, he was a fool.
He had not asked.
Not even once had he taken the obvious, ridiculous chance that had brought him up the hill in the first place. No request for witness, no plea for vouching, no mention of Ser Arlan's name. He had stood there gawking like a village boy at a pageant and let the moment pass clean through his fingers.
"Kurwa," he muttered under his breath, half laughing at himself, half wincing. "Dym the dim."
He was still turning that over— the crabber's son, the Silverlance, the missed chance— when an irritated voice cut in from just behind him.
"Are you Phineas Duqaconvallis?"