By the time they reached the town, the sun had burned away the last of the morning cool. The road had stretched longer than it first looked, winding through low fields and patches of trees, and for most of that walk, Dym had barely said a word.
Soap, on the other hand, had done more than enough talking for them, both.
The boy had been going on almost the entire way, moving from one name to another without much pause, his voice steady and oddly certain as he spoke about knights, banners, past tilts, and who might be riding in the coming tourney. He spoke like he was sorting through a list only he could see, recalling details without hesitation—this man's reach, that one's temper, another's habit of favoring the left when charging.
Dym had tried to keep up at first. He really had. But somewhere along the way, the names started to blur together, and he found himself just listening instead, nodding now and then when it felt appropriate.
Still, it wasn't empty chatter.
The squire hadn't been joking when he said he knew every good knight in Kazimierz. That much became clear the longer he spoke. And it didn't stop there either—Soap drifted beyond the realm without any trouble, mentioning knights and warriors from places Dym had only heard about in passing, or the ones that his old mentor often mentioned.
The Tower Knights of Victoria came up at one point, and though Dym didn't know much about them, other than when he saw them some days ago when they and the Silverlances alongside the Nearls and the Victorian Princes arrived in town, the way Soap described their discipline in combat and how they held formation even in a tilt made them sound... difficult.
Then came Ursus.
Soap talked about these Boyars—landed nobles, as he explained—and something he called Vityazs. Heroic knights, he said, with a kind of quiet certainty that made it sound less like a title and more like a warning.
That was enough to make Dym shift a little as he walked.
He scratched at his jaw, glancing ahead as if the road might offer some distraction, but it didn't. The image stuck anyway—armored figures from some far, cold land, larger than life in a way that didn't feel entirely comfortable.
And then Soap mentioned the Emperor's Blades.
Dym didn't say anything right away, but something in his shoulders tightened. He tried to picture it—what it would even be like to face one of them—and the thought didn't settle well at all. The boy didn't go into too much detail, but he didn't need to. Just the name was enough, paired with the way he said it.
Ursus had a reputation. Even Dym knew that.
The idea of standing across from something like that, even in a tourney, made him swallow quietly and look away for a moment.
He found himself hoping—honestly hoping—that none of them would be there. Or if they were, that they'd be placed far enough in the lists that he wouldn't have to meet them.
"Or the Holy See's Apostolic Gun Knights," Soap added at one point, almost as an afterthought.
Dym frowned slightly at that, his steps slowing just a fraction. He glanced down at his sword, then at the empty space where his shield ought to have been.
Gun.
He turned the word over in his head without really understanding it. Whatever it was, it didn't sound like something you'd want pointed at you, especially when the boy said that it shoots and lets out a loud bang.
Almost like the ones the demons used years ago when Dym was a young squire...
He let out a small breath through his nose.
Right. That is indeed worse.
He didn't say it out loud, but the thought came anyway—if he ever had to face something like that, it would likely very poorly.
Still, for all of that, Dym couldn't quite dismiss what he was hearing.
But it felt... strange, in a way, to be walking along a dusty road while listening so intently to a scrawny orphanstable boy—now his squire—talk about knights from across the world like he'd met them himself. But there was no doubt in it. Soap knew what he was talking about. There was a weight to his words, even if he didn't seem to realize it.
And if Dym was being honest, it helped.
Even if he didn't remember every name, the way Soap spoke about them—their habits, their strengths, the small things that might give them away—that might matter. Especially if he found himself facing one of them in the lists.
Not that he wanted to.
But still... there's a possibility there.
And truth be told, the more Soap talked, the more Dym found himself hoping for something simpler. A fair tilt. A decent opponent. Someone he could actually manage without wondering if he was about to be run through by some famed knight from a distant land.
He rubbed at the back of his neck again, quieter this time.
Yeah... that would be better.
Please whatever Gods is out there, give him someone easy to beat...
By the time the walls of Rudnicka finally came into view, Dym let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The road widened as it neared the town, the quiet of the countryside giving way to the low, constant murmur of people going about their day.
Soap was still talking.
Dym listened.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, he kept the same simple thought close.
Just... not one of those knights.
Please.
========
When the hedge knight and his squire arrived in their destination, the market square was already packed. More crowded than Dym had expected but not by much. Stalls lined the streets in tight rows, their awnings stretched out in faded colors, while voices overlapped in a constant hum of bargaining, calling, and conversation. The smell of fresh bread, spices, livestock, and something frying in oil hung thick in the air, mixing into something oddly comforting despite how overwhelming it was at first.
Dym slowed his steps slightly, scanning the movement around him with a bit more focus. "We'll head to the market first," he said, mostly to Soap, though the reasoning was already clear in his mind. From what he knew, this was the best time to get anything worth buying. Leave it too long, and the good stuff would be gone, picked clean by people who knew better than to wait.
Soap nodded, keeping close for a moment as they stepped into the thicker part of the crowd.
Dym glanced around once more, then made a small decision. "Let's split up," he said, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a few coins. He pressed them into Soap's hand. "Go find us some spices. Nothing fancy—just the common ones."
"And don't spend too much." He warned the boy.
Soap nodded quickly, already half-turning as if he knew exactly where to go. "Aye, ser."
And just like that, he slipped off into the crowd, weaving between people with an ease that made him hard to follow after only a few seconds.
Dym watched him go for a moment, then let out a quiet breath through his nose before turning back to the task at hand.
The market was loud, but not unfriendly. People moved around him without much trouble, each busy with their own errands. It didn't take long before he spotted a row of stalls selling bread, the warm smell reaching him before he even fully saw them.
His stomach gave a low, insistent gurgle.
Dym paused.
He glanced at the loaves laid out on the wooden tables—round, long, some darker, some lighter, all looking far more appealing than anything they had back at camp. He stood there for a second longer than he meant to, then shifted his weight and stepped closer.
"Hunger's the best cook..." he muttered under his breath, though the thought didn't quite finish itself. It didn't need to.
The shopkeeper, an elderly Cautus with long black ears flicking slightly as he moved, looked up as Dym approached. There was an easy sort of friendliness in his expression, the kind that came from seeing plenty of customers pass by in a day.
"I'll have some bread," Dym said, gesturing lightly to the larger loaves. "Those ones, please."
The shopkeeper nodded at once, already reaching to gather them. "Good choice," he said, his tone light. "These will keep well—about a week, if you store them right."
Dym gave a small nod. "Thank you."
He handed over a few copper coins, watching as the bread was wrapped and passed to him. He tucked the loaves carefully into his satchel, adjusting the weight so it sat comfortably against his side.
A week, huh?
Dym shifted the strap slightly as he stepped away from the stall, glancing down at the bag for a brief moment.
They'd be gone in a few days, he figured. Between the two of them, that was more than likely. The boy was a bit of a ppicky eater, but Dym was not, he would eat anything so long as his stomach is full for the day. He gave a small huff of amusement at the thought, then looked back out over the crowd, already thinking about what to get next—and where Soap had run off to.
The tall knight lingered a moment after leaving the bread stall, his thoughts already drifting ahead to what he might put together for their late breakfast. Hunger had a way of doing that—turning simple things into plans, plans into something almost comforting. He adjusted the satchel on his shoulder as he walked, glancing from one stall to another while he sorted it out in his head.
They still had salted beef from last week. It wasn't much, but it would last if he was careful with it. Better to save it for later, though. He knew how heavy that kind of meat could be, especially for Soap. Too salty, too tough if not handled right. It would need something to soften it, cut through it a bit—spices, maybe something fresh if he could manage it. That was part of why he'd sent the boy off in the first place.
Dym rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he moved along the row of stalls, his pace unhurried but steady.
Then he passed one that made him slow.
A low wooden pen stood beside it, a few geese shifting about inside, feathers ruffling as they let out the occasional annoyed honk. Nearby, a basket sat with a small collection of eggs, simple and unremarkable, but enough to catch his attention.
Dym stopped.
"...Yeah," he muttered under his breath. "That'd do."
He stepped closer, nodding once to himself before approaching the stall. The shopkeeper—a Caprinae man—looked up at him as he came near, his expression neutral but attentive.
Dym pointed toward the eggs near the caged goose. "Can I have some of the eggs?"
The man tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting into something more puzzled than before. Then he spoke, his words coming out in German.
"Was meinst du? Die Gans? Oder willst du die Eier kaufen?"
Dym blinked.
He did not understand a word of it, but the sound of it—something about the cadence, the way the words rolled together—felt oddly familiar. It tugged at something in his memory, and for a brief moment, the noise of the market seemed to dull around him as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Ah, Leithanien.
That was it.
It sounded like her.
Avelyn.
The image came back to him without much effort—the Elafian puppeteer from the day before, standing on the stage in her pavilion, her voice carrying that same kind of tone, but softer. Dym's expression shifted slightly as he remembered it, his mind lingering there longer than it probably should have.
He almost smiled like a mad fool.
Realizing it a second too late, he turned his head away from the shopkeeper, clearing his throat under his breath as if that might cover it up.
"Right. Focus."
The man gestured again, pointing—though not quite where Dym had been looking. Toward the goose itself, not the eggs.
Dym hesitated, glancing between the bird and the basket, then back at the man.
"...Right," he muttered quietly, though he wasn't entirely sure it was right at all.
He scratched at the side of his head, shifting his weight as he took a small step back from the stall. Maybe he'd gotten it wrong. Or maybe this just wasn't the place to try and figure it out.
"Hmm... Leithanien."
Dym let out a small breath through his nose, the thought lingering for just a moment longer than it needed to. He'd see her again later, he figured. About the shield.
That settled it enough.
He looked around the market again, letting his hand drop back to his side.
There were still things to get, and Soap was somewhere out there dealing with his own task. No point getting stuck here over a handful of eggs.
His thoughts shifted again, more practical this time.
Branik.
He still had to settle the payment for his armor. That mattered more. Food could wait a little longer—well, not too long.
As if on cue, his stomach gave another low growl.
Dym sighed and patted it absently. "Yeah, I know," he murmured under his breath.
They'd need to eat soon. That much was certain.
He cast one last glance at the stall, then turned away, adjusting the satchel on his shoulder as he made his way back into the flow of the market, already thinking about finding Soap—and then heading straight for Branik's place before the day got any further along.
And suddenly, he heard a commotion nearby.
A loud, frantic honk snapped him out of it.
Dym turned back just in time to see the shopkeeper wrestling with one of the geese, the bird flapping and squawking as it was hauled—quite decisively—onto a chopping block. The man had already grabbed a knife, lifting it overhead with practiced ease, like this was a completely normal response to whatever Dym had just said.
Dym froze.
Then his eyes widened.
"No, no, no, no, no—!" he blurted out, stepping forward with both hands raised as if that alone might stop what was about to happen.
The shopkeeper paused mid-motion, knife still held up, and turned his head slightly toward Dym.
"Hmm? Was?"
Dym swallowed, suddenly very aware that he had no idea how to explain this properly. He gestured quickly with his hands, fingers clenching and unclenching as he tried to find the words.
"Um—uh—goose eggs," he said, a bit too fast. "Just... just the eggs."
The shopkeeper frowned, looking from Dym to the goose, then back again, clearly not following. His grip tightened slightly on the knife as if he was about to continue anyway.
Dym saw the movement and stepped forward again. "No, no, no, uh—!"
The man turned back to him, even more confused now.
Dym let out a quiet curse under his breath. "Shit, um..."
He hesitated for half a second, then did the only thing he could think of.
He mimicked it.
Awkwardly.
Very awkwardly.
Dym bent his knees slightly, shifted his stance, and made a vague motion with his hands behind him, as if trying to demonstrate a goose laying an egg. Unfortunately, the result looked... less like a goose and more like he was about to relieve himself right there in the market.
"Goose eggs," he repeated, a bit slower this time, committing to the motion despite how ridiculous it felt. "Like... just the..."
There was a pause.
The shopkeeper stared at him.
Then, slowly, his expression changed.
"Ah! Eier?"
The knife lowered.
The goose, spared for reasons it likely didn't understand, was lifted off the block and set aside again, still honking in mild outrage. The man reached instead for the basket nearby and picked up a few eggs, holding them up as if to confirm.
Dym straightened at once, relief washing over his face. "Yes—yes, that," he said quickly, nodding.
Learning from the mess he'd just made, he held up two fingers this time, making the gesture clear.
"Two."
The shopkeeper nodded, "Ah, zwei Eier!" and handed over two white goose eggs without further issue.
Dym passed him a few copper coins in return, taking the eggs carefully and tucking them into his satchel with a bit more care than he had with the bread. Once that was done, he let out a quiet breath, shaking his head slightly to himself.
"...Right, thanks." he muttered.
That could've gone worse.
The shopkeeper gave a short nod once the coins were in his hand, his mood clearly improved now that things made sense.
"Danke schon!"
Dym nodded back, a bit slower this time. "Aye, thanks." he said, even if he wasn't fully sure what the man had said. It sounded right enough, and that was good enough for him.
He turned, shifting the eggs carefully in his hand so he wouldn't drop them—
—and stopped.
His heart beats fast.
Not far, just moving along the edge of the crowd like she wasn't in any hurry at all. The graying white cloak stood out first, flowing against the dust and color of the market, and then the rest followed—the soft hint of chestnut hair tucked beneath her hood, the basket in her hands, and above it all, those branching brown antlers that made her impossible to mistake for anyone else.
Dym felt his chest tightens before he really thought it.
Avelyn.
She carried a basket in both hands, already filled with small groceries—wrapped herbs, a bundle of root vegetables, and what looked like a small vial of something carefully tucked between cloth. The kind of things people bought without thinking too much about it, though Dym knew better. In places like this, even simple things could carry more than just their use—powders for treating minor infections, dried leaves to ease fever, little remedies that people swore by whether they worked or not.
Or simply items for her coming puppet performances.
The market itself moved around her in its usual rhythm. Traders called out their goods, a pair of Voivre argued loudly over prices a few stalls away, and somewhere behind him, the goose from earlier gave another irritated honk as if it still hadn't forgiven the morning's misunderstanding.
But she didn't seem rushed by any of it.
She slowed as she passed the stall, her gaze flicking briefly toward the shopkeeper—and then to Dym. Just a moment, but long enough. There was a faint knowing look there, subtle, like she'd seen more than she needed to.
He didn't move. Just stood there, eggs in hand, watching.
But then her gaze shifted—briefly toward the stall behind him. Toward the goose. The knife. The whole mess.
And then back to him.
There was a flicker of recognition, followed by the smallest hint of amusement in her eyes. Not enough to embarrass him outright—but enough that he knew she'd seen it all.
She turned toward him then, changing direction without hesitation, and approached at that same steady pace. As she got closer, a small, gentle smile formed.
Her soft brown eyes met his.
Up close, they were softer than he remembered. Brown, steady, with a kind of calm that didn't come from the market or the noise around them. There was something else there too, something he couldn't quite place—like she saw more than most people did, even when she wasn't saying anything.
"Guten Morgen, Herr Ritter," she said.
Dym blinked.
The words slipped past him at first, not fully understood, but familiar enough that his mind caught onto them anyway. He'd heard her speak before, back in the pavilion, her voice carrying that same careful, measured tone. It sounded different from the common tongue—cleaner somehow, more precise.
Good morning.
Sir knight.
"A—Aye," he answered, nodding a bit too quickly. "Good morning, A-Avelyn."
He gave her a small, awkward smile, still holding the eggs like he'd forgotten what they were for. For a brief second, he considered putting them away—then didn't, because that somehow felt like it would make things worse.
"…I—uh," he started, glancing down at them. "Got these."
"Eggs," The hedge knight said, then added quickly, "goose eggs."
He let out a small, nervous chuckle, holding them up slightly as if that explained everything—which, to be fair, it didn't.
Avelyn's smile lingered, soft and patient, like she didn't mind at all.
"I saw your conversation with the seller just now, Herr ritter." she said, her voice light, just a hint of amusement still there. "It looked… complicated."
Dym huffed a quiet chuckle through his nose, glancing off to the side. "Aye. That's one way to put it." He shifted his weight, then looked back at her. "Got them in the end, though."
"That you did."
There was a brief pause, not uncomfortable, just… there. The market moved around them, people passing by, voices rising and falling, but it felt a bit quieter where they stood.
Avelyn adjusted her grip on the basket slightly. "I'm preparing for tonight," she said, almost casually. "There will be a performance. Another puppet play."
Dym perked up a little at that. "Oh? What is it going to be about?" His dirty brown tail swishing slightly in excitement.
She nodded. "The story of the Mirror Knight."
That caught his attention properly.
"Ah," Dym said, his expression shifting with recognition. "The silver knight and his mirror shield. The one where he slays the dragon, right?"
Avelyn's smile grew just a little. "Ja. That one."
Dym nodded slowly. "I know that one, I often see the wooden hand puppet plays when I was a kid in... somewhere? I kind of forgot where." He paused, then added, "Didn't think I'd be seeing it played by a person like Jonquil and Florin yesterday, though."
"It's an old story," she said. "But people still like it though."
"I can see why."
She watched him for a moment, then asked, "Will you come?"
Dym blinked again, caught a bit off guard by how directly she said it.
"I—" He hesitated, then nodded quickly. "Aye. I mean—yes. I'll come."
There was a faint warmth rising to his face, but he didn't look away this time.
Avelyn seemed pleased with that. She gave a small nod. "Then I will return your shield tonight as well. It's nearly finished."
Dym straightened slightly. "Right—the shield." He nodded again, more firmly this time. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
"You trusted me with it," she said simply.
That sat with him for a moment.
Then, after a brief pause, she tilted her head slightly. "Will you be riding in the lists today?"
Dym scratched at the side of his head, his earlier confidence slipping a bit. "Ah… no. Not today." He shifted his stance. "Seems it's for highborn knights and lords right now. So I'll have to wait."
Avelyn's expression softened, just a little. "That's unfortunate," she said. "I was looking forward to seeing you joust."
Dym froze for half a second.
"…You were?"
"Yes."
That was all she said, but it was enough.
Dym felt something in his chest pick up pace, a bit quicker than it should have. He cleared his throat lightly, trying to keep his expression steady. "Well… I'll be in it soon enough," he said. "Someday... hopefully."
"I'll be there when you are," she replied.
He nodded, maybe a bit too quickly. "Aye."
There was another small pause before she spoke again. "Have you met Herr Professor?"
"Herr Profess-? Ah Lord Fremont." Dym nodded. "I did. Yesterday." He adjusted the strap on his shoulder absentmindedly. "Got a letter from him too. Acknowledging my knighthood."
"Das ist gut," she said.
"Aye… though he seemed busy," Dym added. "We didn't stay too long since he told us to leave suddenly."
Avelyn gave a small, understanding nod.
The conversation settled again for a moment, and Dym shifted slightly, glancing down at the eggs still in his hand.
Right.
He cleared his throat.
"Uh… eggs... do you like eggs?" he asked, then immediately winced a little at how that sounded. "I mean—I was going to cook. For breakfast. And I thought maybe—if you—"
He trailed off, already aware he was fumbling it.
Avelyn was quiet for a second.
Then she giggled softly.
"I already had breakfast with my family, Herr ritter. Vielen Dank für das Angebot... Thank you for the for the offer." she said gently.
Dym nodded quickly. "O-Oh. Right. Of course." He scratched the back of his head, looking off to the side again.
But before the moment could settle awkwardly, she added,
"But we could eat together tonight. After the play, with your squire."
Dym looked back at her.
His eyes widened just a little.
"…T-Tonight?"
She nodded.
Dym didn't hesitate this time. "Aye," he said, a bit quicker than he meant to. "Yes. That sounds—good. I mean—thank you."
Avelyn's smile returned, soft as before.
"Then I'll see you tonight, Herr Ritter."
Dym nodded again, still holding the eggs like he'd forgotten them completely.
"A-Aye," he said. "Tonight."
The tall Elafian puppeteer gave him one last look, that same soft smile still there, and then a small wave. Then she turned and continued on her way, her white cloak slipping back into the flow of the market as if she had always been part of it.
Dym stood there a second too long.
Then, a bit late, he lifted his hand and waved back—still holding the eggs, which made the whole gesture look slightly off. "Aye, tonight... tonight..." he muttered under his breath, smiling awkwardly as if she might still somehow hear it.
She didn't turn again.
The crowd moved, closing around the space she had occupied, and just like that, her tall figure was slowly gone from his sight.
The noise of the market filled the gap she left behind. A donkey brayed somewhere nearby, loud and insistent, while a rooster crowed from another stall as if it had something to prove. Voices rose and fell all around him, the steady rhythm of trade continuing without pause.
Dym let out a quiet breath.
His shoulders eased a little, and he rubbed the back of his neck, a faint warmth creeping into his face before he realized it. He looked down for a moment, then away again, like that might help settle whatever that feeling was.
"…Right," he muttered.
For a brief second, his thoughts drifted—unhelpfully—back to her. The way she spoke. The way she looked at him. The way she said Herr Ritter like it meant something more than it probably did.
He exhaled again, a bit longer this time.
In his imagination, the moment lingered.
Which was why he didn't notice the small figure stepping up beside him until it was already too late.
Soap stood there, hood pulled loosely over his bald head and his blonde haired equine ears, a satchel slung over his shoulder and another in hand, clearly finished with his own task. He looked up at Dym, golden eyes gleaming with something far too amused for this early in the day.
A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face.
"Ooh, ooh~" he cooed, leaning just slightly closer. "Dinner with the lady tonight~ Ooh~"
Dym flinched, snapping out of his thoughts as he turned sharply to his sides, and when he found no one, he looked down and found the boy. "What—? No—No." He shook his head quickly, trying to brush it off as he stuffed the eggs into his satchel with more force than necessary. "Shut up." Hopefully, the eggs didn't crack inside it.
Soap snickered, entirely unbothered.
Dym adjusted the strap on his shoulder, clearing his throat as he straightened up again, doing his best to ignore the lingering heat in his face. He started walking without waiting.
"Let's-Let's go pay for my armour," he muttered, more focused now, or at least trying to be.
Soap fell into step beside him easily, still grinning to himself as he followed his master deeper into town.
Behind them, the marketplace carried on as it always did—voices rising, animals calling, coins exchanging hands—unbothered by small moments that, for someone like Dym, felt anything but small.