Dym left Branik Ironhand's stall with the image of the armor still fixed in his mind. He could almost feel its weight already resting on his shoulders. The certainty he had felt while standing there did not fade when he stepped back into the lantern-lit lanes. If anything, it held steadier. He had done the hardest part. He had decided. He would not walk into the lists half-armed and half-honest. If he stood among knights, he would look the part.
And yet, as the noise of the carnival closed around him again, another truth rose just as firmly beneath that resolve.
He still had to pay for it.
The thought came in slowly at first, then settled all at once. Six hundred silver. Two already paid. Five hundred ninety-eight. The number repeated in his head in rhythm with his steps, with the beat in his throat. It did not change no matter how he turned it.
He walked on without really seeing anything now. Stalls, fires, bright surcoats, passing faces—all of it blurred at the edges. His body moved through the same crowded grounds, but his thoughts had narrowed down to one thing: coin, and where it would come from.
If he paid Branik fully from Ser Don's purse, what remained would barely keep him and Soap two months once fodder, grain, repairs, and travel were counted. Less, if anything went wrong in the lists. And things always went wrong. Gears broke. Horses went lame. Lances shattered. Coin vanished faster in a tourney than on any road.
He could borrow.
The thought returned again, stubborn as before. From Fremont. But the answer came just as quickly: and then you belong to him. Not by chains. Not by oath. But by debt. By the expectation. By the slow pull of your path toward Leithania instead of Kazimierz. Toward a foreign lord's household, before he had ever truly stood on his own.
Dym breathed out hard through his nose.
No.
The word settled heavy and clear. He would not begin his knighthood already tied to someone else. Not unless there was truly nothing left. Dym knew that while most knights like hm would look for empoyments and stability. What Dym sought for now is to upheld Ser Arlan's wishes. To be a true knight of the realm.
So his mind turned to the last place coin could come from.
Horses.
His stride faltered. He stopped in the middle of the lane without meaning to, forcing a pair of passing retainers to step around him with irritated mutters. He did not notice them. He stood still, as if something under him had shifted.
He's got three horses.
Thunder. Swift. Chestnut.
They rose in his mind as clearly as if they stood before him in torchlight.
He cannot sell Thunder. The horse is a warhorse. Broad chest, thick neck, temper quick as sparks. The only mount he owned that could carry Ser Arlan, and now hopefully him in full armour and arms. Without Thunder there was no chance for a tilt at all. He still need the warhorse.
He also can't sell Chestnut. He was an old, sway-backed, stot. More of a companion than mount now. Hells, the old boy would break over and die if Dym is to mount it. He's good enough for heavy and light loads like Soap, good for slow travels, and the quiet end of roads. No knight here would pay more than a few coins for a smaller pack horse already nearing the end of its work. Selling him would change nothing.
Which left—
Dym's chest tightened before the name even formed.
Swift.
A sudden surge of heat climbed up his neck, pricking into his face. His pulse jumped hard and uneven, as if his body understood before his mind allowed the thought to finish.
Swift.
The palfrey was still young, still sound. Clean legs, steady feet, coat pale like sun-warmed honey. Not bred for war, not made for the tilt, but a fine riding horse all the same. Smooth gait. Quick response. Gentle mouth. Worth real money. The only one of the three who might cover most of what he owed.
Dym swallowed.
He had ridden Swift since he was barely more than a boy in Arlan's service. The first day he had been taken on as squire, Arlan had walked him to the small stable and pointed out three horses.
"This one's for joust, And I'll be on him whenever we travel." Arlan had said, hand on Thunder's neck. "That one's for our luggage." A nod toward Chestnut. Then, quieter: "And you'll ride on this one. I used to ride on him for travels, but now he's yours. If I see you on Thunder, I'll give you a clout in the ear, boy."
Swift had nudged his shoulder then, warm breath, curious and unafraid. Dym had laughed, awkward and amazed that something so fine had been given into his care. From that day on, it had always been Swift beneath him—on errands, on drills, on long roads beside Arlan's warhorse. Swift who carried him beyond the manor lands for the first time. Swift who waited outside smithies and inns and churches through years of service.
After Arlan died, it had been Swift who carried him away from Ser Arlan's grave as he rides forward with Ser Don.
His breath caught now, shallow.
Sell him.
The words would not settle. They dragged against something deep in him that had nothing to do with coin or armor or lists. It felt like cutting away the last living piece of a life already taken from him bit by bit—Arlan first, then the household, then the road that had been theirs.
His heart was beating too fast. He pressed a hand briefly to his chest as if to steady it, fingers gripping the rough cloth of his tunic. Around him the carnival roared—laughter, pipes, shouting—but it sounded far away under the rush in his ears.
If he kept Swift, he could not pay the smith. If he could not pay the smith, there would be no armor. Without armor, no lists. Without lists, no standing. No winnings. No future built. And what would that show Soap? That a knight chose comfort and lost his place? That feeling mattered more than duty?
His jaw tightened.
Thunder was the war he needed. Swift was the road he had to leave. Chestnut was the past that would fade on its own.
Dym stood there a long moment, breathing through the heat and the ache until both dulled into something steadier. When he finally moved again, his steps were slower, heavier, as if each one carried weight.
He did not turn toward the stables yet.
But he already knew what he was going to do. The certainty sat in him the same way it had at the smith's stall—solid, unavoidable.
And it hurt more than he expected.
Swift.
The name kept coming back no matter how he tried to think around it. Not Thunder. He couldn't sell Thunder. Without the warhorse he wouldn't even be able to ride the lists properly. Not Chestnut either. The old pack horse was slow and worn, good for carrying loads and little else. No one would pay real coin for him, and Dym would not cheat someone into buying an animal near the end of its working years.
So it came back to Swift. Again and again.
The palfrey had been his mount since the day he first squired for Arlan. Swift had carried him when he was still clumsy in the saddle, still learning how to sit straight, how to guide with knees instead of pulling on reins like a child. Swift had been there before the mail shirt, before the spurs, before anyone had ever called him ser. When everything else in Dym's life had been uncertain, Swift had been constant.
And now he was standing here, quietly deciding to sell him.
Dym pressed his lips together. The thought felt wrong even to form. Selling Swift felt less like trading an animal and more like cutting away a piece of his own past. But that didn't change the truth underneath it.
Swift was still a horse.
A good horse, yes. A sound one. Worth coin. Useful to someone else.
That was the simple fact of it. Knights bought and sold mounts all the time. No one treated it like betrayal. No one made speeches over it. It was just part of the life.
So why did it feel like this?
Because Swift wasn't just another mount. He was the one that had been Dym's when Dym had nothing else. The bridge between being a nameless squire and becoming something closer to a knight. The only living thing left that had known him through all of that time with Arlan.
Thunder was the future. Chestnut was the fading past.Swift was everything in between.
Dym dragged a hand down his face, slow and rough. He couldn't keep standing here turning the same thoughts over. Nothing changed. He needed armor. He needed coin. The lists would open in hours. Branik would not hold the armor forever.
Swift pays for the armor.
The words settled heavily but clearly in his mind. He let them stay there, even though they stung.
Then another thought pushed in.
Soap.
The boy loved the horses almost as much as Dym did. Maybe more openly. Soap brushed Swift longer than the others. Talked to him constantly. Slept against his side on cold nights. If Swift was gone without warning…
Dym winced.
No. He couldn't just sell the horse and say nothing. Soap was his squire. He deserved to know. He deserved at least a chance to say goodbye.
So he should go to him first.
Back to the tavern tent near the lists. Find Soap. Explain. Then both of them to the camp, saddle Swift, and bring him to the horse lines to sell.
Dym pictured the path. The time. The distance.
From here through packed lanes. Across the edge of the jousting grounds. Into the crowd around the tents. Find Soap among dozens of benches. Then back out again against the flow. Out to the outer camps. Then back again toward the market.
It would take time. More than he had.
The tourney started in a few hours. Not tomorrow. Not later. Hours. He still had no armor in hand. No payment made. Branik was waiting one day, no more.
If he went to Soap first, he would spend half that time just walking back and forth.
The realization landed hard and practical.
He would be going in circles.
Dym stood still, jaw tightening. What mattered more right now—comfort, or being ready? What did a knight do when something necessary hurt?
He already knew the answer.
If he delayed, if he chose softness over need, what did that show Soap? That a knight backed away when the price was painful? That duty waited on feelings?
No. The boy would see the armor soon enough. He would see what it cost. And Dym would tell him everything plainly. No hiding it.
But first the decision had to be carried through.
Dym stayed where he was a moment longer, letting the last resistance inside him settle into something heavier but steadier. The hurt didn't go away. It wouldn't. But it stopped wavering.
He would sell Swift.
Then... he would tell Soap.
Dym turned at last—not toward the tavern lights where the boy waited, but toward the darker lanes leading out to the camps and tether lines beyond the carnival.
And he started walking.
=========
It did not take long to ride back from camp, and the night around the tourney grounds was just as loud and crowded as before. Lanterns burned along the lanes, and the air carried horse sweat, smoke, and trampled grass. Swift moved beneath him in her usual smooth, easy gait, ears flicking now and then at bursts of laughter or the clatter of passing tack. Dym kept his hand low on the reins and his eyes ahead. Saying nothing was easier than saying it again.
He tried several stables first. Each man who looked Swift over saw the same thing: good legs, clear eyes, clean coat, sound back. But the moment Dym said he meant to sell, they lost interest. "No need for a palfrey."
"Too many riding horses already."
"Try the other traders."
He rode on each time, jaw tight, the words mine to sell scraping worse with every repetition.
At last one ostler waved him toward the far end of the jousting grounds. "Perro down by the joust lanes. Henrij. Buys and turns horses this season." So Dym found him; a short Perro man among tethered mounts and low awnings, lanternlight catching the pale of his muzzle and the quick appraisal in his eyes.
Henrij stepped in close at once, hands running along Swift's neck and shoulders, down each leg, lifting a hoof, checking teeth. "Hm. Clean. Young. Good bone," he muttered.
"I... wish to sell her." Dym said.
The Perro's ears angled back a fraction. He straightened, and the tone changed. "She's light through the barrel. Her heel's a touch narrow. She ain't some rare mare, ser. Three hundred silver is all I can."
"Three thousand," Dym said flatly.
Henrij gave a short snort. "For a common palfrey? I'd be feeding gold to oats. Five hundred, how about that?"
"Two thousand."
They went back and forth in the dirt between the picket lines, numbers stepping down and up, neither man yielding quickly. At last Henrij rubbed Swift's shoulder again, as if measuring what he saw against what he'd pay, and said, "Seven hundred fifty is my final offer, and I'll take the saddle too."
The sum landed heavy. Less than Swift deserved. More than Dym had truly expected. He swallowed once. "...Fine."
"I'll get ya the silvers now. You could leave her here," Henrij said, already reaching for a pouch at his belt.
Dym hesitated, fingers tightening once on the reins. "Can you give me a little time with her?"
Henrij studied his face a moment, then jerked his chin toward the quiet edge of the lists. "Aye. Don't take too long."
So Dym led Swift along the boundary of the empty jousting lanes where lanterns threw long bars of light across churned earth. Away from the bargaining voices and the smell of tack oil, it felt almost still. Swift dropped her head to nose at sparse grass, calm as ever. Dym stood beside her, reins slack in his hand, the number turning in his mind. Seven hundred fifty. Six hundred to Branik left one hundred fifty. Add what remained of Ser Don's purse — his count was probably off, but close enough. Enough for fodder, for travel, for ransom if luck turned. Enough that he would not need to go to Fremont already owing.
He slid his hand into Swift's mane. She nudged his shoulder, searching his sleeve out of habit, and let out a soft, familiar nicker.
Dym huffed a breath that was almost a laugh and not. "Is there any measure of a fool I fail to meet?" he murmured, voice low in her ear. He rested his forehead briefly against the warm curve of her neck. "If I win, I'll come back and buy you again. I promise."
Swift made a small, throaty chortle, as if answering him.
His mouth pulled into a tired, sad smile. "Best girl."
He stood there another moment, hand moving once along her neck, memorizing the feel of her. Then he drew back, swallowed, and led her toward the stable rows again.
Henrij waited where they had left him, coin pouch already in hand. The Perro took the reins without ceremony and passed the pouch over. It landed with a solid jingle in Dym's palm — weighty, undeniable.
It felt heavy. But his heart felt heavier.
As Henrij turned to lead Swift away, Dym called after him, voice rougher than he meant, "See she has some oats tonight, yeah? And an apple too."
Henrij glanced back once, ears tipping. "She'll eat better than you, ser knight. Go on with your day."
Swift's tail swished once as she was led into the lantern glow of the stables, then she was just another horse among many. Dym stood there with the pouch in his hand, the coins pressing into his skin, and watched until he could no longer pick her out from the others.
The purse was what he needed. The armor would be paid. The path ahead was opening.
But as he finally turned away from the stables and back toward the crowded night, the question came quiet and stubborn all the same.
Was this the right choice?
He stood a moment longer after Swift vanished into the stable rows, the torchlights and movement swallowing her shape until she was only another brown horses among many. With ony her spots that gave her away. The noise of the grounds pressed back in around him — voices, tack clatter, a horse stamping somewhere — but it all felt a little muffled, as if he were hearing it through cloth.
It was when Ser Arlan's voice rose in his head without warning, clear as if the man stood beside him again in the yard at home.
A knight should never love a horse, boy.
He could see it: Arlan leaning on the fence rail, watching the mounts being walked after drill, the evening sun behind him. Dym younger, still gangly, brush in hand, frowning up at him. They're beasts of war or burden. They may die under you. And if you've been fool enough to love them, that death will take something out of you that you'll need later. So don't.
Dym had nodded then, because you nodded when Ser Arlan spoke. But that same evening Arlan had come down to the stables after dark, thinking no one saw, and stood with his own hand resting long on Thunder's neck. Not brushing. Not checking tack. Just there, quiet, the way men stood with something they cared about.
They had both known. Neither had said.
Dym let out a breath that trembled at the end and dragged a hand hard down his face. "A knight should never love a horse," he muttered, almost under his breath. "Aye."
And yet he had. Of course he had. Swift had carried him half his life. Thunder too, in another way. Even old Chestnut, stubborn and slow. Arlan had loved them as well, rule or no rule. It was an easy thing to say in daylight. Harder to live by when leather and breath and years were bound up together.
He shook his head once. Then again, harder, as if he could physically knock the ache loose from inside it. Enough. He had chosen. He needed to have chosen.
"It's the right choice," he said aloud this time, forcing the words steady. "It is."
To be a knight was not just spurs and lists and cheers. It was loss. It was letting go of what you wanted to keep. Arlan had done it. Don had done it. Every knight worth the name had done it in one way or another. And if Dym meant to stand among them for real — not half, not pretending — then he would do it too.
He tightened his grip on the coin pouch until the metal edges bit into his palm. He would pay Branik. He would take the field properly armed. He would win if he could. And if he did — when he did — he would come back and find Swift again if she still lived, and buy her back. That promise he would keep. He set it in his mind like a stake driven into ground.
There was no room now for soft turning back. No time for circling doubts.
Dym drew a long breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped away from the stables toward the lantern-lit lanes. The path ahead had been chosen. Now he would walk it as he meant to — fully, and without looking back.