The walk back to the tavern tents felt longer than it really was.
Dym pushed through the lantern-lit paths of the tourney grounds, past drunk men arguing, squires running errands, merchants still trying to make a few last sales before the night wore thin. Somewhere nearby, someone was still hammering at metal. The steady clang carried through the air.
The coin pouch at his belt felt heavier than it should have.
Seven hundred and fifty silver.
It should have felt like relief.
Instead, his chest felt tight.
He had sold Swift.
And he had done it without telling Soap first.
That was the part that kept digging at him. Soap brushed her every morning. Fed her. Checked her hooves. The boy talked to her when he thought Dym wasn't paying attention. Swift had carried both of them on long roads. She had been part of their small company.
And now she was gone.
"Kurwa..." Dym muttered under his breath.
He sighed once.
Then again.
By the time he reached the tavern tent, he had already gone through half a dozen ways to explain it. None of them sounded right. None of them made him feel less like he'd handled it poorly.
The tent was loud and packed. Laughter burst from one corner. Someone was singing badly in another. The smell of ale, sweat, and roasted meat mixed thick in the air.
Inside, the crowd was a mix of faces and clothes from all over. He heard familiar Kazimierzan accents near one table. A group of Leithanien knights stood together in dark, ornate clothing, silver details catching the lanternlight. Two Victorians were arguing loudly over dice. Near the central pole stood a few robed priests, their cracked crystal wings faintly glowing, small halo-like rings hovering above their heads. The soft light from them flickered every time they shifted.
No one paid him much attention.
Good.
He spotted Soap easily. Bald head. Dirty blonde ears twitching. Tail hanging off the bench. A mug in front of him. The boy was watching everything with open curiosity, like he always did.
Soap saw him and immediately waved. "Ser Dymitr! Over here!"
Dym nodded. "Aye. Wait."
He stopped at the barkeep first. "Ale." He paid with a few coins from his smaller pouch, careful not to touch the heavier one at his belt. The mug was shoved into his hand. Foam nearly spilled over the rim.
He stood there for a moment, just breathing.
Then he walked over and dropped onto the bench across from Soap with a grunt. The wood creaked. He set the mug down but didn't drink yet.
Soap leaned forward right away. "So? Did you find someone? A smith who can actually fit you?"
"Yeah," Dym said. "Branik Ironhand. Forte. Big man. I've seen his armor. Solid work."
Soap grinned. "See? I told you someone would. So he's making it?"
"He is."
"That's good." Soap's tail gave a small flick. "When do we pay him?"
"On the morrow."
"Tomorrow?" Soap blinked. "That fast?"
"Has to be. I don't want delays. I already paid a time for a day, or else he'll sell it to the next person." Dym finally took a drink. "When it's done, we'll go pick it up together."
"Isn't that my job?" Soap asked.
"It should," Dym replied. "But you're not hauling my full harness alone. It's too heavy for your skinny arms, and you don't know what to check yet. We'll go pick it up together soon. And I'll teach you further on how to treat it."
Soap nodded, clearly pleased at first. But then his ears lowered slightly as he studied Dym's face.
"You look tired," he said. "Or... something."
Dym turned his head away, "I'm fine, boy."
Soap gave him a look that said he didn't believe that at all. "Ser."
Dym picked up the mug and took a long drink. He set it down harder than he meant to.
"I... I sold Swift." He grits his teeth.
Soap didn't react immediately. He just blinked. "You what?"
"I sold her," Dym repeated, forcing himself to hold the boy's gaze. "For seven hundred and fifty silver. And extra for the saddle."
"You're joking, ser."
"I'm not."
Soap stared at him. His ears slowly drooped. "Why?"
"We needed the money," Dym said, trying to keep his voice steady. "The armor costs more than we have. I can't fight in Ser Arlan's old pieces. They don't fit right with my bigger body, and if I take a hard hit, I could end up with broken ribs." He paused, "Or worse."
Soap's dirty blonde tail went still against the bench.
"With what we got for Swift, I can pay Branik in full tomorrow. We'll still have coin left. Enough to cover food, lodging, repairs. Enough that we won't have to worry for a while."
Soap looked down at the table. "You didn't tell me."
The words weren't angry. That made it worse.
"No," Dym said quietly.
"You already decided before you came back here."
"...Yes."
"You didn't even ask me what I thought."
Dym looked away for a second. The guilt sat plain on his face. "I know."
The noise of the tavern felt far away for a moment.
"I... also could've tried asking Fremont," Dym said after a while.
Soap glanced up. "The Leithanien lord?"
"Aye. Ser Don knows him. Told us if we were ever in need for aid. I could've asked him for coin. Or armor. Or some kind of backing." He paused, "I could've done so whe we first met him..."
"So why didn't you?"
"Because that kind of favor comes with chains of debt," Dym said plainly. "Ser Arlan taught me that if a lord lends you money, you owe him. And you cannot pay him back in coins. You will pay it back through years of service, which builds your loyalty to him and his realm. And when he calls, you must obey it. No matter where. And we can never pay off that sort of debt. Not as we were as hedge knights."
Soap frowned slightly.
"Fremont might be a good man, aye." Dym continued. "Ser Don knows and trusts him well, and told us to use his name should we ever need his aid. But we don't know him well, Soap. We don't know him as long and as well as Ser Don is. And Leithania isn't Kazimierz. They have different customs, different politics, and all. If we tied ourselves to him through this favor, we'd be bound to his banner, and it would affect your future as well."
Soap nodded slowly. "And lords like him don't forget debts easily..."
Dym nods weakly, "No. They don't."
"And he's also busy anyway, ser." Soap added. "Lords usually are. They don't have time to deal with common folk unless there's something in it for them."
Dym gave a small nod. "Exactly. Even if I wanted to ask, we couldn't just walk up to him again tonight. He's surrounded by his own people. Right now he may be in the Leithanien's plot doing meetings, feasts, businesses and whatnots. We'd be waiting for days, or months. And the tourney officially began tonight, and our pockets' limited."
"So you chose to sell Swift instead," Soap said quietly.
Dym leaned back slightly, rubbing his forehead. "...Aye."
"I don't feel like I've earned that kind of support yet," he said. "Ser Arlan wanted me to become a true knight. Not someone propped up before proving himself. Ser Don too, in his own way. They had flaws. Plenty of them. But they stood on their own names."
He looked at Soap seriously.
"That's what I want for you as well. To earn your place properly. To write your own story first. Not start it already tied to a lord because we couldn't handle our own problems."
Soap swallowed. "I still wish you'd told me. Ser."
Dym nodded slowly. "You're right."
He dragged a hand down his face again.
"I... keep telling you a knight has to be honest. Responsible. Set the example. And then I go and make a decision like that without even giving you the chance to say goodbye."
Soap's ears dipped lower. "I just brushed her this morning."
"I know."
"I didn't know it'd be the last time."
"Aye, I... know," Dym repeated, his voice heavier now.
He looked straight at the boy.
"I'm... I'm not sorry for protecting us. And I'm not sorry for choosing what I think keeps us standing on our own feet. But I am sorry for how I handled it."
He paused.
"You deserved to be part of that decision. I should've acted like the knight I wished you to become."
Dym let out a slow breath and looked at Soap properly.
"I'll buy her back," he said firmly. "I promise. If I win anything here—if I earn enough—I'll go back and buy her."
Soap looked at him, still upset, but listening.
Dym hesitated. "But… what's done is done. I can't undo it now." He grunted softly. "There's no turning back, I suppose."
Soap didn't answer right away.
Dym shifted in his seat, trying to pull the air away from that heavy place. "You know," he said, "the old man—Ser Arlan—he lived nigh sixty years. Rode half of Kazimierz. Fought in more tourneys than I can count."
Soap nodded absently, staring into his mug. "There's a bug in my cider," he muttered. He flicked the floating insect away and leaned closer to check if there were more. "That's the second one."
"And you know what?" Dym continued. "He was never a champion. Not once."
Soap gave a small shrug, still scanning his drink.
"So if I could call myself champion of Rudnicka Vale," Dym went on, half thinking aloud now, "even for an hour… maybe some great house would take me into service. Properly this time, through my own skills and efforts."
Soap flapped his wet hand, trying to shake cider off his fingers. "Maybe," he said. "There's another bug…"
"Maybe the Adeptus Spraliedliwi," Dym continued. "Or even House Nearl."
That made Soap look up properly. His golden eyes fixed on Dym. "You think the Pegasis employ many hedge knights, Ser?"
There was doubt in his voice.
Dym scoffed. "Enough of that. I'll have you know, Ser Tomasz of the Silverlance Pegasi is the son of a crabber."
Soap blinked. "Ser Tomasz?"
"Mhm."
"Of Zmierzchowo?"
"Yeah," Dym said confidently.
Soap frowned. "His father owns half the crabbing fleets in Kazimierz!"
Dym paused.
It was the kind of pause where a man realizes something is not lining up in his head.
"What?" he said.
Soap looked slightly uncomfortable now. "His father owns Kazimierz's biggest crabbing company, ser."
Dym stared at him incredously. "How would you know that?"
Soap avoided his eyes for a second. "I like fishing."
Dym just stared.
Around them, the tavern roared with laughter and shouting, mugs slamming against tables, dice rolling, someone singing loudly off-key. But Dym barely heard it.
No lord's blood in him.
He and his family were crabbers in Zmierzchowo.
His grandsire traded Gloompincers up and down the rivers long before I was born, and his sire before him.
That's what Ser Tomasz had said before, almost proudly. Said it like he'd come from nothing.
Kazimierz's biggest crabbing company.
Dym felt like someone had quietly shifted the ground under his boots.
"So he's… not exactly some poor crabber's boy," Dym muttered.
Soap shook his head. "No, Ser. His family owned half the realm's crabbing fleets."
Dym leaned back slowly, processing it. Maybe Tomasz hadn't lied. Maybe compared to noble houses, merchants still counted as low. But owning what may be half the fleets? That wasn't scraping by on by the rivers with nets and spears fighting those gloompincers.
Dym scratched his jaw.
For a moment, he felt foolish. Had he been romanticizing something that wasn't what he thought? Had he been clinging to the idea that any man could rise purely on grit and a lance?
The tavern erupted with another wave of laughter.
Dym reached for his ale to take another drink—
A loud horn blasted outside.
It cut through everything.
Another horn answered it from farther off.
For a heartbeat, the tavern went quiet.
Then the entire place erupted in cheers.
People stood up. Benches scraped loudly across the ground. Outside, more shouting joined in as the sound rolled across the tourney grounds.
Dym and Soap looked at each other.
Soap's golden eyes lit up instantly. His dirty blonde tail swished hard behind him.
"It's time!" he said, excitement wiping away the earlier tension.
Dym felt his own heart kick faster in his chest. The doubts, the guilt, the confusion about lords and crab fleets—all of it shoved aside by something stronger.
This was why they were here.
He stood up, drained the rest of his ale in one long gulp, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Right," he said. "Come on. Let's go."
They pushed out of the tavern tent and into the night.
The sun had fully set. Torches and lanterns lit the roads in long lines of flickering light. Crowds were already moving in one steady flow toward the lists. Nobles, knights, merchants, common folk—all walking in the same direction.
Dym glanced back and saw Soap hurrying behind him, legs shorter, weaving through the crowd to keep up.
"Come on," Dym urged. "Pick your feet up. Let's go."
His heart was beating faster now—not from guilt, not from doubt, but from anticipation.
Tonight he would see some of the finest knights Kazimierz had to offer. Maybe even some from beyond. The kind of men he had dreamed about becoming since he was a boy standing in Ser Arlan's shadow.
The noise of the crowd swelled ahead of them.
The Grand Tourney of Rudnicka Vale has begun.