The moment they left the tavern tent, the crowd swallowed them whole.
It happened so quickly that Dymitr barely had time to react. One moment he was stepping out into the torch-lit road, the next he was surrounded on every side by a moving wall of bodies. The flow of people pushed forward toward the tourney grounds, loud and restless, everyone talking at once.
Dym tried to keep his footing as the crowd carried him along.
Someone's shoulder slammed into his back. An elbow jabbed into his ribs. He muttered something under his breath and shifted sideways, trying to keep a bit of space around himself.
It did not work.
A pair of curved horns bumped sharply into his side as an Elafian man pushed past him without even looking. The horn scraped against the leather of Dym's vest and knocked the breath from him for a moment.
"Kurw—Hey—watch it," Dym grumbled, rubbing his ribs.
Before he could recover, another bump came from the other side. This time it was the thick horns of a Caprinae woman trying to squeeze past through the same narrow path of bodies. One of the horns clipped his shoulder hard enough to make him wince.
Dym shifted again, trying to angle his body away from the horns and antlers that seemed to come at him from every direction.
"By the Gods," he muttered to himself.
Behind him, Soap was having a much worse time.
The squire was small even on a good day. In a crowd like this, he might as well have been invisible. People walked past him without noticing, long coats brushing against his face as taller folk pushed and shuffled around him.
Once or twice Dym thought he had lost him completely.
The crowd moved in uneven waves, sometimes surging forward, sometimes slowing to a stop for no clear reason. Every time it did, Dym glanced back over his shoulder, trying to catch sight of the boy.
For a few worrying seconds, he couldn't see him at all.
Then, between two men, he spotted it again.
Soap's bald white head.
It bobbed through the sea of bodies like a pale stone drifting down a river. The boy was weaving between people as best as he could, his shorter legs moving twice as fast as everyone else's just to keep up.
Dym let out a quiet breath and kept moving.
Night had fully settled over Rudnicka Vale by now. The last of the sunset had long faded from the sky, leaving the whole area lit only by scattered torches and lanterns hanging from wooden poles.
Their flames flickered in the wind, throwing uneven light across the road and over the endless stream of spectators heading toward the tourney grounds.
Shadows stretched across the dirt path.
Armor buckles glinted.
Bright ribbons tied to hats and sleeves fluttered as people walked.
Somewhere ahead, a horn blew.
The sound rolled across the grounds like distant thunder, deep and long.
A second horn answered from farther away.
Then another.
The crowd erupted in cheers almost instantly.
The noise spread like wildfire through the mass of people. Some shouted. Others clapped or whistled. A few waved small banners above their heads as they pushed forward with renewed excitement.
"It's starting!"
"Move along!"
"Make room!"
Dym felt another shove from behind as someone impatient tried to force their way through. His boots scraped against the packed dirt as he stumbled forward a step.
"Easy," he muttered.
At last the wooden entrance gate to the jousting grounds came into view ahead of him. It was a large structure built from thick beams, decorated with banners that hung loosely in the night air.
Two rows of torches burned on either side of the entrance.
As Dym passed beneath the gate with the rest of the crowd, he couldn't help but turn his head to look at the field.
The sight made him slow for just a moment.
Inside the grounds, lantern light gleamed across polished steel.
Several knights stood near the entrance preparing their equipment. Their armor shone bright under the torchlight, every plate clean and well-fitted. Painted shields leaned against wooden racks beside them, each marked with bold colors and heraldry.
One shield bore a red fish charging across a black field.
Another carried a silver spear crossing a golden sun.
A third displayed a pair of wings spread wide over a blue background.
Dym stared longer than he meant to.
The knights looked larger than life standing there. Their armor reflected the firelight in sharp flashes whenever they moved. One of them lifted his helmet slightly to speak to a squire, revealing a stern face lined with old scars.
Real knights.
The kind that rode in great tourneys.
The kind that won glory and the favor of powerful houses.
Dym felt a familiar stirring in his chest as he watched them.
Maybe one day...
Around him, the crowd continued to move and push past the entrance. Many people carried little signs of support for their favorite knights. Some had colored ribbons tied to sticks. Others held painted shields or small banners with house symbols stitched onto them.
People jostled and laughed as they tried to get closer to the stands.
Then, from somewhere behind him—
"Ser Dymitr!"
Dym stopped in his tracks.
He turned quickly, scanning the dark mass of people behind him.
For a moment he saw nothing but shifting bodies and lantern light bouncing across moving faces.
Then he spotted it.
Soap's bald white head again.
The boy had both arms raised straight into the air, waving them frantically so Dym could see him.
Dym pushed his way back through a few irritated spectators.
"Hold on," he muttered as he squeezed between two men arguing about which knight would win tonight.
When he reached Soap, he crouched down and grabbed the boy under the arms.
Soap barely had time to react before he was lifted clean off the ground.
"Whoa—!"
A moment later Dym settled him onto his shoulders.
Soap grabbed hold of Dym's hair and the top of his head to steady himself.
"Hold tight," Dym said as he stood back up. "And don't rip my ears off."
Soap shifted slightly to get comfortable.
"I won't," he said quickly.
From up there, the difference was immediate.
Soap could suddenly see over the heads of the entire crowd.
The tourney grounds stretched out before them, wide and bright under rows of lanterns and tall iron braziers. Wooden stands rose on either side of the lists, already packed with cheering spectators.
More horns sounded again.
Closer this time.
Horses neighed somewhere ahead.
Metal clanked as armor plates shifted and straps were tightened.
Dym pushed forward through the crowd again, carrying Soap on his shoulders as people continued to press toward the spectating areas around the field.
The closer they got, the louder everything became.
People were shouting bets. Vendors were yelling about roasted meat and hot cider. Someone nearby was singing loudly and badly while his friends laughed.
Dym's heart beat faster the nearer they came to the lists.
This was it.
Tonight he would see them.
Some of the best knights in all of Kazimierz.
Maybe even some from beyond.
The men who rode in stories.
The men he had dreamed of becoming since he was a boy.
Dym swallowed once and stepped forward into the roaring crowd, slowly pushing his way closer to the front of the spectator grounds. It was slow work. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, everyone trying to get a good view of the lists. More than once someone cursed at him when his broad frame squeezed through a tight gap, but most of them quieted down once they saw just how tall he was.
Soap still sat on his shoulders, holding onto his head for balance as Dym shuffled forward step by step.
"Almost there," Dym muttered.
At last the mass of bodies thinned a little.
He found an opening near the front, right up against the wooden fence that separated the spectators from the jousting field. The fence came up to about his chest, built from thick beams and reinforced with iron nails. It looked sturdy enough to stop a charging horse if one somehow broke loose.
Dym leaned against it with a relieved grunt.
"Finally."
Soap shifted slightly on his shoulders, looking out over the field.
The jousting grounds were enormous.
The entire area stretched far wider than Dym had first imagined when they entered. The main field had been divided into long lanes by a series of wooden barriers. Each lane was separated by a tall central fence designed to guide the riders straight toward one another.
Dym counted them slowly.
Ten lanes.
Ten long fences running down the middle of the lists.
Enough space for ten pairs of knights to ride at once if the organizers wanted to show off a grand charge.
"That's... bigger than most tourneys," Dym said quietly.
The ground itself had been carefully leveled. Fresh sand had been spread across the riding lanes to soften the impact of falls. Lanterns and tall iron braziers lined the outer edges of the field, casting warm light across the sand.
Above the lists stood several raised platforms where banners fluttered in the night wind.
Dym looked up at them.
There were many banners. Far more than any ordinary tourney would bother displaying.
He spotted the familiar golden griffin of Kazimierz first, hanging proudly at the center of the largest platform.
Beside it were others.
The crowned lion banner of Victoria.
The dark, ornate sigil of Leithanien stitched with silver thread.
The heavy double-headed eagle of Ursus.
The shining halo crest of Laterano.
The faded imperial emblem of Gaul.
And the red cross-and-wave banner of Iberia.
Seven great nations.
Their banners alone numbered in the dozens. Some were large ceremonial standards hung from tall poles, while others were smaller flags decorating the stands and platforms.
Dym guessed there must have been at least forty or fifty major banners in total, not counting the countless smaller house sigils.
And those house banners were everywhere.
Hundreds of them.
Every noble house in Kazimierz seemed to have sent their colors. Some he recognized immediately. Others he had never seen before.
There were also banners from neighboring lands.
Some carried animal crests. Others showed swords, suns, moons, towers, or strange geometric symbols.
One banner caught Dym's eye in particular.
It showed the head of a dragon with long whiskers curling down its jaw.
Dym frowned slightly.
"I've never seen that one before."
Soap leaned forward slightly from his shoulders.
"Me neither," the boy said.
The banners snapped in the cool night wind as horns continued to sound around the grounds.
Dym turned his attention back to the field itself.
Knights were gathering across the lists.
And there were a lot of them.
They came in all shapes and sizes, their armor reflecting the torchlight as they moved about preparing their mounts.
Some wore bright polished plate.
Others had darker, more practical armor that looked like it had seen many battles.
Their races were just as varied.
Dym spotted a tall Kuranta knight adjusting his saddle while his long horse-like ears twitched in the wind. Nearby stood a broad-shouldered Forte warrior in thick plate armor shaped to fit around his large horns.
A graceful Elafian knight rode past slowly on a white destrier, her antlers decorated with thin ribbons that fluttered behind her helmet.
Several Liberi knights stood together near one of the lanes, their feathered crests and wing-like capes making them easy to recognize even from a distance.
Then something brighter caught Dym's attention.
A knight in shining white armor rode across the field.
The armor looked almost ceremonial, polished so brightly it reflected the firelight like a mirror. A deep red cape flowed behind the rider as the horse trotted along the sand.
Above the knight's head floated a faint glowing halo.
And behind their back were two crystalline wings that glimmered softly in the dark.
Laterano.
"A Sankta knight," Dym murmured.
Soap leaned forward again.
"Whoa, that's cool. Do you reckon he's a Gun Knight, ser?"
"Maybe..." Dym murmured as he kept scanning the field.
Then he saw someone very familiar.
"HA! HA! HA!"
He pointed slightly with his chin.
"There he is."
Soap followed his gaze.
Across the field rode a massive Elafian knight in bright yellow armor. The armor looked almost golden under the torchlight. The man's enormous antlers rose high above his helmet, making him impossible to miss.
He sat atop a large brown destrier that stomped its hooves impatiently against the sand.
And even from this distance, they could hear him laughing.
"Wladyslaw," Dym said with a snort.
The big knight threw his head back and roared with laughter at something another rider had said. The sound carried clearly across the lists.
Soap grinned.
"Hard to miss the Laughing Catastrophe."
Dym nodded.
"If this were a normal tourney," he began, resting his arms on the fence, "it would start with the lesser knights riding first. Hedge knights, young squires trying their luck, that sort. Then the household knights would ride later once the crowd's warmed up."
Soap tilted his head slightly.
"Ser," he said.
Dym glanced at him.
"Yes?"
Soap gestured toward the massive crowd, the rows of banners, and the number of armored knights gathered across the field.
"This is not a normal tourney."
Dym paused.
He looked around again.
The banners.
The nobles.
The knights from every nation.
He scratched the side of his jaw slowly.
"Ah... aye," he admitted after a moment. "That is... true."
Soap smirked slightly.
"This looks more like every nation showing how strong their knights are."
Dym nodded slowly.
"More like a show of force."
Soap leaned forward again, his golden eyes gleaming mischievously.
"But hey," he said.
Dym glanced up at him again.
"If you entered the lists and somehow became champion..." Soap continued.
Dym narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at the knights, and spotted some Silverlance Pegasi as well.
"Go on."
Soap grinned. "You might get to crown the young lady of Rudnicka Vale as Queen of Love and Beauty."
Dym blinked.
The squire's grin widened. "Or maybe Avelyn~"
Dym's face immediately turned red.
"You little—"
He suddenly shook his shoulders.
Soap yelped as he nearly lost his balance.
"Whoa—!"
The boy grabbed onto Dym's head quickly while laughing.
"Careful!"
Dym snorted.
"Maybe I ought to give you a clout in the ear."
Soap laughed harder.
"You wouldn't!"
Dym chuckled despite himself and looked back toward the noble stands.
The Box of Honor stood above the main platform overlooking the lists. It was an elevated balcony filled with finely dressed nobles watching the preparations below.
Even from this distance, Dym could recognize a few faces.
He spotted the Nearls first.
Ser Młynar stood near the front of the balcony, arms folded calmly as he watched the field. Beside him stood his brother, Ser Aleksandr Nearl, who seemed uneasy about something.
On Aleksandr's other side sat a man Dym had seen before in the Rudnicka Castle.
The Draco prince of Victoria.
Prince George Artorius.
Even from afar the man carried himself with the easy confidence of someone born to rule. Beside him sat his son, Prince Alexander Artorius.
Although the younger prince looked far less interested in this tourney.
He leaned back in his seat with a sour expression, staring down at the field as if the entire event bored him.
Dym also spotted the lord of Rudnicka Vale seated nearby with his daughter beside him.
Other nobles surrounded them in neat rows.
Kazimierzan lords.
Victorian nobles.
Delegations from other lands.
Then Dym's eyes drifted toward the Leithanien section of the balcony.
And there he was.
Lord Fremont.
The Leithanien lord sat among the other nobles from his homeland, though he looked far less engaged than most of them. While the others leaned forward to watch the knights below, Fremont sat back in his seat with one arm propped under his chin.
His sharp face tilted downward.
He appeared to be reading something.
A small book or document rested in his hand.
Dym blinked.
"He came all the way here just to read?" he muttered.
Soap followed his gaze but couldn't quite see the man clearly from his height.
"What?"
"Nothing," Dym said.
Maybe he was dragged to attend as he was doing his works, so he chose to do it here.
He turned his attention back to the field as another loud horn sounded across the grounds.
And one by one, the jousters began riding toward their starting positions.
Servants and squires hurried across the field making last adjustments—tightening straps, checking saddles, handing up lances. The horses stamped and snorted in the cool night air, their breath faintly visible in the torchlight.
"Lance!"
"Shield!"
"Shield and lance!"
"Helmet!"
The crowd leaned forward against the fences, eager to see the riders up close before the charges began.
One of the knights suddenly rode along the edge of the spectator fence, passing right in front of the first rows where Dym stood.
He wasn't wearing his helmet.
Bright red hair spilled down to his shoulders, tied loosely behind his head. His steel plate armor looked well-used but polished clean for the occasion, and a red and blue cape flowed behind him as his horse trotted proudly along the fence line.
On the knight's chest and cape was a very clear sigil.
A fish.
Dym blinked.
"Huh."
The Kuranta knight laughed loudly as he rode, clearly enjoying the attention. The crowd cheered and whistled as he passed by, people waving small banners and shouting his name—though the noise was so loud Dym couldn't quite make it out.
The rider slowed his horse suddenly and turned toward the spectators.
In one hand he was holding something.
Dym squinted.
It was a fish.
A whole fish.
The knight raised it high above his head like a trophy.
"For Kazimierz!" he shouted loudly.
The crowd roared.
"And for Knighthood!"
He grinned wildly, brought the fish down to his mouth—
—and bit the head off.
The horse reared slightly as the knight ripped the head free with his teeth.
The crowd exploded with laughter and cheering.
Soap immediately joined in.
"WOO!"
Dym heard the boy cheering loudly right above his head.
But Dym himself just stared.
Completely baffled.
The knight spat the fish head aside, still laughing as the crowd continued cheering him on.
Dym frowned slightly.
"...His sigil is a fish," he muttered slowly.
Soap was still cheering.
Dym continued staring at the rider in confusion.
"Why would he bite the head off a fish and be proud of—"
Before he could finish the thought—
The knight suddenly tossed the rest of the fish into the crowd.
It flew through the air.
Straight toward Dym.
"Oof!"
The fish landed squarely on the top of his head with a soft, wet thump.
The nearby spectators burst into laughter.
Someone slapped Dym on the back.
"Lucky catch!" a man shouted.
Another voice yelled, "That one's fresh!"
Dym just stood there for a moment, stunned.
Slowly, the fish slid off his head—
—but a small hand caught it before it could fall.
Soap lifted it up triumphantly.
"We got free food for tonight, ser!" the boy said happily.
The fish dangled from his hand as he examined it like a prize.
Dym looked up at him, still processing what had just happened.
"A-Aye," he said awkwardly.
Dym was still rubbing the top of his head where the fish had landed when he turned his attention back toward the jousting field.
The riders were settling into their starting positions now. Squires ran between horses with helmets, spare lances, and shields. Metal buckles snapped shut. Leather straps were tightened. Horses tossed their heads impatiently, their tack clinking softly under the torchlight.
The entire field glittered.
Polished armor caught the light of dozens of torches set around the lists. The glow ran across curved breastplates, across lance tips, across the bright paint of shields held upright against saddles.
Dym scanned the line of riders slowly.
One of them stood out almost immediately.
Near one of the starting posts sat a young Kuranta knight who wasn't wearing his helmet yet. His blond hairs and ears was bright enough to catch the light even from where Dym stood, tied loosely behind his head and brushing the back of his gorget.
His armor looked familiar.
Not identical—but close enough that Dym recognized the design.
Silverlance's armor.
Or something clearly modeled after it.
The plates were polished steel trimmed with gold along the edges, shaped in the same proud style used by the famous knights of the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi. But this one had slight differences—the shoulders were slimmer, the chestplate more fitted, the decorative lines along the arms sharper and more personalised.
The knight shifted in his saddle and suddenly shouted toward the edge of the field.
"Helmet!"
A squire hurried forward at once, nearly tripping over his own feet as he carried the helmet up to the rider.
Dym tilted his head slightly, curious.
"Hey," he said, nudging Soap's leg with his elbow. "Who's that one? The one with the Silverlance armor. Looks custom."
Soap leaned forward on Dym's shoulders and squinted across the field, narrowing his bright golden eyes as he studied the rider.
For a moment he didn't answer.
Then he said, "Oh. That's Ser Oskar Nearl."
Dym blinked.
"Nearl?"
"Yeah," Soap replied. "Ser Młynar Nearl's son."
Soap pointed toward the noble stands where the Nearl banners were hanging.
"Second in line to inherit House Nearl."
Dym let out a thoughtful hum.
"That explains the silver armor."
On the field, the young knight accepted the helmet from his squire and lowered it over his head. The polished silver helm locked neatly into place with a soft metallic click.
He lifted his lance next, testing the weight once with a practiced movement.
Dym folded his arms on the fence as he watched.
"I'd wager he's the favorite." he said casually.
Soap gave a small smug smile.
"I'd take that bet, ser."
Dym snorted.
"You would, wouldn't you."
By now the field was fully set.
Twenty jousters stood ready in their lanes across the wide lists, each separated by wooden barriers that ran down the middle of the course. Their horses pawed the ground, breath steaming faintly in the cool night air.
Shields were lifted and angled toward the barriers.
Each one carried a different color or device—lions, swords, boars, crescents, trees, beasts Dym didn't recognize, and sigils from houses scattered across Kazimierz and beyond.
The lances slowly tilted upward in their riders' hands.
The roaring crowd began to quiet down.
Excited shouting faded into murmurs.
Dym could hear the creak of saddle leather. The soft stomp of hooves. A horse snorting somewhere to his left.
Around him, people leaned forward in anticipation.
Some clasped their hands together.
Some whispered small prayers.
Others simply held their breath.
The entire field seemed to fall into a tense silence.
For several seconds, nothing moved.
Then suddenly someone near the very front of the crowd shouted at the top of their lungs,
"Lord Rudnicka fucks his goat!"
For a heartbeat the entire audience froze.
Then laughter exploded everywhere.
People doubled over. Some slapped the wooden railings. Others howled loudly enough to startle a few horses on the field.
Even Dym couldn't stop a rough snort from escaping him.
Soap burst out laughing above his head.
Across the field, the portly Lord of Rudnicka Vale sat in the noble box, his round face turning red as he tried—and failed—not to laugh along with the crowd.
But the moment didn't last long.
A horn suddenly blasted across the field.
BWOOOOOO—
The laughter died almost instantly.
On the field, the jousters lowered their lances.
Horses reared slightly as riders tightened their grips.
The second horn sounded.
And then the riders kicked their mounts forward.
Hooves thundered across the ground as twenty horses launched into motion.
Dym felt the vibrations through the wooden fence beneath his hands.
The riders leaned low over their saddles.
Lances dropped forward.
Pointed straight at their opponents.
The distance between them vanished in seconds.
The crowd surged forward, shouting and cheering as the first riders reached the center of the field—
And then the crashes came.