Wood shattered across the lists with a violent crack.
One lance burst apart on impact, its shaft exploding into splinters that scattered across the packed dirt like thrown knives. Another slammed hard against a painted shield, the blow ringing out across the field like a hammer striking iron. The sound carried through the stands, echoing beneath the wooden platforms where the crowd leaned forward to watch.
A rider's horse swerved violently from the force of the hit, hooves tearing trenches through the dirt as it fought to keep its footing. Another knight nearly lost his seat altogether, his body thrown sideways from the saddle before he managed to cling to the pommel and haul himself upright again.
The clash lasted only seconds.
But those seconds were loud, brutal, and very real.
Soap shouted something excitedly above Dym's head, his voice full of awe and delight, but Dym barely heard him. His eyes were fixed on the field below, watching every movement with an intensity that bordered on hunger.
He watched the riders.
He watched the horses.
He watched the way the lances shattered.
He watched the way the knights leaned into the charge.
Because this—
This was what knighthood actually looked like.
And the crowd absolutely loved it.
The stands erupted into noise as thousands of voices roared together. People stomped their boots against the wooden platforms and leaned over the fences to shout encouragement. Flags snapped wildly in the wind above the arena—Kazimierzan yellow and black, the proud blue and yellow of Victoria, the darker colors of Ursus and Leithanien fluttering in long banners that rippled against the sky.
Tankards were raised high in celebration as if this were some grand festival feast rather than a field where men were regularly thrown from horses and smashed against wooden barriers.
"Come on!" Soap shouted gleefully from Dym's shoulders. "Whoo!"
Dym barely reacted.
His heart was pounding now, thudding hard inside his chest as the thunder of hooves rolled across the field again and again. The vibration carried through the ground beneath his boots, up through his legs, into his chest until the entire moment felt almost overwhelming.
This was it.
This was the thing he had imagined for years.
The tournaments.
The glory.
The thunder of hooves and the roar of crowds.
But somewhere beneath that excitement, hidden deep inside his thoughts, something else stirred uneasily.
A thin, quiet crack.
Another horn blast echoed across the arena.
The knights slowed their horses and circled back toward their sides of the lists, armor glinting beneath the afternoon light as they regrouped. The moment they reached their lanes, the entire field erupted into motion.
"Squire! Lance!"
"Another lance here!"
"Quickly!"
"Davai! Davai!"
"Los! Los! Los!"
Voices overlapped everywhere in a chaotic chorus of commands and urgency. Squires sprinted across the dirt carrying fresh lances, shields, and water skins while others hurried to clear broken shafts from the ground before the next charge began. Nervous horses were steadied, saddles tightened, visors adjusted.
Despite the noise and movement, nothing about it felt disorderly.
Everyone knew exactly what they were doing.
The knights wheeled their horses around in smooth arcs, guiding them neatly back into their lanes as the squires ran alongside them with practiced efficiency. Several of the boys slapped their horses on the hindquarters to urge them forward while fresh lances were handed up without hesitation.
From Dym's shoulders, Soap wasn't even watching the knights anymore.
His bright golden eyes followed the squires.
He watched how they moved.
How they ran alongside charging horses without fear.
How they lifted the lances at the exact moment the riders reached them.
How they cleared the field between passes as if they had done it a hundred times before.
Something stirred quietly inside his chest as he watched them.
Soap looked down at his hands for a moment, flexing his fingers slowly before looking back toward the field.
Another impact echoed across the arena.
He looked up just in time to see Władysław's massive yellow-armored form collide with a Sankta knight.
The hit rang like a struck bell as Władysław's lance slammed square into the Sankta's chestplate. The impact nearly ripped the man from his saddle, his body jerking violently backward as the horse staggered beneath him.
Somehow the Sankta managed to stay mounted.
Władysław threw his head back and roared with booming laughter that carried halfway across the field.
The crowd loved every second of it.
"Ser," Soap said suddenly.
Dym didn't respond at first.
"Ser."
This time the boy's voice was quieter.
"Put me down, ser."
Dym blinked and glanced upward slightly.
"…What?"
"Put me down."
Confused, Dym slowly nodded.
"Alright."
He crouched carefully beside the fence and lifted Soap down from his shoulders, setting the boy on the ground where he immediately leaned forward against the wooden rail, gripping it with both hands as he continued watching the field.
They both turned back toward the lists.
Just in time to see Ser Oskar Nearl charging.
The young Nearl knight leaned low in his saddle as his horse thundered forward, his lance angled straight toward a Gaulish rider whose armor was painted in bold stripes of red, white, and blue.
The two riders closed the distance in seconds.
Then the impact came.
Ser Oskar's lance shattered against the Gaulish knight's shield in a burst of splinters.
But something went wrong.
The Gaulish horse panicked from the blow, veering violently sideways as it slammed into the wooden divider separating the lanes. The sudden collision threw the rider completely off balance.
Horse and knight crashed against the barrier.
The rider tumbled violently from the saddle.
He hit the dirt hard.
The crowd roared again.
The fallen knight rolled across the ground, armor scraping loudly against the packed earth before he slid directly into the neighboring lane.
Right into the path of another charging rider.
A Victorian knight.
The Victorian jerked upright in his saddle the moment he saw the man on the ground. Without hesitation he threw his lance aside to avoid skewering him.
But he didn't have time to stop.
Another rider came charging in from the opposite direction.
A Kazimierzan knight bearing the sigil of House Borkowski.
The lance struck the Victorian square in the chest.
The impact was brutal.
The shaft shattered into splinters as the blow hurled the Victorian clean out of the saddle. His horse reared wildly, throwing him down into the dirt where he rolled several times before finally sliding to a stop near the edge of another lane.
Dym sucked in a sharp breath.
"Gods…"
The Victorian knight pushed himself upright almost immediately despite the fall.
Before he could even catch his breath, a riderless horse came charging straight toward him—an Iberian mount whose rider had already been thrown moments earlier in another clash.
The animal was running wild.
Straight at him.
Several people in the crowd shouted warnings.
But the knight didn't run.
Instead he stepped forward.
Directly into its path.
Dym's eyes widened.
"What is he—"
At the exact moment the horse passed him, the knight reached out and grabbed the dangling reins. The force nearly ripped him off his feet, dragging him several paces across the dirt before he pivoted with the momentum.
Then he planted his foot.
Jumped.
And swung himself cleanly into the saddle.
The movement was so smooth it almost looked effortless.
The crowd exploded in applause.
The knight leaned low over the horse's neck as his blue-and-yellow cape whipped violently behind him. As he rode, he leaned down and snatched a fallen shield from the ground—a red and white checkered one that had clearly belonged to someone else earlier in the match.
Without slowing, he rode back toward the starting line.
A waiting squire ran forward and handed him a fresh lance.
Moments later the Victorian knight turned again and charged straight back into the chaos.
Dym exhaled sharply.
Then again.
And again.
At first he thought it was excitement.
Anyone would feel it standing this close to the lists with horses thundering past and lances breaking like brittle branches. The ground itself seemed to tremble with every charge.
But something else was happening.
The noise around him slowly began to fade.
The cheering crowd was still there, thousands of voices shouting and laughing, but it sounded distant now—as if he were hearing it from the bottom of a deep well.
Dym's heartbeat began to rise in his chest, at first barely noticeable beneath the thunder of hooves and the roar of the crowd. Then it grew louder. Not just faster—but heavier, each pulse striking inside his ribs with a dull, echoing force that seemed to reverberate through his entire body. He blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes as the world in front of him momentarily blurred. The lists wavered as if seen through heat rising from a forge. For a moment the charging knights and their gleaming armor dissolved into shifting shapes and colors before the image steadied again.
The field returned to focus.
Knights charged down the lanes with lowered lances, their armor flashing as the torchlight caught the polished metal. Squires ran alongside the barriers with fresh lances held upright like banners, shouting instructions and encouragement while trying to keep pace with the galloping horses. Banners snapped loudly above the arena, the colors of half a dozen nations rippling in the wind—Kazimierzan black and white Pegasi, Victorian blue and yellow, darker standards from Ursus and Leithanien.
But something had changed.
The sound was fading.
The crowd still roared and cheered around him, thousands of voices rising in excitement as another pass began across the lists. Tankards slammed against wooden rails, people shouted wagers, and the pounding hooves of warhorses shook the earth beneath the arena.
Yet it all sounded distant now.
Muted.
As though he were hearing it through water.
Soap was shouting something beside him. Dym could see the boy turning toward him, golden eyes wide with excitement as his mouth moved rapidly, words spilling out in a rush.
But Dym couldn't hear any of it.
The boy's voice never reached him.
His heartbeat grew louder in his ears as he stared out across the lists. At first it had simply matched the rhythm of the field—the thunder of hooves, the crash of shields, the splintering of lances. But now the sound inside his chest was beginning to drown everything else out. Each pulse thudded against his ribs, heavy and uneven, until it felt as though the entire world was moving to the rhythm of it.
He blinked hard.
For a brief moment the entire field blurred, the colors of banners and armor smearing together like paint dragged across wet canvas. When his vision steadied again, the scene snapped back into focus: knights leaning low over their saddles as they charged, squires running alongside the lanes with fresh lances balanced across their shoulders, bright banners snapping and twisting in the wind above the wooden stands.
But the sound of it all was fading.
The crowd was still there—thousands of people shouting and stamping their feet against the wooden platforms—but the noise had begun to feel distant, as if it were happening somewhere far away.
Another pair of knights thundered toward each other.
One of them—Władysław in his massive yellow and bronze coloured armor—lowered his lance and struck his opponent squarely. The impact rang across the field like a hammer striking iron. The other rider lurched violently in his saddle as the blow shattered his lance into splinters.
Dym saw something else then.
As the fallen knight struggled to right himself, Władysław reached down and seized the decorative crest from the man's helmet—a shining golden ornament shaped like a winged figure. With a powerful twist of his armored hand, he ripped it clean free from the helm.
The huge knight threw his head back and laughed.
Dym could see it clearly.
The open mouth.
The broad grin beneath the visor.
The way the big man lifted the ornament high in one gauntleted hand before tossing it toward the stands like a trophy.
But Dym could not hear the laughter.
The sound never reached him.
The golden ornament arced through the air above the crowd, spinning end over end as people reached up toward it with eager hands. Several spectators jumped from their place, trying to catch the shining prize before it fell.
But the throw went slightly wide.
Instead of landing in the outstretched hands of the crowd, the ornament dropped lower—
—and struck Dym squarely against the side of his leg with a dull metallic thud before falling into the dirt beside his boot.
For a brief moment several people nearby surged forward, their hands already reaching toward the fallen prize.
But Soap moved faster.
The boy darted forward like a startled cat. In one quick motion he scooped the golden ornament up from the dirt and clutched it tightly against his chest. Then he wrapped both arms around Dym's leg and held on with fierce determination, pressing himself close as though guarding a treasure far greater than its weight in metal.
The movement caught the crowd off guard.
A few of the spectators slowed when they saw the small boy clinging stubbornly to the tall knight's leg, hugging both the ornament and Dym himself with equal determination.
One man reached halfway toward it.
Then hesitated.
No one seemed eager to pry a prize out of the arms of a child who looked ready to fight like a cornered animal to keep it.
Gradually the people stepped back, muttering and laughing as they returned their attention to the field.
Soap remained exactly where he was.
His small arms were wrapped tightly around Dym's leg while the golden ornament was pressed firmly against his chest, his fingers gripping it so tightly his knuckles had turned pale.
Dym barely noticed.
His heartbeat was still hammering inside his skull.
Then something cracked.
Not on the field.
Inside his head.
It was a quiet sound at first, almost delicate, like the snapping of a thin branch beneath a boot. But the sensation behind it was sudden and sharp, splitting through his thoughts before he could stop it.
The crack came again.
And the world around him vanished.
Rain fell from a dark sky.
Cold rain.
Heavy rain.
It hammered against the earth in relentless sheets, turning the ground into slick black mud that clung to boots and armor alike. The air smelled of wet soil and iron.
Dym found himself kneeling in that mud, his arms shaking violently beneath the weight he held.
Ser Arlan.
The old knight's body hung limp against him, the once-polished armor now dulled by rain and streaked with dirt. Water dripped from the edges of the battered breastplate and pooled beneath them as Dym struggled to hold him upright.
Ser Arlan's head had fallen forward slightly, chin resting against his chest. His face looked pale beneath the rain, the lines of age and fatigue still visible even in death.
For a moment Dym simply knelt there in the mud, clutching the body as if refusing to let the old knight slip away.
Then he blinked.
And the tournament field snapped back into place.
Another charge thundered across the lists. Horses collided with earth-shaking force as lances shattered against shields. The crowd erupted again in wild cheers.
But the sound still felt far away.
Like thunder rolling across distant hills.
Then the memory shifted again.
The rain returned.
A shallow ditch had been dug into the soaked earth. It wasn't deep—barely more than a narrow trench—but it was enough.
Ser Arlan lay inside it now.
His body had been wrapped in a rough cloak to keep the mud from covering his armor completely. Rain tapped steadily against the fabric as the earth around the grave darkened with water.
Ser Don stood at the edge of the ditch with his head bowed.
The older knight's broad shoulders seemed heavier than usual beneath his worn armor, and his hands were raised quietly before him in prayer. Rain slid down the edges of his gauntlets as he spoke softly, words meant for the dead and the gods alike.
Dym remembered standing there beside him, silent, unsure of what to say or what to feel.
The rain had not stopped for hours.
Then that memory broke apart as well.
Another field.
Another day.
The smell of wet earth remained, but now it was mixed with the sour scent of horses and cheap ale drifting from a roadside inn nearby.
A grass clearing stretched behind the building where travelers and villagers had gathered to watch.
Dym sat astride Thunder, trying desperately to keep the powerful horse under control while gripping an old practice lance that felt far heavier than he had expected.
Ser Don stood nearby, watching carefully with his arms crossed as he called out instructions.
The idea was simple enough. Dym was supposed to ride past the upright lance without touching it, keeping his own weapon steady and balanced as Thunder carried him forward.
It sounded easy.
But it wasn't.
Thunder surged ahead with powerful strides, hooves kicking clumps of mud into the air as Dym leaned forward in the saddle, trying to keep his balance and hold the lance properly.
Then he made the mistake.
The shaft planted in the earth caught his own lance at exactly the wrong angle.
The wood bit deep into the ground like a spear hurled by the gods themselves.
And the moment Thunder rushed past it, the planted shaft turned into a lever.
Dym never had a chance.
His tall body was jerked violently upward as the lance wrenched against the earth. For one helpless instant he was lifted clean out of the saddle, his legs kicking uselessly in the air while the weapon beneath him became a pivot point.
He wasn't riding anymore.
He was being flung.
Laughter erupted immediately from the small crowd watching nearby.
Several villagers leaned against the fence, already placing wagers on whether he would manage to stay mounted on the next attempt. One man wiped tears from his eyes as he laughed while another loudly declared that the tall fool would fall again before the sun set.
Through it all, Ser Don's voice boomed proudly above the noise.
"Aye! You are!" the knight shouted with obvious amusement. "Ser Dymitr the Tall!"
The name had stuck after that.
Dym blinked again.
He is now back to the present.
Two lances slammed together across the lists with explosive force as wood shattered into flying splinters. Horses thundered past the barrier and the crowd roared once more in delight.
But inside Dym's mind—
Something finally gave way.
He stood frozen behind the wooden fence, staring at the knights racing across the field.
Their armor gleamed even through the dust and torchlight. Their horses moved with practiced precision, muscles coiling and releasing in perfect rhythm beneath experienced riders. Their squires ran beside them like parts of a carefully trained machine, handing up fresh lances without hesitation and clearing the field between passes with remarkable speed.
Everything here worked flawlessly.
Clean.
Efficient.
Professional.
Dym swallowed slowly as the realization settled deep inside him.
These weren't wandering hedge knights drifting from village to village along muddy and dusty roads.
These weren't tired men sleeping beside campfires and drinking watered ale at cheap roadside inns.
These were real knights.
House knights.
Noble knights.
Men and women who had trained for this their entire lives.
Men and women who had been raised in this world since childhood.
Men and women who... belonged here.
And suddenly, standing there among the roaring crowd, Dym felt very small.
Very out of place.
His hand tightened slowly around the wooden rail in front of him as another thunderous charge shook the arena.
He had called himself a knight.
He had carried a sword.
He had ridden the roads and fought in battles under Ser Arlan's mentorship as a squire.
But watching these riders thunder across the lists with perfect form and effortless confidence made something twist painfully in his chest.
Because for the first time—
He truly understood the difference.
He had never really been part of this world.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
Another pair of lances shattered across the field as the crowd roared again.
Dym barely heard them.
A quiet thought formed in the back of his mind, heavy and uncertain.
His lips moved before he fully realized it.
"…What chance do I have, ser?"