Night settled slowly over the vast tourney grounds, creeping across the field the way fog rolls down a quiet valley. The great roar that had filled the day did not vanish all at once. It faded slowly, thinning into scattered laughter, distant songs, and the dull clatter of wagons leaving the lists. Torches burned low one by one, their flames bending in the evening wind while servants and squires moved about with lanterns, gathering broken lances and dragging splintered shields from the dirt.
The enormous field that had been alive with banners, armored riders, and roaring spectators now lay beneath a deep stretch of quiet darkness. The lists stood empty, the wooden barriers casting long crooked shadows across the trampled ground. Splintered wood from shattered lances still littered the earth where the day's battles had taken place, some pieces crushed deep into the mud beneath the pounding hooves of horses.
Farther away, the pavilions of the great houses of Kazimierz and the seven nations still glowed with warm light and lingering celebration. Music drifted faintly from that direction. Noble knights and lords from both domestic and foreign—drank and laughed together beneath silken tents while minstrels sang songs already being woven about the day's contests.
But beyond those bright camps, the land grew quieter.
The hedge knights and wandering riders had set their fires in humbler clusters along the outer edges of the town's field, where the ground was rougher and the tents were made of plain canvas instead of embroidered silk. Their laughter carried a different tone — rougher, quieter, worn with the fatigue of men who had spent the day watching the wealth and glory of others from the edges of the lists.
The opening tourney had ended hours earlier, yet the memory of its final tilt still lingered like thunder that continued to echo long after a storm had passed.
Against all odds, the last knight still standing, had been Ser Oskar Nearl of Kazimier.
Many had placed their wagers on the larger man. Ser Wladyslaw had seemed unstoppable throughout the afternoon. The towering knight, already been known among the crowds as the Laughing Catastrophe for years. The Elafian giant of a man had ridden like a storm across the lists, smashing lances after lances with such force that even seasoned riders from Kazimierz and other nations both had struggled to stay in their saddles.
And Wladyslaw gave them more reason with every match.
One knight after another had thundered down the lists to meet him. One after another they had fallen.
There had been Ser Sergei Konstantinovich of Ursus first, a broad-shouldered Ursine knight whose black and blue shield had shattered the moment Wladyslaw's lance struck it. Sergei had tumbled from the saddle so hard his bear shaped helm rang like a struck bell against the dirt.
Then came a knight from Kazimierz's southern marches whose lance shattered harmlessly against Wladyslaw's breastplate before the giant elafian's answering strike knocked him spinning clean off his horse.
Another tilt saw two riders nearly collide mid-charge when Wladyslaw struck so hard that both men's lances burst apart in clouds of splinters. Only one remained mounted afterward of course.
Wladyslaw "the Laughing Catastrophe" Kamiennego.
And every time one of his opponents fell, he did something that quickly turned him into the crowd's favorite spectacle.
Instead of simply riding back to the starting line, Wladyslaw would haul his horse to a stop and dismount right there in the dirt beside the fallen knight.
He would stride over with booming laughter still rumbling in his chest.
Then, with theatrical flourish, he would reach down and wrench free whatever gilded ornament decorated his opponent's armor.
Golden crests from helms.
Decorative badges from pauldrons.
Tiny sculpted beasts perched atop visors.
He tore them loose with cheerful brutality.
Then he would turn to the roaring stands, raise the trophy high for everyone to see—
—and hurl it into the crowd.
Each throw sent the spectators into a frenzy.
Men shoved each other aside trying to catch the glittering prizes. Children scrambled beneath benches chasing bits of gold and ornament that landed in the dust.
And above it all rang Wladyslaw's booming laughter.
Like a storm rolling across the field.
One match in particular had turned the arena nearly upside down.
A Victorian knight wearing a beautifully gilded helm shaped like a snarling lion with a winged figure holding its red plume on top had faced Wladyslaw in what many expected to be a brutal clash. The two riders had charged, lances lowered, hooves pounding thunder across the lists.
Wladyslaw's lance struck like a falling tree.
The lion-helmed knight vanished from his saddle in an explosion of splintered wood and flying dirt.
Before the squires had even reached the fallen man, Wladyslaw had already dismounted again.
With a roar of laughter he strode over once more, planted one boot against the toppled knight's chest, and twisted the winged figure ornament clean off the top of the helm.
He held it up triumphantly.
The crowd howled in frenzy.
Then he flung it into the stands.
Somewhere in that chaos, Dym had seen the glittering thing arc high through the air. He had also seen the sea of hands reach for it like starving men grasping for bread.
And he had seen the moment Wladyslaw ripped it free.
But he had heard none of the laughter.
At that moment his own mind had already been too muddled from the day's chaos and noise to catch the giant knight's booming joy.
The ornament had spun wildly above the crowd.
Then it had fallen.
Straight toward him.
It struck squarely near his feet.
But before anyone else could grab it, Soap had already moved.
The boy had darted forward with the speed of a starving alley cat, snatched the golden ornament from the dirt, and immediately wrapped himself around Dym's leg like a shield.
The child hugged the prize tightly to his chest while clinging stubbornly to Dym's leg at the same time, making it nearly impossible for anyone else to pry it away without dragging the boy along with it.
A few hands reached toward them.
But once they realized the treasure was clutched in the grip of a skinny child who clearly had no intention of letting go, most of them simply laughed and backed away.
Soap had beamed with pride.
And somewhere far across the arena, Ser Wladyslaw's thunderous laughter had rolled again as he mounted his horse for the next tilt.
The crowd had loved him for it.
But even the Laughing Catastrophe could not ride forever.
The opening tourney had eventually reached its final match.
But the lean Nearl Knight, Ser Oskar had endured.
Six times they had ridden against each other.
Six times the result had ended in shattered lances and dust without either man falling.
The horses had grown restless. The riders had grown weary. Sweat had soaked through padded armor and trickled beneath helmets while the crowd screamed for one more pass.
Then came the seventh tilt.
The entire field had seemed to hold its breath.
Both knights lowered their lances.
Both horses surged forward.
The ground trembled beneath the pounding hooves as they closed the distance between them in a heartbeat.
The impact had cracked across the field like a splitting tree.
Wood exploded into splinters.
Armor rang like struck bells.
And when the dust cleared, it was Wladyslaw who had fallen.
The giant elafian rider crashed to the earth in a thunderous heap of steel and dirt, his enormous body rolling once before coming to rest in a cloud of dust and broken wood.
Fortunately, his antlers were fine.
The crowd erupted in a roar so loud it seemed to shake the banners above the lists.
Yet even as squires rushed toward him, the fallen knight had begun to laugh again, that same booming laughter echoing across the field as though the fall itself had been nothing more than another entertaining moment in the day's spectacle.
Ser Oskar had remained mounted.
Barely.
His shield hung crooked from its strap. His lance had shattered to half its length. His horse danced sideways beneath him from the violence of the impact.
But he had stayed in the saddle.
That had been enough.
The heralds had proclaimed him the victor.
Later, beneath torchlight before the noble boxes, Ser Oskar had removed his helm and ridden slowly beneath the stands while the crowd cheered his name. His face had looked pale with exhaustion, his blonde hair damp with sweat after the long contest, yet his silver and gold gaze had remained sharp as it searched the noble seats above.
Until it found her.
Among the gathered members of House Nearl sat his wife, watching from the noble box with the rest of the family.
Ser Oskar had guided his horse forward beneath her place in the stands. Then, before the watching thousands, he had lifted the crown of flowers in his hand.
Without hesitation, he crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty.
The crowd had loved that too with a thunderous applause and cheers:
KAZIMIERZ!
NEARL!
SILVERLANCE!
Even hours later the moment drifted through the camps in half-remembered retellings, in drunken praise, in quiet admiration around cooking fires.
But far from the bright pavilions of the noble houses, where the noise of celebration had already faded into distant murmurs, a far humbler fire burned quietly in the night.
The camp was small.
Two bedrolls.
A battered old cooking pot.
A pair of saddlebags.
And two horses tethered to an elm tree.
Dymitr had finished most of the evening's tasks without thinking about them. The routine had been too familiar to require much thought. First the horses, the remaining two, as always. Thunder had been rubbed down carefully with a rough cloth to clear away the dust and sweat from the long day of waiting by the camp. The big white warhorse had shifted his weight impatiently while Dym checked the straps of his saddle and loosened the bridle.
Chestnut had followed after, calmer but clearly just as tired. The smaller old horse had snorted quietly while Dym brushed dirt from its chestnut brown coat and checked its hooves.
Once the horses had been tended to, Dym had helped Soap prepare their sleeping place. The ground had been flat enough from their stay over the past week of the grand tourney, but he still brushed aside loose stones and bits of debris before him and Soap spreads the bedrolls carefully beside the fire.
Then came the food.
The fish had been cleaned earlier — or what remained of it had been cleaned.
The creature had already lost its head long before reaching their camp.
The memory of the moment still lingered in Dym's mind with a strange mixture of disbelief and... irritation.
During the opening spectacle of the tourney, a wild red-haired knight had ridden slowly before the stands, holding the fish high in one hand as he shouted praise for Knighthood and Kazimierz. The crowd had cheered and laughed, thinking it part of some grand jest.
Then the man had bitten the head clean off the fish.
Without pause, he had tossed the body into the crowd.
And somehow the headless fish had landed squarely on Dym's head.
Soap had laughed about that for the rest of the afternoon.
Now what remained of the fish sizzled quietly in a small iron pan above the fire.
Dym sat cross-legged beside the flames with a knife in his hand and a long hard sausage resting across his palm. He shaved thin pieces from it slowly, letting the slices fall into the pan beside the fish. The movement was steady, practiced, the sort of simple work that filled the hands while the mind wandered elsewhere.
Across from him, Soap had not yet settled into the quiet of the night.
The boy had found a stick somewhere along the way back and was using it as though it were a sword, darting around the firelight with boundless energy that seemed untouched by the long day.
"Hyah!"
The stick cut through the air with a sharp swing.
"Hayyah!"
He lunged forward with exaggerated drama, stabbing at imaginary enemies lurking in the darkness.
"Die! Do you yield, Nightzmora Bastards?! Hyah! Your Khagan is long dead! Hayyah!"
He thrust the stick toward Dym as though finishing off a charging opponent.
Then he stopped.
The boy blinked.
Dym had not reacted at all.
Dym had not said a word throughout their walk back to camp.
Now, the tall hedge knight remained seated beside the fire, still shaving the sausage into the pan while staring quietly past the flames into the dark. His expression had not changed. His posture had not shifted.
Soap slowly lowered the stick.
For a moment he simply watched his mentor in silence.
The fire popped softly between them.
Finally he spoke.
"Splendid riding tonight." He jabbed the stick to the ground and twirled it lazily before continuing, "Mm, the part with the fish was disgusting."
Dym did not reply.
He continued preparing the food, dropping another slice into the pan where it joined the others sizzling gently in the heat.
Soap shuffled his feet and drew little circles in the dirt with the end of the stick.
"But hey, at least we got some souvenir from Ser Wladyslaw," he chuckled as he twirled the stick again. "Maybe we can sell it tomorrow and add it to our savings to buy back Swift."
Still no answer came.
Behind them the horses shifted quietly in the dark. Thunder stamped once and tossed his head, the leather straps of his tack creaking faintly. Chestnut snorted softly before settling again.
The fire crackled.
The boy watched Dym's face for a long moment.
Something in the older man's stillness slowly pushed the playfulness out of Soap's expression.
Finally he asked quietly, "Is something the matter, ser?"
Dym stopped.
The knife paused in his hand.
For a moment he simply stared at the fire.
He did not look at Soap.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded distant, roughened by thoughts that had been turning inside his head since the tournament ended.
"Do great knights live in the hedges and die by the side of a muddy road?"
The question drifted into the quiet night between them.
Dym scoffed softly.
"I think not."
He blinked slowly, searching for the right words.
"Ser Arlan wasn't gifted with sword or lance, and he drank," he said. "And he... he whored, and he was a hard man to know."
Soap lowered himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged while listening carefully.
"He made no friends, either. He lived nigh on 60 years and never was a champion."
Dym glanced briefly toward the boy.
"Mm, what chance do I have? Truly?"
The words hung heavily in the air before he looked away again.
"But he was good to me. He gave me a second chance to be better than I was."
The firelight flickered across his face while old memories stirred behind his eyes — muddy training fields, harsh mornings, the rough voice of a tired knight barking lessons that had often come with bruises.
"I wasn't his family... but he kept me like we were."
He paused.
"He raised me to be an honorable man."
Then bitterness crept into his voice.
"And all these noble knights and lords can't even remember his name."
His gaze drifted toward the darkness beyond the fire.
"He answered House Zlotowir's call when they marched against Kazdel," Dym said quietly. "So did many other Hedge knights and men who believed their words and promises."
His jaw tightened.
"But when they lost. When the Sun Knight and his black demons kicked his fucking teeth back to Kazimierz. Zlotowir left us all to rot."
Dym exhaled slowly, the bitterness twisting deeper.
"Only the sun demon and his ilk was kind to his fallen foes."
The irony in his voice was sharp enough to cut.
The so-called demons.
The Sarkaz.
Peoples Kazimierz—and nearly every other land in Terra—had cursed and vilified for centuries, for millennia.
Yet when the battle was done, when the banners had fallen and the defeated knights lay broken in the mud, it had not been their own countrymen who showed mercy.
It had been the enemy.
The ones they had been taught to call monsters.
Dym stared into the flames, it's dancing and crackling fire reminded him of that one battlefield that day.
He remembered the Sarkaz soldiers and knights who had allowed the wounded to live.
It had been the enemy.
He remembered how they had given water and aids to the defeated knights who could no longer stand.
Remembered how they had treated a dying Ser Arlan from one of their sorcerous thunder sticks—back to to health as a knight—a man worthy of respect rather than discarded meat.
They've shown more honor than their own lords had promised them.
He stared into the flames again.
"His name was Ser Arlan of Brzozowa Polana."
The firelight flickered across his face.
"And I am his legacy."
His grip tightened slowly around the knife.
When he spoke again, there was steel in his voice.
"On the morrow…"
His eyes lifted slightly from the fire.
"…we will show them what his hand has wrought."