Dawn came quietly over the plains of the tournament grounds.
At first it was only a pale gray light creeping across the eastern horizon, soft and uncertain, as though the world itself had not yet decided whether to wake. The night's chill still clung to the grass in a thin veil of dew, each blade glittering faintly in the half-light like a scattering of tiny glass needles. A faint mist lay low across the open fields where hundreds of camps had been pitched the night before, drifting lazily between wagons, tents, and tethered horses.
For a time the land was still.
Then the sun began to rise.
A thin band of gold slowly pushed itself above the distant hills, spilling warm light across the wide plains of the tourney grounds. The mist began to glow softly in that light, turning the low fields into a sea of pale amber and silver. Long shadows stretched from the scattered tents like fingers reaching across the damp grass.
Birds stirred in the nearby trees.
Somewhere a rooster crowed loudly from a farmer's distant yard beyond the tournament fields. A few horses stamped and snorted as they sensed the coming morning. Leather creaked softly as tethered animals shifted their weight after a long night of standing.
The first true sounds of waking life followed soon after.
A cough from a nearby camp.
The clatter of someone stirring a cooking pot.
The faint murmur of two men arguing sleepily about who had lost money in yesterday's betting.
Across the field the colorful pavilions of the noble houses stood tall and proud in the morning light, their banners hanging limp in the calm air. Guards still stood watch near the entrances, though even they looked half-asleep as they leaned on their spears and waited for the day's bustle to begin again.
Farther out, where the ground was rougher and the tents smaller, the camps of hedge knights and wandering riders slowly stirred as well.
One such camp lay near the edge of a shallow rise where the grass had been flattened by hooves and bedrolls.
The fire there had burned low sometime in the night.
Now it was nothing more than a shallow bed of gray ash and blackened coals, faint wisps of smoke curling lazily upward into the cool morning air.
Beside the dead fire lay two bedrolls.
One of them shifted slightly as the boy sitting beside it leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
Soap had been awake for some time.
The first pale hints of dawn had stirred him from sleep long before the sun had climbed above the horizon. At first he had simply lain there in the quiet, staring up at the fading stars while the cold morning air nipped gently at his nose and fingers.
But he had not fallen back asleep.
Instead he had slowly sat up and turned his gaze toward the man lying beside the fire.
Dymitr still slept.
The tall Kuranta's broad frame lay half-turned on the bedroll, one arm resting across his chest while the other lay loosely beside him. In the soft glow of the rising sun, his armorless form looked strangely vulnerable compared to the towering knight who had ridden the lists only yesterday.
But it was not a peaceful sleep.
Soap could see that clearly.
Even from where he sat, the boy could see the stiffness in his master's expression. Dym's brow was faintly furrowed, his jaw tight as though he were clenching his teeth even in sleep. Now and then a faint twitch passed across his face, like someone wrestling with thoughts too heavy to escape even in dreams.
Soap watched him quietly.
The boy's small hands rested in his lap as the memory of last night's conversation slowly drifted through his mind again.
The words repeated themselves there, clear and heavy.
"His name was Ser Arlan of Brzozowa Polana."
"I am his legacy."
"On the morrow… we will show them what his hand has wrought."
Those words had followed Soap through the entire night.
They had echoed through his dreams as he slept beside the dying fire, returning again and again like the distant tolling of a bell.
Even now, in the quiet light of dawn, they lingered in his thoughts.
Soap glanced down at the sleeping knight again.
The boy felt something twist quietly inside his chest.
Pity.
Yes… pity.
Not the cruel kind children sometimes feel when they see someone weaker than themselves.
This was different.
Soap pitied Dymitr the way a son might pity a father who carried too many burdens on his shoulders.
Dym was a giant of a man.
A towering Kuranta knight whose strength could break lances and whose presence alone often made lesser men step aside.
But Soap had seen enough in the past months to know the truth beneath that size.
Dymitr was… honest.
Painfully honest.
The sort of man who believed the promises of others even when he should not.
The sort of man who carried the weight of his vows like iron chains around his heart.
And the world had not been kind to such a man.
Soap knew that now.
He had seen it with his own eyes.
He had seen the way Dym's expression had tightened yesterday when they sold Swift.
The palfrey had not simply been another horse.
Swift had been with Dym for years. The animal had carried him through countless roads and battles ever since the days when Dym himself had been nothing more than a young squire under Ser Arlan of Brzozowa Polana.
Selling the horse had not been a simple matter of trade.
It had been a sacrifice.
Another quiet loss added to the long list of things Dym had given up just to keep moving forward.
Soap lowered his gaze to his hands.
His fingers were small.
Too small.
Too thin.
He flexed them slowly as another memory from yesterday drifted into his mind.
The squires.
During the opening jousts he had watched them running along the edge of the lists, carrying long tourney lances toward their masters with quick, practiced movements. They had moved with purpose, weaving between horses and barriers while holding the heavy weapons upright with both hands.
They had looked… capable.
Important.
Necessary.
Soap had watched them carefully.
And in that moment he had felt something unpleasant crawling through his chest.
Small.
He had felt small.
Because while he was now Dymitr's squire, the truth was hard to ignore.
He was still just a child.
Yes, Dym had given him duties.
Soap cleaned armor. He prepared the horses' feed. He fetched water, gathered firewood, and helped pack their belongings whenever they moved camp. Dym had even begun teaching him small things — how to care for tack properly, how to balance a practice blade, how to keep his footing when someone tried to shove him aside.
And he had promised more.
"Someday," Dym had said. "When you're older."
But that someday felt far away.
Right now, when Soap looked at those other squires running across the lists with heavy lances in their arms, he had felt the truth settle into his stomach like a stone.
He was not ready.
Not ready to carry the weight that Dym already bore.
Soap's small hands curled slowly into fists.
He looked down at them again.
Irresponsible.
The word slipped quietly through his thoughts.
He was supposed to be a squire.
Ser Dymitr the Tall's squire.
Yet Dym still carried nearly everything himself — the worries, the burdens, the sacrifices, the dreams that had been handed down from a dead knight named Ser Arlan of Brzozowa Polana.
Soap lifted his head again and looked at the sleeping giant beside him.
Dym shifted slightly in his sleep, his brow tightening again as some unseen dream passed through his mind.
The boy felt that same quiet twist inside his chest.
...
......
No.
That could not continue.
A hedge knight's life was already heavy enough.
Roads that never truly ended.
Meals that were never certain.
Lords who made promises they had no intention of keeping.
If Soap truly meant to be Dymitr's squire…
Then he could not remain just a child.
He had to grow.
And he had to grow quickly.
Soap drew a slow breath as the rising sun slowly climbed higher above the horizon, spilling golden light across the quiet field and the two figures sitting beside the cold remains of last night's fire.
The boy looked down at his hands one more time.
Then he slowly closed them into firm fists.
One way or another…
He would find a way to lighten the burden his master carried.
For a few moments he remained seated beside the cold ashes of the fire, staring at his clenched fists while the early sunlight crept slowly across the grass. Around the camp the morning continued to stir—distant voices, the faint clatter of pots, the restless shifting of horses in nearby camps—but their little patch of ground beneath the elm tree remained still.
Behind him, Dymitr still slept.
Soap glanced back over his shoulder.
The tall Kuranta had not moved much since the boy first woke. His breathing remained slow and heavy, his face still tense with whatever thoughts troubled him even in sleep. Soap knew from his week of experience that once Dym finally fell asleep after a long day, waking him early was nearly impossible.
His master was many things.
A morning person was not one of them.
Soap quietly slipped his feet out of the bedroll.
He rose slowly, careful not to rustle the blankets too loudly, and stood for a moment to make sure Dym had not stirred. The knight remained asleep, unmoving by the cool morning air.
Satisfied, Soap began to move.
He stepped lightly across the grass, tiptoeing around the cold firepit and toward the elm tree where their horses had been tethered for the night.
Thunder and Chestnut stood beneath the broad branches, their reins tied loosely around the rough bark of the trunk. Both horses had already begun to stir with the coming morning, shifting their weight and flicking their ears at the sounds drifting across the field.
Soap paused a few steps away, studying them.
He knew exactly which horse he needed.
Even though he was still young, Soap remembered things carefully. One memory in particular returned now—the first time he had watched Dym train with a lance back at the inn where they had first met, when Ser Don had still been with them.
Even then it had been clear.
Dym did not ride Chestnut into battle.
Chestnut was older, calmer, patient in a way that made the horse perfect for carrying supplies along long roads. The sturdy animal had hauled their packs and blankets for most of their journey toward Rudnicka Vale without complaint.
Thunder was different.
The destrier stood taller and broader than the other horse, his dark coat shining faintly in the morning light. Even standing still, there was an energy in him that Chestnut lacked. His muscles shifted beneath his skin like coiled ropes, and his ears flicked constantly as though he listened for the distant thunder of hooves that might signal the start of a charge.
That was the horse Dym would ride on when he enters the lists.
Soap approached him slowly.
The boy reached the elm tree and carefully began working at the knot that held Thunder's reins in place. His small fingers fumbled for a moment against the rough rope before finally loosening the knot enough to slip it free.
The reins came loose without much trouble.
Soap gently took hold of them and began to guide the horse away from the tree.
At first Thunder followed.
The destrier stepped forward quietly, hooves pressing softly into the dew-covered grass. For a few seconds everything seemed to go smoothly.
Then the horse stopped.
Thunder tossed his head slightly and stepped backward, letting out a quiet, uncertain neigh.
Soap froze.
His heart jumped straight into his throat.
For a terrifying moment the boy glanced quickly over his shoulder toward the bedrolls, certain the sound must have woken Dymitr.
But the tall knight remained exactly where he had been.
Still asleep.
Soap let out a slow breath.
He knew why.
Dym was a deep sleeper once he finally rested, especially after exhausting days like yesterday. And even when he did wake early, it usually took time before he truly rose from his blankets.
Soap had at least an hour.
Maybe two.
Still, Thunder was clearly uneasy.
The horse shifted again, his ears twitching as he stared down at the small figure holding his reins. To a warhorse trained to carry armored knights into battle, the child tugging gently at the rope probably made very little sense.
Soap stepped closer.
"I know," he murmured quietly.
The boy slowly raised one hand, palm open as he approached the great animal's head. His fingers trembled slightly as he whispered something under his breath.
A faint golden glow began to gather in his palm.
The light was small—soft, warm, barely brighter than the early morning sun—but it shimmered gently across Soap's small palm like liquid gold.
Thunder's ears twitched again.
The destrier watched carefully as the glowing hand slowly approached his forehead.
Then Soap's palm touched him.
The golden light brushed softly across the horse's brow.
Thunder's tense muscles slowly eased.
His head lowered slightly, the earlier unease fading as the warm glow washed over him. The stallion exhaled through his nose and stood quietly while Soap rubbed his forehead and cheeks in slow, gentle strokes.
"Easy, boy…" Soap whispered.
The boy reached into the small pouch tied at his belt and pulled out a redding green apple they had bought a few days earlier in town. It was slightly bruised now, but still good and ripe enough.
He held it up toward Thunder's mouth.
The destrier sniffed it once before accepting the offering. His large teeth bit gently into the fruit, crunching it slowly as sweet juice dripped down onto the grass.
Soap smiled faintly.
While the horse chewed, the boy leaned closer and spoke again in a quiet voice meant only for the animal.
"Ser Dymitr's under a lot of pressure right now, Thunder..." he whispered.
Thunder flicked an ear.
Soap continued rubbing the stallion's cheek gently.
"He only has us left," the boy murmured. "You… me… and Chestnut."
His voice softened.
"We're the only ones he can really trust."
Thunder finished the apple and snorted softly.
Soap smiled a little wider.
"So it falls on us now," he said quietly. "We've got to help him… even if it's just a little."
The horse gave a soft nicker in response.
To anyone else it might have sounded like nothing more than a simple breath through flared nostrils.
But Soap's smile widened anyway.
He reached up and scratched Thunder affectionately beneath the jaw.
"See?" he whispered.
The boy gently tugged the reins again.
"Let's help him today."
He lingered beside Thunder for a moment longer, his small hand still resting against the stallion's cheek as the horse finished the last crunching bites of the apple. The quiet nicker the destrier had given still made the boy smile faintly to himself. For a moment it felt as if the horse truly understood what he had said, as if the great animal shared the same quiet agreement.
Then something caught Soap's eye.
He turned his head slowly.
Leaning against the trunk of the elm tree, only a few paces from where Dym still slept, was the sword.
Ser Dymitr's sword.
The weapon rested where the knight had left it the night before, its scabbard propped carefully against the bark within easy reach of the bedroll. The morning sun had just begun to reach that side of the tree, and a faint line of gold glinted along the worn metal fittings of the scabbard.
Soap stared at it.
A thought stirred quietly in his mind.
The memory of yesterday returned again—the squires running across the lists, the knights riding beneath the roar of the crowd, the heavy lances they carried with confident hands.
And the thought that had been gnawing at him since the night before came back once more.
He had to grow.
Quickly.
Soap glanced back toward Dym.
The Kuranta knight still slept heavily, lying exactly where he had been before. His breathing was slow and deep, his face still locked in that stiff expression.
Soap hesitated for a moment.
Then his eyes shifted back to the sword.
A small idea had begun forming in his mind.
Carefully, the boy let go of Thunder's cheek and began walking toward the tree.
Each step was slow and cautious, the kind of quiet movement he had learned from months of traveling the road with a man who often preferred silence to noise. The damp grass muffled most of his footsteps, though Soap still found himself glancing nervously toward the bedroll every few seconds.
Dym did not stir.
Soap reached the tree.
The sword looked even larger up close.
He crouched down slowly and wrapped both hands around the scabbard before lifting it.
The weight nearly surprised him.
Soap's arms dipped slightly as the blade came off the ground. The weapon was far heavier than the stick he usually swung during his childish battles beside the fire. Even sheathed, the long blade pulled downward with a steady weight that made his elbows tremble slightly.
Soap swallowed.
He adjusted his grip carefully.
The boy glanced quickly over his shoulder.
Dym was still asleep.
Soap looked around the nearby camps as well, his eyes scanning the slowly waking field just in case anyone happened to be watching. The last thing he needed was some stranger spotting a child sneaking away with a knight's sword and deciding he was a thief.
But the early morning mist and the scattered tents offered him a bit of cover.
Most people were still busy stirring their own fires or tending their own horses. No one seemed to be paying any attention to the small boy struggling quietly with a sword nearly as long as his arm span.
No one except the horses.
Thunder watched him with calm curiosity.
Chestnut simply flicked his tail and continued chewing lazily at the grass.
Soap exhaled softly.
Good.
He adjusted his grip again and carefully carried the sword over to Thunder's saddle. The destrier stood patiently while the boy fumbled with the straps for a moment, trying to find a place where the scabbard would sit securely.
After a bit of awkward effort, he managed to slide the sword into place along the side of the saddle.
Soap tugged lightly at the strap to make sure it held.
The weapon stayed where it was.
Satisfied, the boy stepped back.
He took hold of Thunder's reins again and glanced once more toward the sleeping figure beneath the elm tree.
Dymitr had not moved.
Not even a twitch.
Soap allowed himself a small breath of relief.
Then he began to guide the horse away from the camp.
He moved slowly at first, leading the stallion carefully across the damp grass while trying to keep Thunder's hooves from making too much noise. The destrier followed without protest now, his earlier unease gone as he walked beside the boy.
They slipped quietly past the outer edge of their small camp.
Past the scattered bedrolls of other travelers who still slept beneath the fading mist.
Past the first few waking fires where men were just beginning to cook their morning meals.
Soap kept his head low and his movements calm as he guided the horse farther from the main cluster of tents.
Soon the noise of the camps began to fade behind them.
Ahead of them stood the edge of a small forest that bordered the tournament fields. Tall trees rose in uneven lines where the open plains gave way to thicker growth, their branches casting long shadows across the ground as the morning sun climbed higher.
Soap headed straight toward them.
The air beneath the trees was cooler.
Damp earth replaced the grassy smell of the open field, and the sounds of the waking tournament faded into distant murmurs behind the trunks and undergrowth.
Soap continued leading Thunder deeper into the forest.
He walked until the camp noises were almost completely gone.
Until the only sounds around him were birds stirring in the branches and the quiet rustle of leaves moving in the morning breeze.
Eventually he found what he was looking for.
A small clearing opened between the trees, wide enough for a horse to move comfortably and open enough that the sunlight reached the ground without too much shadow.
Soap stopped at the edge of it.
He looked around carefully, scanning the trees just in case anyone else had wandered this far into the woods so early in the morning.
But the clearing was empty.
Quiet.
Private.
Exactly what he needed.
Soap led Thunder into the open space and finally stopped in the middle of the clearing.
The boy looked up at the saddle where the sword hung secured against the leather.
His arms still ached slightly just remembering how heavy it had been.
But his jaw tightened with quiet determination.
If he wanted to grow quickly…
If he truly wanted to help carry the burdens his master bore…
Then he needed to start somewhere.