The forest swallowed them slowly.
At first it had been nothing more than a thin line of trees marking the far edge of the town, a quiet border where the trampled grass and noise of the grounds gave way to something older and quieter. But the farther Soap led Thunder away from the open land, the thicker the woodland became. The scattered trees soon closed around them, their trunks rising tall and straight as pillars. Pine trees dominated the forest, their bark white and ridged, their branches stretching high above like the beams of a great cathedral roof. The needles gathered into a dense canopy that softened the growing morning light, breaking the sun's rays into scattered shafts of pale gold that drifted gently through the air.
The ground beneath them changed as well.
Where the fields had been rough with churned dirt and hoofprints, the forest floor was soft and springy. Moss crept across the earth in thick green carpets, and damp grass grew in small patches between winding roots. Fallen pine needles blanketed the ground in deep reddish layers that muffled nearly every sound. Even Thunder's heavy hooves, which would normally strike the earth with loud authority, made only soft, dull thuds as the destrier walked behind the boy.
Mist lingered among the trees.
The fog had not yet fully lifted with the coming of dawn, and it drifted in long white ribbons between the trunks, curling lazily around roots and low branches. Whenever sunlight managed to break through the canopy above, it spilled down in glowing columns that scattered through the mist and turned the forest into something almost dreamlike, as if the entire place existed somewhere between waking and sleep.
Somewhere nearby, water moved.
Soap could hear it long before he ever saw it. At first it was only a faint sound beneath the whisper of the wind in the pine branches—the quiet murmur of a small stream weaving its way through the forest floor. As they walked deeper into the woodland, the sound grew clearer. Soon they passed several narrow rivulets of clear water slipping between moss-covered stones and exposed roots. The tiny streams reflected the morning light in flickering patterns as they wound their way across the ground, their surfaces trembling gently with each ripple before vanishing again beneath the undergrowth.
The air beneath the pines was noticeably colder than the open fields they had left behind.
A faint morning wind stirred the branches overhead, and every now and then a small shower of dew fell from the needles. Tiny droplets scattered down through the air and landed softly on the forest floor, on Thunder's dark coat, and occasionally on Soap's hair and shoulders.
Soap shivered slightly when one drop slid down the back of his neck.
His small hands tightened around Thunder's reins.
They were cold.
The leather felt stiff and damp with dew where his fingers gripped it. After a moment, Soap rubbed his hands together briefly while still walking, trying to warm the chill from his fingers before gripping the reins again. The cool air made his breath faintly visible each time he exhaled.
Still, he kept moving.
The forest stretched on for several minutes more, the tall pines rising like silent guardians on every side. Soap guided Thunder carefully along the uneven ground, occasionally stepping over twisted roots or skirting around thicker patches of moss where the earth dipped into shallow hollows. The destrier followed calmly behind him, his ears flicking now and then as the forest sounds shifted around them.
Then, by pure luck, the trees suddenly opened.
The dense woodland parted as if a curtain had been drawn aside, revealing a wide green clearing hidden deep within the forest.
Soft grass covered the ground in a broad circle where the trees had retreated just enough to allow sunlight to pour freely from above. The morning mist still lingered there, thin and glowing in the growing light, while tall bushes formed a rough border around the edges of the clearing. Their branches and leaves created a natural wall that enclosed the open space, shielding it from the rest of the forest.
It was quiet.
Private.
Perfect for training.
Soap's face brightened immediately.
He stepped into the clearing with Thunder following a few paces behind him and slowly turned in place, taking in the wide open space around them. The sunlight touched the grass here more fully, and the air felt a little warmer than beneath the trees.
A grin spread across his face.
"Well," he said softly, glancing up at the horse beside him, "this is it, Thunder."
The boy tugged lightly on the reins and walked toward the center of the clearing.
"Let's begin our training."
He stopped and turned to face the destrier.
Soap tightened his grip on the reins and gave them a firm pull, stepping backward slightly the way he had seen stablehands guide horses before.
"Go on," he said, nodding toward the open field of grass. "Run straight, then come back here."
Thunder did not move.
The horse simply stood there.
Soap blinked.
He tugged the reins again.
"Come on, boy."
Thunder flicked one ear.
But he still did not move.
Soap frowned slightly and pulled again, a little harder this time.
"Come on."
The reins tightened between them.
Thunder shifted his weight once, adjusting one hoof against the grass, and then settled again exactly where he had been standing.
Soap stared at him.
He tried again.
And again.
Each time he pulled the reins, Thunder remained planted firmly on the grass as though the boy simply wasn't there at all.
Soap's eyebrows slowly drew together.
The boy pulled harder.
"Come on!"
Nothing.
The horse stood still.
Soap tugged repeatedly now, the leather reins tightening with each increasingly frustrated pull.
Thunder merely raised his head slightly and looked down at the boy with calm, dark eyes.
"What's the matter with you?!" Soap snapped.
He gave the reins another sharp tug.
"Come on!"
Still nothing.
"You weren't like this before!"
Soap's voice rose with growing irritation as he pulled again.
"Just run!"
The reins jerked once more.
This time Thunder responded—by pulling his head back and resisting the tug entirely.
Soap stumbled half a step forward as the horse's strength easily overpowered his small arms.
"Move!" Soap groaned.
Thunder only snorted softly and shook his head.
His ears flicked from side to side, the long tufts of hair twitching with mild annoyance.
Soap glared up at him.
"You're stubborn as old iron," the boy muttered.
His golden eyes locked onto the destrier's face with growing frustration.
"He's twice the size of your last rider," Soap continued, gesturing vaguely toward the open clearing around them, "and the field could be just like this or worse."
He yanked the reins again, as though sheer determination alone might somehow force the horse into motion.
"So you best get your feet under you."
Thunder responded by shaking his head again, his ears flapping lazily from side to side as if dismissing the entire argument.
Soap stared up at the destrier for a long moment.
Thunder stared back.
The horse's large dark eyes blinked once—slow and patient—while his ears flicked lazily to the sides, as if he were simply waiting for the small creature in front of him to finish whatever strange ritual he was performing with the reins.
Soap's frustration slowly faded.
"…You know," the boy muttered after a moment.
He loosened his grip on the reins slightly.
"My father told me you should never talk to a horse."
Thunder snorted softly.
Soap continued, his voice calmer now.
"He said they're dumber than dogs and only understand the crop. "
The boy paused for a second, then shook his head faintly.
"But I don't think that's true, and quite ironic considering what his job is..."
Soap stepped closer.
Slowly, he reached up and placed one small hand against Thunder's cheek, the same way he had done earlier beneath the elm tree. His palm rested gently against the warm hide of the stallion's face while the other hand loosely held the reins.
"I think a horse just doesn't want to be ordered about, any more than a man does."
Thunder immediately lifted his head and gave a soft nicker.
Then, quite distinctly, the destrier nodded his head up and down once… twice… as though agreeing with the statement.
Soap blinked.
Then a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"See?" he murmured.
He rubbed the horse's cheek gently.
"I'll say this again… Ser Dymitr only has us now."
Thunder's ears twitched forward.
The stallion seemed oddly attentive now, watching the boy with quiet focus.
"And if he loses," Soap continued softly, "he won't even have that. And... honestly, I'm also reluctant to accept Fremont's offers as well... Even if Ser Don trusted him."
The morning wind rustled through the bushes surrounding the clearing.
Soap looked up at the great animal, his golden eyes reflecting the soft beams of sunlight that filtered through the mist.
"I may be puny," he admitted.
He lifted one small arm and flexed it weakly for emphasis before letting it drop again.
"But I'm sure I can get the weapons in his hand…"
He paused.
"…somehow."
The boy looked up at Thunder hopefully.
"But then," he said, "it's up to you."
For a moment there was silence.
The horse stared down at him.
Then Thunder slowly nodded his head once.
Soap's smile widened immediately.
"Good."
The boy took a few steps backward, releasing the reins entirely. He raised both hands in front of him, palms out, trying to mimic the posture he had seen stablehands and trainers use when guiding horses.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath.
He walked a few steps to the side, positioning himself out of Thunder's direct path.
"…let's see…"
Soap frowned thoughtfully as he tried to recall the memory.
"This is how dad used to say it…"
He inhaled sharply.
Then shouted.
"Hyah!"
Soap quickly ran sideways out of the stallion's path and flung one arm forward dramatically.
"Go!"
Thunder did not move.
The horse simply stood there.
For one long second nothing happened.
Then Thunder lifted his tail slightly.
Soap blinked.
A moment later the stallion began calmly relieving himself right where he stood.
Soap stared.
The boy's shoulders sagged slightly.
He sighed.
"…right."
Once Thunder finished his business, Soap trudged back into position again. He raised his hands once more, stepped to the side of the clearing, and tried again with renewed determination.
"Hyah!"
He waved his arms.
"Yah!"
Thunder lowered his head.
Instead of running, the destrier calmly began nibbling at the grass beneath his hooves.
Soap stared in disbelief.
"Ha!"
He flailed his arms again.
"Hyah! Yah!"
The boy hopped slightly while waving both hands as dramatically as he could.
"Ha! Hyah! Yah!"
Thunder flicked one ear.
Then finally—perhaps out of curiosity, or perhaps simply because the shouting child had become impossible to ignore—the stallion lifted his head and began to move.
He trotted forward.
Not a grand charge.
Not a powerful gallop.
Just a short, casual sprint across part of the clearing before slowing again.
Soap watched him go, tilting his head slightly as he observed the movement.
"…Not bad," the boy said thoughtfully.
It was then that the quiet clearing no longer stayed quiet.
"Hyah!"
Soap's voice rang through the trees, sharp and bright against the stillness of the early morning.
"Go, Thunder!"
As the sun slowly climbed higher above the horizon, thin rays of gold began to spill across the clearing, chasing away the last lingering threads of mist that clung low over the grass. At Soap's call, the stallion broke into a run through the open field, his powerful hooves pounding against the soft earth with a steady rhythm. At first his strides were uneven, almost uncertain, as though he were still deciding whether this strange little exercise had any meaning at all. But with each lap around the clearing Thunder seemed to grow more spirited, more eager to move. His long mane tossed wildly with the motion, catching glints of sunlight as he thundered across the grassland in widening circles.
Soap ran along the edge of the clearing, pumping his small arms as though he too were part of the charge. His boots kicked up bits of damp soil and crushed grass beneath his hurried steps, but he didn't slow down.
"That's it!" he shouted, breathless but thrilled. "Go, Thunder!"
His voice carried across the open space, echoing faintly among the trees. The boy darted toward a nearby bush where fallen branches lay scattered beneath the undergrowth. After rummaging quickly through them, he returned triumphantly with a long branch he had stripped of twigs and leaves. The thing was enormous compared to him—nearly thrice his height—and when he lifted it with both hands, the weight of it made his arms wobble slightly as he struggled to keep it balanced.
"This'll do as a lance," he muttered to himself, squinting down its length as though judging the fit of a proper knight's weapon.
He lowered one end and ran across the clearing with the long stick angled forward, trying to imitate the posture he had seen squires take on the training grounds.
Nearby, a small flock of sheep had wandered lazily into the grassland sometime during the early morning. They grazed quietly at first, plucking at the dew-covered grass with slow, absentminded bites. But as Soap came sprinting past them with what looked like a wildly oversized spear, several woolly heads lifted at once, their blank expressions turning slowly toward the commotion.
Soap nearly lost his balance when the stick dipped too low and scraped against the ground.
"Woah—!"
His feet tangled for a moment and his body lurched forward, the long branch swinging awkwardly in his grip. For a second it looked as though he might topple face-first into the grass. But he stumbled, corrected himself with a quick hop, and kept running, the branch wobbling wildly as he fought to steady it.
Yet in his mind, the quiet clearing had already transformed.
The simple grassland became a grand tourney field stretching far beyond the trees. The distant sheep were no longer sheep at all—they were roaring crowds packed tightly behind wooden barriers, cheering and shouting beneath bright banners of red and gold. Colorful pennants snapped in the wind overhead while armored knights thundered past in blinding charges. The ground trembled beneath the pounding hooves of warhorses, and the air rang with the clash of steel and splintering wood.
Soap sprinted forward and lifted the stick high with both hands.
"Ser Dymitr!" he called out between gasps. "Take it!"
He held the imaginary lance upward, arms straining as though presenting it to a mounted knight towering above him in shining armor. His chest heaved as he panted for breath, but the determined expression on his face did not falter.
Then he lowered the stick, gulped a breath of air, and dashed across the clearing again.
"Alright, alright—next one!"
Thunder galloped past him in a straight line, hooves drumming loudly against the ground as the stallion crossed the clearing in a powerful burst of speed. The wind stirred the grass in rippling waves behind him.
Soap ran ahead of the horse's path and turned sideways, raising his arms again like a tiny marshal guiding a charge.
"Ha! Go, Thunder!"
The stallion surged forward at once, faster now, his powerful legs stretching into longer strides while his mane whipped in the rising morning wind. The rhythm of his gallop became smoother and more confident with every pass.
Soap grinned wildly, breath puffing from his mouth as he watched the destrier race across the clearing.
After another lap, the boy hurried toward the tree where Dymitr's sword leaned against the trunk. The blade gleamed faintly in the morning light as he bent down and picked it up with both hands. The weapon was still heavy—far heavier than anything meant for someone his size—and the moment he lifted it, he had to adjust his grip several times just to keep the blade balanced.
"Right," he muttered under his breath.
The clearing faded again as his imagination surged back to life.
He imagined the crash of lances splintering on shields. The roar of thousands of spectators. The pounding of hooves and the bright gleam of armor beneath the sun.
If Ser Dymitr demanded a sword…
Soap raised the blade awkwardly and shuffled forward, trying his best to look quick and confident despite how large the weapon felt in his small hands. His arms trembled slightly with the effort, but he pushed through it.
He lifted the sword high, presenting it upward.
"Take it quick, Ser Dymitr!"
The weight of the blade pulled sideways as he tried to turn, and for a moment he nearly dropped it altogether. Soap spun slightly, the sword tilting dangerously as his balance wavered.
But he caught himself just in time, planting his feet firmly against the grass.
Soap steadied his stance, tightened his grip, and tried again—this time offering the weapon more smoothly, holding it out with determination.
"Take it, Ser Dymitr!"
The blade lowered slowly afterward, and for a single quiet heartbeat the clearing returned to stillness—
until Thunder came charging through again.
The stallion burst across the field with renewed energy, hooves pounding as he raced through the morning light.
Soap laughed, the sound bright and carefree.
"Whoo!"
The sun finally crested over the distant treetops, pouring golden light across the clearing. The last threads of morning mist faded away as brightness spread across the grass, illuminating every ripple of green beneath the horse's pounding strides.
Thunder galloped harder now, circling the field with powerful, eager strides that kicked up sprays of dew with every step.
"Come on!" Soap shouted, throwing his arms wide as though welcoming the charge.
"Whoo! Go, Thunder!"
The stallion raced past him, snorting proudly as he thundered through the clearing once more.
Soap jumped and cheered like a one-boy crowd.
"Whoo!"
The once-silent clearing now rang with laughter, hoofbeats, and the excited cries of a child pretending to stand at the heart of a grand tournament.
Eventually the noise faded.
The running slowed, the shouting quieted, and the morning settled gently around them once more.
By then the sun had climbed high enough to warm the clearing with steady light. The grass shimmered softly where dew still clung to the blades, and the distant sheep had wandered away again, unimpressed by the imaginary spectacle.
Under the shade of a broad tree at the edge of the clearing, Soap sat beside the resting stallion. Thunder's sides rose and fell steadily from the exercise, his breathing deep but calm as he stood quietly near the boy. His ears were relaxed now, flicking lazily now and then while a soft breeze rustled through the branches overhead.
Soap leaned against the rough bark of the tree, his legs stretched out in front of him as he reached up to pat the horse's face.
"Good boy," he murmured softly.
His small hand rubbed Thunder's forehead in slow, affectionate strokes.
"Good boy, Thunder."
The boy pulled a small pouch from his belt and opened it carefully before holding out a handful of oats in his palm. Thunder lowered his head at once and happily crunched them down, the grain disappearing quickly between strong teeth. Soap chuckled quietly and reached into the pouch again, this time pulling out a slice of apple.
The stallion accepted that just as eagerly.
"Good boy," Soap repeated with a tired but satisfied smile.
Thunder chewed contentedly while the morning sun filtered warmly through the leaves above them, casting gentle patches of golden lights across the grass as boy and horse rested together in the quiet shade.
Soap continued stroking the stallion's forehead, still pleased with their small victory.
Then—
A faint shuffling noise came from somewhere behind him.
It was subtle at first. The soft crunch of something stepping on dry grass or leaves just beyond the bushes that bordered the clearing.
Soap paused mid-pat.
Before he could turn, a voice spoke from behind him.
Old.
Firm.
"You steal that horse?"
Soap jolted slightly at the sudden sound.
Not out of fear exactly—though the unexpected accusation certainly startled him—but the moment the words reached his ears, recognition flashed across his face.
The boy's eyes lit up.
A smile spread across his face almost instantly.
He spun around quickly, golden hair bouncing with the motion, and looked toward the edge of the clearing where the voice had come from.
Standing there, just beyond the bushes, was a figure he knew well.
An old man with sun-kissed brown skin weathered by years beneath harsh skies. One eye was hidden behind a worn eyepatch strapped across the right side of his face, while the other watched the boy with sharp curiosity and a familiar genial warmth. His posture was relaxed despite his age, and the faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth was one Soap remembered clearly.
Even after parting with him a week ago when they had first arrived in Rudnicka Vale.
Soap's face lit up.
"Ser Don!"