The rain thinned as the sun crept in, not ending so much as loosening its grip. What had been a downpour became a persistent whisper, mist clinging to the low hills and the treeline like breath on cold steel. The grave stood behind them now, a low mound armored with stones and river-smoothed pebbles, unassuming and resolute. No marker bore a name—only the land itself remembered.
They did not look back.
The road took them east, where the earth rose and fell in gentle bruises, scarred by wagon ruts and the hooves of those who had passed before with purposes now forgotten. Mud still clung to their boots, but the rain had done its quiet mercy, washing away the worst of it, leaving only stains that would fade with time—or never.
The younger knight ride ahead at first, silent, his cloak heavy with damp. His shovel had been traded once more for his sword, though the weapon remained sheathed, behind him were two brown horses, tied together, led by the white horse he ride on. The older one followed, helm under his arm, armor dull and pitted, yet worn with the ease of long familiarity. He hummed faintly at times—not a tune so much as a habit—until even that fell away into the sound of rain.
Hours passed before words returned to the world.
Ser Don Quixote rides to his side, and broke the quiet.
"What will you do now?" he asked, not looking at him at first. "Where will your feet carry you, now that your master rests behind us?"
The younger man slowed, then stopped altogether. The question struck harder than any blow. "I... I don't know," he admitted. "I've only ever followed."
Ser Don turned to face him fully. "That, I feared." He studied him for a moment, rain tracing thin lines down the ridges of his armor. "You have no lands. No writ. No banner to shelter under. The world is not kind to those without names—or those whose names mean little, such as Hedge Knights."
He paused, then asked plainly, "Did Ser Arlan ever knight you?"
The answer came after a breath too long. "...No. He hadn't."
No judgment followed. Only understanding.
Ser Don nodded slowly. "Then, as you are now, you are a squire without a knight. A sword without a scabbard. Terra is wide, wider than Kazimierz; and it does not wait to the likes of you."
They resumed walking, a few paces, before Ser Don spoke again.
"Would you wish to be knighted?"
The words stopped him cold.
Ser Don raised a hand before he could speak. "Hear me fully. I am no Knight of Kazimierz, nor do I wear their spurs or swear by their courts. But I am anointed all the same—by those whose voices carry weight beyond crowns and borders. What I grant would be... recognized."
He glanced at him sidelong. "If that matters to you."
The offer hung there, fragile as glass.
Temptation surged before doubt could stop it.
A nobody from the slums of a city whose name he could no longer recall. A hungry boy with scraped knees and borrowed boots, found by a wandering knight who saw something—anything—worth saving. Ser Arlan had taken him on, taught him how to sit a horse, how to hold a lance steady, how to bow before a lady and stand firm before a foe. He remembered his first tourney: the roar of the crowd, the thunder of hooves, Ser Arlan's laughter when he nearly fell from the saddle—and the pride when he didn't. Jousts won not by strength alone, but by guidance, patience, faith.
All his dreams had been shaped in that shadow.
And yet—
Was he ready?
Was he worthy?
Had he earned anything beyond survival?
The doubts came swift and merciless.
Ser Don noticed. It seemed he always noticed.
"You do not have to say yes," he said gently. "Not now. Perhaps not ever." He gestured ahead, where the road stretched into mist and light. "Your path is still far and wide ahead, Dym. Life is... generous with mysteries."
He chuckled softly, a strange warmth in it. "Trust me. I know."
At the sound of that name, his mind betrayed him.
Dym the Dim, Ser Arlan used to say with a grin. Dim as a candle's light, Strong as keep's thickest wall—but sturdy enough to hold when the storm comes.
The memory twisted his chest.
"After all," Ser Don continued, his voice cutting cleanly through the past, "the sun still rises in the east and sets in the west. Today. Tomorrow. Forever."
He turned to him fully now. "Do you know what that means?"
"N-no, sir..." he answered, honestly.
Ser Don smiled.
Beneath the hood, only one of his eyes was visible—dark brown, steady. The rain had finally thinned to nothing, and sunlight broke through the clouds in pale shafts, catching in that single eye. It glinted softly.
In it, he saw something he had not felt since before the grave.
Hope.
Warmth.
Certainty.
"It means," Ser Don said, "that there is still hope. Today, you may walk in uncertainty. But there is always a way forward." He placed a hand briefly on his shoulder. "And tomorrow—when you wake up, tomorrow will be a new chapter of your story."
He gave a small, knowing nod. "Moving forward, Dym."
Only then did he ask, as they walked on together,
"Now, to keep our minds sharp for the path ahead of us, tell me—what do you think it means to be a knight?"
The question was asked gently, without challenge. It was the sort of thing one asked while walking, when the road itself seemed to invite honesty.
The younger knight did not answer at once. His gaze stayed forward, on the narrowing path as it slipped between stands of birch and dark fir. "I thought I knew," he said finally. "Once."
"And now?"
"Now," he exhaled, "I only know what it costs."
Ser Don nodded, as if this were a familiar answer. "A fair beginning. Many never reach even that."
They walked a little farther. The rain pattered against leaves and steel alike.
"In the lands I have crossed," Ser Don continued, "knighthood is often mistaken for spectacle. Shining armor. Grand vows shouted before cheering crowds. Deeds performed so that they may be seen." He glanced sideways. "But that is pageantry, not principle."
He raised a gauntleted hand and tapped two fingers against his chest. "Knighthood lives here, and tampered here." One finger moved to his temple. "It is not the sword that makes the knight, nor the title bestowed by a lord who may forget your name by the next season."
The younger knight finally looked at him. "Then what does?"
"Choice," Ser Don replied without hesitation. "The choice to stand when it would be easier to kneel. To protect when there is no reward. To mourn the dead even when no one else will." His voice softened. "And to carry the weight of those choices without demanding the world absolve you for them."
The road dipped, crossing a shallow stream swollen by the rain. They stepped carefully from stone to stone.
"A knight," Ser Don went on, "is not measured by how many battles he survives, but by what he refuses to become in order to survive them."
The younger knight considered this in silence. The stream murmured beneath them, quick and cold.
"...Ser Arlan believed something like that," he said quietly.
"I see," Ser Don answered. There was no sadness in his tone, only respect. "That is why we buried him as we did."
They climbed the opposite bank and continued on. The rain began, at last, to fade entirely, leaving behind a sky the color of clean steel and a road that stretched onward, uncertain but open.
Ahead lay borders unmapped, towns unnamed, and trials that had not yet learned their own shapes. Behind them rested a knight who would not walk again—but whose oath still traveled with those who did.
Ser Don watched the road ahead for a time, as if weighing the shape of the future in the ruts and puddles left behind by the rain. Then he spoke, tone light, almost casual.
"Well. Considering you've nowhere particular to go, and no clear path yet," he said, "it would be safer for you to join me in my journey. At least until the road decides what sort of man it wants you to be."
Dymitr blinked, caught off guard. He turned slightly in the saddle, rainwater dripping from his cloak's hem.
"Where... where are you going, Ser?" he asked.
Ser Don smiled beneath his hood.
"East," he said. "To a little stretch of Kazimierz most maps barely bother to name—Rudnicka Vale. There's to be a tourney there. Modest thing, but lively enough. A local lord celebrating the birth of his first son. Knights, games, feasts, all the noise men make when they're afraid the world will pass them by."
"I-I see," Dymitr said after a moment. "Thank you, Ser."
Ser Don waved the gratitude away with a gloved hand. "Any decent man would've done the same," he said. "And even more so a good knight."
The word good lingered.
They set off together, boots and hooves finding rhythm on the damp road. The rain had dwindled to a fine mist now, cool and clean, and the land opened before them in low hills and pale grass that shimmered faintly under the thinning clouds.
After a while, Ser Don glanced sideways.
"What are your horses' names?" he asked.
Dymitr hesitated, then answered, almost sheepishly. "The one I'm riding now is Thunder. Strong beast. Stubborn, too." A pause. "Before him, there was Swift. Clever mare. Taught me more patience than any man. And... before that, Chestnut. She carried me when I was barely more than a sack of bones."
Ser Don chuckled softly. "A good lineage," he said. "Horses remember, you know. They carry more than riders."
He patted the neck of his own mount—a tall, black horse with calm eyes and a steady gait. "This one's called Sancho. Sensible fellow. Keeps me from doing anything too foolish if my wife aren't around."
Sancho snorted, as if in agreement.
As the hours passed, the road loosened them. Words came easier. They spoke of armor—Dymitr's patched mail and borrowed plates, heavy but honest; Ser Don's scale harness, each piece bearing a different story. Helmets were compared, dents examined like old scars. Combat styles debated—reach versus timing, patience versus pressure.
Ser Don spoke of wars he had walked through and walked away from. Of battles that was won by listening rather than charging. Of men who died with banners in their hands and no idea why they were holding them.
Dymitr listened more than he spoke. When he did speak, it was of Ser Arlan—of lessons learned the hard way, of tourneys watched from the mud, of the first time he'd been allowed to ride in a joust and how his hands had shaken so badly he'd nearly dropped the lance.
Ser Don laughed at that. Not mockingly—warmly.
But he laughed so loud, he is sure he could rival a storm's rumble.
The road bent gently, and beyond the next rise a warm glow bled into the evening air.
"There," Ser Don said, lifting a hand.
Dymitr followed his gaze.
An inn stood ahead, squat and sturdy against the open land, its windows lit like watchful eyes as dusk settled in earnest. A low wooden gate marked the entrance, hanging open as if in quiet invitation. A beaten path branched off from the road toward a fenced stable yard, where rough posts and a long trough waited in shadow. Beyond it rose the inn itself—stone on the lower half, timber above, with a steep roof built to shed rain and snow alike. Smoke curled lazily from a chimney, and a lantern swayed by the door, already lit against the coming night.
The sun dipped fully behind the hills, leaving the sky bruised purple and gold.
Ser Don exhaled, satisfied. "Good timing," he said. "Best we rest for the night, you needed it more than I do."
Dymitr nodded, relief settling into his shoulders now that he allowed himself to feel it.
Ser Don glanced at him sidelong. "Tell me—did Ser Arlan leave you any coin?"
Dymitr blinked. "I—" He fumbled at his rope belt, fingers stiff as he pulled free a worn leather pouch. He loosened the drawstring and peered inside, heart thudding as if he feared it might be empty.
A few coins glinted back at him, dulled but real.
"Yes—yes, Ser Don," he said quickly. "There's... there's some."
Ser Don nodded once. "Good. I've got mine as well. Don't fret—we'll split the bill." He smiled beneath the hood. "Now then, let's hurry. These old eyes aren't what they used to be, and the dark's never been fond of me."
He gave Sancho a nudge, and the black horse surged forward.
Dymitr laughed despite himself and urged Thunder on, followed by Chestnut and Swift carrying his luggage, and the two of them raced along the path, hooves thudding hard against packed earth. They passed through the open gate in a rush of breath and motion, slowing only as they reached the yard. The inn loomed close now, torchlight flickering across its walls, the smells of smoke and cooked meat drifting faintly on the air.
They reined in just as the last edge of the sun vanished.
A small figure stepped forward to meet them through the entrance.
A boy—bald-headed, sharp-eyed, and standing a little too straight for his age—held a long staff topped with a burning brand. The torchlight cast his face in warm gold, making his fair skin glow strangely bright. He looked to be about the age Dymitr had been when Ser Arlan first took him on—seven years ago, though it felt like a lifetime.
The boy's mouth curled, as if words were already waiting there, sharp and ready.
Ser Don swung down from his saddle first, he stretched his back backwards, and offered a courteous nod.
"Greetings, young one," he said. "Are there empty rooms in this humble inn for two weary travelers?"
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A/N:
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