The moment Dym led Thunder forward and Soap followed with the luggage horse, the quiet of the road fell away behind them, replaced by sound, color, and smell—so much of it that it almost made Dym dizzy.
The air was thick with life, and it hit them all at once.
Smoke curled from cookfires and iron braziers, carrying the scent of roasting meat, hot oil, sweat, leather, and horse. Somewhere nearby, bread was baking. Somewhere else, a smith's hammer rang against steel, sharp and rhythmic, cutting through the constant hum of voices. Merchants called out their wares in half a dozen accents, the clinking of coins. the laughter of children and adults alike. Wails of herd animals. Horses snorted and stamped, impatient beneath unfamiliar hands.
And wherever he looked, knights were everywhere.
Some rode proudly through the lanes in polished plate, banners fluttering above their heads. Others walked, helms tucked under their arms, maille clinking softly as they moved. There were warhorses tall as walls and lean coursers bred for speed, each draped in colors and sigils. And then there were men like Dym—hedge knights, sellswords, hopefuls—armors mismatched, cloaks faded, heraldry absent or hastily painted onto battered shields.
Soap turned slowly, eyes wide. "Gods above..."
Dym felt it too. That rising heat in his chest. The swelling excitement waiting to burst.
They had arrived early—early enough that much of the tourney ground was still being built. Wooden stands rose like skeletal frames near the lists, carpenters shouting to one another as they hauled beams into place. The tilt barriers were stacked neatly to one side, unpainted and raw. Pennons were still being tied, banners still being raised.
And there were so many banners.
Dym lifted his gaze and took them in.
A white hawk on green, wings spread wide.
A black tower split by a silver bolt.
A red boar charging across gold.
A pale blue field bearing a crowned sword, unfamiliar, foreign.
Some he recognized vaguely—names Ser Arlan had mentioned in passing during long rides or over cheap wine. Others meant nothing to him at all.
Then one banner made his blood turn cold.
Black cloth, edged in yellow. At its center, a crowned lightning mare, rearing beneath a jagged bolt of gold.
His jaw tightened.
House Włodarzewicz.
Long ago, before Dym had ever held a sword in earnest, that border house had hired Ser Arlan—and dozens of other hedge knights—to strike at Kazdel's outskirts. Promises of coin. Land. Favor. Glory.
They had paid in blood.
And when the work was done, when bodies were buried and banners burned and any evidences swept under the rug, House Włodarzewicz vanished behind its walls, refusing payment, calling the dead "necessary losses." Ser Arlan had never spoken of it ever again, and would hit Dym if he ever brought it up. Some of the men who survived had turned to begging. Others to banditry. A few simply... disappeared.
Dym stared at the banner longer than he meant to.
Soap noticed. "You know that one, Ser?"
"Aye," Dym seethed quietly. "Too well."
They walked on.
Beyond the sea of tents and pavilions, something solid rose from the Vale itself—a castle, pale stone catching the sun. Tall walls. Square towers. Banners flying proudly from its battlements.
"That must be the seat of Rudnicka Vale," Dym murmured.
Soap squinted. "Zamek Rudnicki," he said after a moment. "Seat of House Rudnicki. Lord Mikołaj Rudnicki rules it now."
Dym glanced at him. "You know a lot for someone who 'just reads books.'"
Soap flushed. "I read... a lot of books."
"Hm." Dym hummed, not pressing further.
They paused at a crossroads of trampled grass and dirt where guards stood watch—men-at-arms wearing Rudnicka Vale's colors of deep lake-blue cloaks edged with white. Their sigil was stitched plainly on their tabards—a white stag standing atop three silver reeds, set against the blue field.
Order amid chaos.
Dym exhaled slowly, forcing himself to rein in the pounding in his chest.
Come on, he told himself. Just like Ser Don said.
Dym shifted Thunder's reins. "Let's find the master of the games first. Come on."
Soap blinked. "So soon?" He glanced around at the tents and banners. "Shouldn't we look around a bit first? Like Ser Don said?"
"Aye," Dym replied, nodding. "But it's better if we know where—and who—he is early. Knowing where to go, and who to speak to, makes things easier for us later."
He nudged Thunder forward a step, then slowed. "After that, we'll find a place to camp. Then we can come back and look around the market."
Soap frowned. "That sounds a bit roundabout. Why not just look around the market first?"
Dym smiled faintly. "First come, first served, Soap. We don't want to end up camping too far from the tourney grounds, aye? The closer we are, the safer our luggage'll be in case we got robbed. We can ask aid from the guards."
He leaned closer in the saddle and lowered his voice. "And we can't go lugging Ser Don's coin everywhere. Best to stash some of it at camp. Hide it proper."
Soap's eyes widened slightly.
"Trust me," Dym went on. "I learned that lesson when I squired under Ser Arlan."
He straightened again, gesturing ahead with his chin. "Besides, this place is crowded. We can't keep riding the horses all day—they need rest too."
Then, with a glance at Soap's boots, he added lightly, "And walking won't hurt you. Good for the legs."
Soap huffed. "…You sound old when you say that, Ser."
Dym chuckled. "Shut it you."
Together, they guided their horses toward the guards, the noise and color of the coming Rudnicka Vale tourney pressing in around them as the day truly began.
========
They found the stables not far from the main flow of traffic, a long stretch of timber fencing and canvas awnings heavy with the smell of hay, dung, and warm horseflesh. Stable boys and grooms moved about in practiced chaos, shouting to one another, hauling tack, calming skittish mounts as more riders arrived by the minute.
Dym brought Thunder to a halt and swung down stiffly, boots hitting packed earth. He reached up without thinking and lifted Soap down from his saddle with an easy motion, setting the boy on his feet.
Too light, he thought.Too skinny for his age.
He frowned inwardly. I wasn't this thin when I was squired.
Not to mention this stiff on the chest.
Soap didn't seem to notice the pause. He adjusted his belt and brushed dust from his trousers while Dym led the horses forward.
A young Feline stable boy padded over, tail flicking as he looked Thunder and the luggage horse over with a practiced eye. Dym handed him the reins, then pressed a bronze coin into the boy's palm.
There it goes, he thought. The first coin sacrificed here.
The boy's ears perked up. "I'll see to them proper, milord."
"Thank you," Dym said. "Tell me—where might I find the master of the games for the tourney?"
The boy hesitated, then shook his head. "Sorry, milord. Don't know that one. But the guards would—" he nodded vaguely toward the banners and the road beyond "—you can ask them."
And with that, he was already moving, calling out to another groom and leading the horses away.
Soap watched them go, then tugged lightly at Dym's sleeve. "Well… let's go, Ser. I saw a group of guards nearby."
"Aye," Dym replied.
They left the stables behind and joined the flow of foot traffic. Soap walked half a step ahead now, guiding him through knots of people, pointing out clear paths. As they went, Dym took it all in—servants hauling crates, tying ropes, raising poles. Banners bearing the colors of House Rudnicki were being fastened to posts and pavilions all around them. Blue cloth caught the light, some deep as summer sky, others faded by sun and travel. The sigil repeated everywhere: a white stag in mid-leap, antlers proud and wide.
Ahead, three guards stood near the edge of the road.
Two were Kuranta like Dym—lean, long-limbed, helmets polished smooth. The third was a Perro, brown hair and tail, spear resting lazily against his boot. All three wore Rudnicka blue colours, tabards loosened, helms off. They looked far too relaxed for men on duty.
They were laughing.
One of them whistled as a pair of servant girls passed, skirts hitched up for work."Oi! Smile for us, pretty ones!""Come back later, yeah?"
One of the girls shot them a sharp look. "Piss off!"
That only earned more laughter.
Soap slowed instinctively. Dym felt his jaw tighten.
He stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"Ahem. Beg your pardon, men."
The laughter died slowly.
All three guards turned one by one. One of the Kuranta lifted an eyebrow, eyes flicking up, then up again, clearly measuring Dym's height and build. The Perro straightened slightly, hand tightening on his spear.
Dym stopped a respectful distance away and straightened his back.
Don't slouch.Stand firm.Clear and steady.
Ser Don's voice echoed in his head.
"We wish to speak to the master of the games," Dym said evenly.
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then one of the Kuranta guards let out a short breath through his nose. "The master of the games?" he repeated, tone mildly amused. "You're early."
"Aye," Dym replied. "So we heard."
The Perro glanced at Soap, then back at Dym. "You here to sign up, or just asking questions?"
"Both, in time," Dym said. "For now, we'd like to know where to find him."
The guard exchanged a look with his fellows, then jerked his chin toward the heart of the Vale. "The temporary office is outside the castle. Timber building near the lists. Can't miss it—too many people arguing outside from the morn."
"Thank you," Dym said, dipping his head slightly.
The younger Kuranta guard snorted. "Good luck, knight."
Dym caught the emphasis but didn't rise to it.
They turned away, leaving the guards to their post and their laughter. Once they were out of earshot, Soap let out a breath he'd clearly been holding.
"…They didn't seem very friendly. Ser."
Dym huffed softly. "They were friendly enough. Just bored is all."
Soap glanced back at the stables, then toward the distant lists. "So, master of the games first, then find a place for us to camp?"
"Aye," Dym said. "We'll find where he is, then we find ourselves a spot to sleep that's close and defensible."
Soap nodded. "And then the market?"
Dym allowed himself a small smile. "Then the market. We need to buy some food and items for tomorrow."
They walked on, swallowed once more by banners, voices, and the restless heartbeat of Rudnicka Vale.
Dym kept his hand light on Thunder's reins out of habit before remembering—no horse now. Just his own two legs, the press of bodies, the constant need to watch where he stepped. Vendors shouted from both sides, cloth brushed his arm, someone cursed as they were jostled.
He turned his head, taking it all in—
—and nearly walked straight into someone.
"Ah—!" Dym caught himself at the last moment, stepping aside as a man in a long foreign coat swept past, muttering something sharp and musical under his breath.
Soap glanced up at him. "Careful, Ser."
"A-Aye," Dym muttered, then looked around more deliberately.
They had crossed into a section where the banners looked… different.
Not Kazimierzan.
The tents were finer, taller, set with deliberate spacing. The colors were bold but strange to his eye—deep violets, silvers, midnight blues stitched with sigils he didn't recognize. The people milling about wore cuts of clothing that marked them as foreign even before their accents did.
"Huh," Dym said under his breath. "So they do blend in. Not just stay in their own patch."
Soap blinked. "Who?"
"The foreigners."
Dym's gaze lingered on a small group passing by—people with curled and straight horns sweeping back and up from their temples. Their ears were long and soft-looking, their eyes sharp. And their tails—
He frowned slightly.
Not thin like a Sarkaz's. These were thick, woolly things, tufted near the end, swaying gently as they walked.
Ah, the Caprinaes, Dym thought. Nearly mistook them for a Sarkaz if not for the tails.
"Sorcerers," he muttered, more out of old habit than real malice.
Soap noticed the look immediately. "They must be the Leithaniens, Ser," he said quietly. "Some of their knights or lords probably wanted to stay closer to the Kazimierzan camps."
Dym glanced at him. "That allowed?"
Soap shrugged. "Maybe. I don't see why it wouldn't be. They must have their own dealings with our lords. The big camp we saw from afar—that's likely for someone important. Higher than lesser lords."
"I see," Dym said, nodding slowly.
They walked a little farther, and then Dym's eyes caught on something familiar.
There it was.
A sturdy timber building near the edge of the lists, larger than the others around it. Guards posted at the entrance. A board outside covered in chalk marks, notices, and parchment pinned down by knives and nails.
Dym exhaled. "Ah. This must be the place."
Soap looked around. "No one seemed to be arguing outside."
"We must've been lucky," Dym said. "Or early."
Soap grinned. "Everyone must've finished their business."
They stopped a short distance away.
Soap hesitated. "Do you want me to wait outside, Ser?"
Dym considered it. A moment passed.
Then he shook his head. "No. You'll come with."
Soap looked surprised.
"This is part of your training as my squire," Dym continued. "You'll be a knight one day, aye? Best you see how these things are done."
Soap's grin returned, brighter now. "Yes, Ser."
They approached the entrance.
The guard posted there—an old Cautus—straightened as they neared. Dym stopped, offered a polite nod, and stated his business clearly.
"I seek the master of the games," he said. "Regarding tourney matters."
The guard studied him briefly, then nodded. "Second floor. Follow me."
He turned and led them inside.
The building smelled of ink, wood shavings, and sweat. Boots thudded on the stairs as they climbed, voices drifting down from above—firm, orderly, busy.
Dym felt his pulse steady.
First steps, he reminded himself.
Judge. Observe. Understand.
They reached the second floor, and the guard gestured toward a door at the end of the hall.
"The master of the games is inside," he said.
Dym thanked him, squared his shoulders, and nodded.
Catching the signal, the guard knocked on the door.
From inside came a sharp, distracted voice. "Come in!"
The guard opened it and stepped aside. Dym followed—
—and promptly cracked his head against the upper beam with a solid thunk.
"Ow—!"
Soap clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking. A quiet giggle slipped through anyway.
Dym hissed under his breath, "Shush."
He ducked properly this time and stepped inside.
The room was larger than he'd expected, cluttered but orderly. A wide table sat near the far wall, covered in parchments, ledgers, and a pot of ink. A quill rested between clawed fingers, and a heavy stamp lay ready at hand.
Behind the table sat the master of the games.
A Feline man, middle-aged, well-fed, with sharp eyes and a permanently unimpressed expression. He was chewing on something—small leaves, by the look of it—and when he breathed out, it carried a cool, clean scent that cut through the ink and dust like morning air after rain.
Before Dym could fully take him in, movements caught his eye.
Two children—a Feline boy and girl, twins by the look of them—were darting back and forth across the room, engaged in a furious wooden swordfight.
"Hyah!"
"No fair!"
"You stepped on my tail!"
The master of the games looked up at the noise—and at Dym rubbing his forehead—one brow lifting.
"What do you want, man?" he asked around his chewing, already turning back to his parchment.
Dym swallowed, stepped forward, and lowered his head slightly in respect. Soap followed, standing at his side, eyes flicking curiously between the desk and the children.
The guard nodded once to the master of the games.
"Mm," the Feline said without looking up, waving him away. The guard took the hint and left, closing the door behind him.
Dym cleared his throat. "I uh—"
Be confident boy/lad, his mind snapped, unhelpfully echoing both Ser Arlan and Ser Don's voices.
He straightened, resting one hand on the hilt of his sword—not in threat, just grounding himself.
"I came for the tourney," he finished.
The master of the games snorted softly, still focused on his paperwork. "My lord's tourney—Well, the grand tourney now, since all the great nations of Terra are here, is open to knights," he said dryly. He finally looked up at Dym, eyes sweeping over his size, his armor, his stance. "You a knight?"
Before Dym could answer—
Thwack.
Something solid smacked the back of his leg.
"Hyah!"
Dym flinched and half-turned, blinking down.
The two children stood there, wooden sword raised triumphantly. Soap stared, wide-eyed, then barely managed to keep from laughing.
"OI," the master of the games snapped.
Both children froze.
He hissed sharply—an unmistakable, parental sound.
They yelped in unison and bolted from the room, claws skittering on the floor as they fled.
The door slammed shut behind them.
"Children," the master of the games muttered, rubbing his temples.
He looked back at Dym, slowly chewing, eyes sharper now.
"Well?" he said. "A knight with a name, mayhaps?"
Dym swallowed. "Uh… Dym—"
He faltered, the words tangling in his throat.
Soap stepped in smoothly. "Ser Dymitr, my lord," he said, chin lifting just a little. "Ser Dymitr the Tall."
Dym nodded quickly, grateful. "Aye. That's… that's me."
He drew a breath and pressed on. "I—I was squire to Ser Arlan of Brzozowa Polana, since I was a boy. He… he knighted me before he passed. With his own sword."
Carefully, as though the act itself carried weight, Dym drew the blade free—not all the way, just enough—and turned it so the hilt faced the master of the games. He laid it upon the table between parchments and ink, respectfully, deliberately.
At the pommel, stamped deep into the metal, was the mark: a birch tree, simple and unmistakable.
"That's his sigil," Dym said quietly. "On the hilt."
The master of the games wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he examined the blade.
"Uh-huh," he said after a moment. "A sword, certainly." He tapped the hilt once with a claw. "But I've never heard of this Ser Arlan of Brzozowa Polana. You were his squire, you say?"
Dym nodded. "He raised me to be a knight one day."
A memory surfaced, unbidden.
Am I to be a knight one day, ser? As you are?
It will take time, Ser Arlan had said, voice calm, certain. We need to temper your emotions, but aye.
Dym swallowed and continued. "When he was dying… he called for his longsword. Bade me kneel."
The master of the games glanced up briefly, then back down—his attention flickering as a small insect buzzed annoyingly near his bowl. With a quick, practiced motion, he snapped his fingers shut around it, impressing Soap.
Dym picked up the sword again, fingers tightening around the grip.
"He charged me to be a good knight," Dym said, voice steadier now. "To defend the weak and the innocent."
He slid the blade back into its scabbard with a soft, final sound.
"To serve the realm with all my might," he finished. "And I swore that I would—"
The master of the games snorted, hocking loudly before grabbing a tankard and spitting into it. Soap scrunched up his face in disgust.
"Any knight can make a knight," the man said easily. "That's true enough." He leaned his cheek into his palm and looked at Dym. "Were there witnesses to your dubbing?"
Dym chuckled nervously. "Only a robin in a thorn tree."
The game master's expression hardened, his tone turning cold. Both Dym and Soap stiffened.
"This is Rudnicka town, lad." He jabbed a finger against the table. "Know what we do here to men who pretend at sacred oaths?"
Dym shook his head, stuttering. "I—I'm not—"
"We hang you naked by your hands and your feet," the game master cut in.
Soap grabbed the back of Dym's cloak, frightened.
"Lower you down arse-first onto a sharpened point and fuck you dry," the man continued flatly. "Call it the Rudnicka chair. So I'll ask you again—were there witnesses to your dubbing besides a fuckin' songbird?"
Dym swallowed. "Well, the—see, it was raining, and—uh…"
The game master leaned forward, then broke into a grin. "I'm bullshitting you."
He laughed and wheezed.
Dym let out a shaky chuckle.
"Rudnicka chair," the man giggled, shaking in his seat. "You take a boot to the head or something? This is central Kazimierz, not the border marshes."
Dym laughed weakly. "Rudnicka chair."
Soap finally exhaled, sagging with relief.
The master of the games leaned back in his chair and eyed Dym again. "Think we're fending off some scourge of cottagers, scuttling about and entering tourneys?" He snorted, hocking loudly. "You'd need coin." He lifted the tankard and spat into it once more. "Armor. Horses. Men. Training, gods be good. Imagine some poor peasant knight charging down Władysław Kamiennego Lwa, of House Kamiennogród, in the lists."
Dym huffed softly. "Mm. That would be…"
"A different sort of entertainment," the game master finished dryly.
"Mm," Dym said. "Well, I'm no farmer."
The game master gestured at him, taking in the worn mail, the plain cloak, the lack of color. "Yet you and your squire've come dressed as one."
Silence stretched.
The man sighed, the edge in him dulling just a little. "Look, lad. My Lord Rudnicki fancies himself of great import. Gods and heavens above know why. That means I'm charged with warding off every landed knight and sellsword who thinks this is their chance to claw their way up." He tapped the table. "There are princes and as you noticed, foreign kings and heirs here. Men and women whose names matter."
Dym's shoulders sagged. "No. Of course." The disappointment sat heavy in his voice, and he noticed the same tight look on Soap's face.
From outside came the distant ring of steel—practice blades striking, a squire yelping, laughter following. Life going on without them.
Dym exhaled and turned. "Come, lad." He gently herded Soap toward the door. Soap looked like he wanted to argue, but he followed.
"Your late master," the master of the games said suddenly.
Both of them stopped and turned back.
"He'll be known to the true knights assembled here?"
Dym hesitated. Faces flickered through his mind—campfires, wine, laughter that turned sour. Most names slipped away. One did not.
"There was a pavilion flying the banner of House Włodarzewicz," Dym said at last.
The game master nodded. "Aye. Ser Aleksandr Włodarzewicz."
Dym inclined his head stiffly. Inside, his blood burned. Ser Arlan served his lord father during the skirmishes against Kazdel. Cheated. Forgotten. Gods I hope he remember us.
"Ah," the game master went on, catching a buzzing insect deftly out of the air. "That incident. An ugly business for us all that is." He flicked the insect aside. "You have my sympathy. If he knows your master by scent alone, bring him to me—before the tourney begins on the morrow. Leave your escort behind."
Dym nodded. "As you say." Swatting at a buzzing shape i his neck.
"Oh," the man added casually, "you are aware that those vanquished forfeit their arms, armor, and horse to the victor, and must ransom them back?"
"Aye," Dym said.
"And you have coin for such ransom?"
Dym winced. "Oh, gods, no. I—I mean—"
"We can manage it, my lord," Soap said quickly, straightening.
The game master raised a brow, amused, then waved them off. "See that you do."
They nodded and turned for the door.
Soap opened his mouth, about to say something—maybe a warning, maybe a reminder—but Dym was already stepping through.
There was a dull, solid thock.
Dym's head met the upper beam again.
He froze, then slowly lifted a hand to rub at his skull, teeth bared as pain bloomed. "Gods fucking—!"