Back outside, the noise of the tourney grounds rolled back over them—hooves on packed earth, hawkers calling, steel ringing somewhere beyond the tents. Dym and Soap had already reclaimed their horses, and by some small mercy, nothing was missing. Saddlebags still tied. Bedrolls untouched. Ser Don's gifted bag of coins is still hidden where it ought to be.
Dym walked with one hand pressed to his forehead, nursing the swelling beneath his fingers.
Soap glanced up at him. "You… you well, Ser?"
"Aye," Dym said at once, a little too quickly. "I'm fine." He exhaled through his nose.
They walked a few more steps before Dym sighed. "Well. Seems we'll have to change our tasks."
Soap nodded and looked up at him.
"First, we need to find Ser Aleksandr Włodarzewicz," Dym went on, voice grounded, almost seething. "I saw his pavilion earlier—his banner was flying clear enough. We're not lost, at least." His jaw tightened. "If he remembers Ser Arlan, he can vouch for me. Then we're done with this mess and find a good camping ground as soon as possible."
Soap nodded, then hesitated. He watched Dym's back, the way his shoulders sat just a touch too rigid.
"Ser," he said carefully, "are you… really well? Not about your thick head, mind you."
Dym stopped and turned, incredulous. "Why wouldn't I be?" he snapped, then caught himself. "Enough of that. Stop whatever nonsense you're thinking and let's go."
Soap didn't move.
"Ser," he said again, quieter now, "you don't have to. Not if you don't want to face his House again."
That did it.
Dym halted fully and turned to the boy. Soap swallowed, then pressed on.
"You already told us—me and Ser Don—about your years with Ser Arlan. About what House Włodarzewicz did. How they cheated you. Cheated him." Soap's voice wavered, but he held it together. "I know it left a deep scar on you, Ser. You don't have to do this."
The retort rose sharp and ready—
—and died in Dym's throat.
He looked past Soap, toward the distant pavilion where Włodarzewicz colors stirred in the breeze, and recalled what Ser Don had told him, "You don't need to be perfect to be a mentor. God knows none of us are, even I am not a good mentor for you. What you need is honesty—about your limits, your mistakes, and your intent."
I am to be his example.
Every mistake I make, he'll learn twice as fast.
Every kindness I show, he'll remember longer than I expect.
Remember my experiences with Ser Arlan, and learn to not make the same mistakes he did.
He looked back down at his squire and let out a long breath.
"And what," he asked quietly, "would you have me do?"
He gave a humorless chuckle. "I'm a knight with no acknowledgment, lad. No one knows me." He shook his head. "If I walk away now, everything we've done—everything Ser Arlan gave me—everything Ser Don taught us—means nothing."
Soap shook his head fiercely. "No, Ser. Remember what Ser Don said? We could go to the Leithanien pavilion. Find this Lord Fremont, and ask for his help."
Dym considered it, truly considered it—then slowly shook his head.
"That's... that would be our last resort," he said. "We're no one, Soap. Even if we use Ser Don's name, I doubt it would end any differently than back there." He jerked his chin toward the master of games' building behind them. "And he's a foreign lord. I don't fancy our chances be any different than what we had."
His gaze drifted back to the Włodarzewicz pavilion.
"First," Dym said, steadying himself, "we should try our luck with our own nobles. A Kazimierzan one." His mouth tightened. "I'll swallow my pride if it means standing before that bastard's house again."
He looked down at Soap, forcing something like reassurance into his voice.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll… try to keep my head levelled."
"Try."
Dym gave a small tilt of his head toward the pavilion. "Now come on," he said. "Let's finish this sooner than later."
He led the horses toward a nearby wooden rail—rough-hewn posts set in the earth, reins looped and knotted all along it. The place smelled of hay, sweat, and old leather. Dym slowed and showed Soap how to wrap the reins properly, twice around the beam, then back through, snug but not biting.
"Like this," he said, demonstrating. "Enough slack so they don't panic, but tight enough they don't wander."
Soap nodded, brows knit in concentration, and copied him with the other two horses. It took him a moment, but he managed it, tugging to be sure the knots would hold.
Dym brought his hands together in a sharp clap, brushing them against each other to knock off dirt and grime, then reached up to pat the white mare's neck.
"Thunder," he murmured, low and fond. "We won't be long. Be a good girl, hm? Don't cause trouble." He glanced at the other horses. "Mind those two as well."
The mare flicked an ear, unbothered.
Dym turned toward the pavilion and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, more for himself than for show.I can do this. Keep a clear head. Be an example for my squire.
Soap came back to his side. "Finished tying Swift and Chestnut, Ser."
Dym nodded. "Good." He drew a breath, then let it out slowly. "Let's go."
They crossed the short stretch of ground toward the pavilion. Around them, the tourney grounds buzzed with life—folk milling about, laughing, eating from trenchers, cups raised, voices loud and careless. It all felt too easy, too light, for the weight sitting in Dym's chest.
As they reached the entrance, the pavilion flaps burst outward and two men staggered into the open—one Perro, one Vulpo, both reeking of drink. They laughed at nothing, nearly colliding with Dym as they lurched past.
Dym knew at once they were no Włodarzewicz. Last he remembered, the house was ruled by Kurantas like himself.
"Uh—pardon, sers," Dym said, raising his voice just enough. "I… I need to speak with Ser Włodarze—."
They didn't even slow. The Vulpo shoved past him, shoulder-first, and staggered on, gagging as if he might retch at any moment.
Soap frowned after them.
Before either of them could try again, a woman's voice drifted out from within the pavilion. "He's napping, ser. Wake him for a stag."
They turned.
A curly-haired Feline woman stood there, scantily dressed, walking out of the pavilion. Dym's nose wrinkled; the look of her told him enough.
"I—uh…" Dym cleared his throat. "I don't—"
"We don't have a stag," Soap cut in quickly.
The woman snorted. "What kind of knight don't got a stag?"
Before either of them could answer, another voice chimed in from behind her, amused and sharp.
"It's a hedge knight, ain't it?"
The woman turned her head toward her companion, a red-haired Cautus lounging against on a cart, nursing a cup of wine.
"A what?" the curly-haired Feline asked.
The Cautus leaned back, smirking. "It's like a knight," she said, lazy and amused, "but sadder."
Dym shook his head at once. "No, I'm— I'm not sad—"
"He's gotta sleep in the hedges," the red-haired one went on, unfazed, "'cause no lord'll have him."
"Aw," the Feline said, suddenly sympathetic. "That is sad." She squinted at Soap. "And Ser Manfred's fucked his wife too. That your kid or his?"
"No," Dym blurted. "I— I don't have a wife." He put a steadying hand on Soap's back. "He's my squire."
"Oh!" The Feline laughed. "'Cause we're used to husbands coming 'round."
She jerked her thumb back toward the Włodarzewicz pavilion. "Likes fucking wives, that one."
"Near as much as he likes fucking us," she added cheerfully.
The red-haired Cautus snorted. "Told me he's on a mission to turn the whole world red."
"Well," the Feline replied, looking down at herself, "we're already red."
"So we are."
They both burst out laughing. Soap frowned harder.
Dym cleared his throat again. "Well. Um. When do you expect Ser Manfred to wake, then?"
"Try back at evenfall," the red-haired Cautus said.
Dym nodded. "Evenfall." He glanced up at the sky, gauging the light, then looked back down and stood there a beat too long, awkward and uncertain.
"Goodbye," one of the women said, voice suddenly sultry.
"Yeah," Dym said. "Goodbye."
He turned and started walking—then froze, turned again, and walked the opposite way, realizing a bit late that this was not the direction of the horses, nor Soap. for his squire was behind him, not ahead.
"Dupa," Dym muttered.
Behind them, the two prostitutes laughed again, low, but merciless, as Dym's ears burned red.
As he returned to the horses, Soap was in the middle of untying Thunder's reins from the stockade when the tall knight arrived.
"Well… that went well," Soap muttered, handing the reins over.
Dym took them with a sigh. "We just need to wait until evenfall…" He tried to sound optimistic, then added, "So—do you want to look around the town first, or find a place to camp?" he asked his squire.
Soap was quiet for a moment, his face scrunching as he thought. Then he said, "Let's find a camp area first, Ser. You could leave me with the horses while I prepare camp and do my duties. I think I'm a bit tired from our journey here…" He hesitated, then added, "You should rest too—and make yourself presentable before going back to find Ser Włodarzewicz."
Dym considered it. The boy wasn't wrong. They needed somewhere to leave the horses without paying coin, and hide it. And it was good practice—proper squiring, living outdoors, just as they had these past five days with Ser Don.
He nodded. "Aye. We should find a place to camp and… cool our heads first."
Soap nodded and tried to climb onto Swift, one of Dym's horses. Dym reflexively helped, lifting him by the armpits. Soap yelped in surprise.
"Don't do that!" the boy shouted, his ears turning red, his dirty-blond tail stiffening and swishing frantically.
Dym frowned. "Do what? I've been helping you up Swift since we began our journey, boy."
Soap muttered, embarrassed, "Just… warn me first, Ser. It's… ticklish."
Dym snorted. "Aye, aye. I'll warn you next time."
He tied Chestnut to Swift and Thunder, then took Thunder's reins and guided all three horses down the road, passing rows of noble tents and pavilions. Along the way, they passed an open stretch where knights of many banners and colors trained in their gear, sparring with their squires amid the clang of steel.
As they walked, Dym muttered to Thunder, "Why'd she say that, huh? We're not sad."
The horse neighed in reply.
Soap, who had heard him, said, "Don't listen to her, Ser. She's not wrong—but we're not sad. Well… not sad like commoners sad."
Dym huffed. "Yeah. Besides, Ser Arlan always said a hedge knight was the truest kind of knight. When we win our first tilt, we'll have the loser's armor and horse—or his gold."
Thunder neighed again.
"Well, we won't be sad then, just you watch" Dym finished.
Soap smiled at that.
Dym sighed. "Don't worry. We will win. If we do win," he added quickly. "Look, it's not a crime against the king to enjoy a pleasant thought for a trice."
Nearby, both of them turned as a growing, aggressive grunt cut through the air.
A large, red-haired Kuranta knight—not as large as Dym—was training with his darker, brown-haired squire. Their tabards bore the sigil of an apple—bright and unmistakable. The larger knight, bearded and broad, fought viciously, striking his younger squire again and again without restraint.
Soap frowned. "They're from House Jabłoński, Ser," he said quietly.
"Huh, Apple-men." Dym thought.
The knight roared as he kicked his squire hard into the fence. Wood cracked and splintered as the railing gave way, and the boy crashed to the ground.
"Do not muck about with me, Rajmund!" the Jabłoński knight bellowed.
Rajmund rolled in the dirt, groaning as he tried to rise.
"You're a good-for-nothing, useless rat," the knight snarled, pointing his dulled sword at the squire's back.
Gritting his teeth, Rajmund grabbed his fallen weapon and struck back, knocking the knight's blade aside. For a heartbeat, he pressed the attack—but the knight had already anticipated it. He stepped back two paces, bound Rajmund's blade with his own, then wrenched the weapon free and hurled it away.
The slap came next.
It cracked across Rajmund's face so hard the boy crumpled to the ground.
Rajmund tried to rise.
Another slap sent him sprawling again, but this time he rolled onto his side, coughing and spitting dirt, one hand clawing at the ground as he struggled to push himself up. His body shook with the effort, stubborn and trembling, refusing to stay down even as the knight loomed over him.
After slapping his squire down, the Jabłoński knight finally noticed Dym and Soap gawking at him. He straightened, scowling, and growled out,
"What are you staring at, you bald and blue-eyed cunts? That a longsword you're wearing?"
Caught off guard, Dym stuttered, "Uh—yes. It is. Mine by right."
The knight blinked, then frowned. "That's an odd thing to say." He puffed his chest. "I'm Ser Stefan Jabłoński." He sneered. "Come try me. As you can see, me cousin here isn't ripe yet."
Rajmund forced himself upright and spat dirt from his mouth. "Do it, ser," he said hoarsely. "I may not be ripe, but my cousin's rotten to the core. Knock the seeds out of him."
"Quiet!" Stefan snapped.
Dym shifted his grip on Thunder's reins and nodded awkwardly. "I… I thank you, but I have matters to attend to."
Ser Stefan snorted. "What, hedge matters? I've no doubt." He laughed, joined by a few nearby knights. "Fucking size of you."
Dym's vision darkened at the edges. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, the world dull and distant, words reaching him as echoes. He clenched his jaw, repeating Ser Don's lessons like a prayer.
Control. Control yourself.
"Stupid bastard," Stefan muttered as he turned away.
For a heartbeat, Dym nearly snapped—imagined steel flashing, imagined striking him down. But he stayed rooted.
Rajmund glanced back once, shame in his eyes, silently mouthing an apology before hurrying after his knight. Dym heard Stefan barking for someone—"Ser Grance!"
As the men of House Jabłoński disappeared, the world slowly returned to Dym. Sound sharpened to his ears. Colors came back to his visions.
Soap noticed none of it—only that his master stood stiff as a post, knuckles white around Thunder's reins, leather creaking faintly under the strain.
"Ser?" Soap asked quietly. "Ser Dymitr… are you well?"
Dym exhaled and loosened his grip. Calm, carefully measured, he said, "Perhaps we should seek quieter accommodations."
Thunder and the other two snorted in agreement.
Soap nodded. "Aye..."