They trekked away from the noise and color of the tourney grounds, following a dirt track that thinned into trampled grass. The din of steel and laughter faded behind them, replaced by birdsong and the steady hush of running water. Before long, the land dipped gently, and a narrow river revealed itself—clear enough to see stones glittering beneath the surface.
Near its bend stood a young oak. Not tall, but thick at the trunk, its branches spreading wide and low, leaves dense enough to shelter a small company from an ill-timed rain.
Dym slowed, taking it in. A smile tugged at his mouth.
"This'll do."
Soap nodded, relief evident as he easily swung down from Swift. "Aye. Close enough to town—and close to the water source."
He took Swift's reins along with Chestnut's and led them toward the oak. Dym brought Thunder alongside, and together they tied the horses off, checking knots twice. Soap worked carefully, mimicking the way Dym's hands moved, tightening and testing until the lines sat right.
As he finished, Soap hesitated. "Ser... when I'm of age, will you—" He swallowed. "Will you train me like those Jabłoński? Like what Ser Stefan did to Rajmund?"
Dym didn't answer at once.
He straightened, hands resting on the oak's rough bark, eyes unfocused. The memory came unbidden: Rajmund sprawled in the dirt, the sound of a slap ringing sharper than steel. Cruelty, plain and simple. Then another memory layered over it—Ser Arlan, standing square before him years ago, his firm commands, hard but measured blows. Bruises he earned, not taken. Lessons that did hurt, but never done to humiliate him.
Dym's gaze drifted to Soap— The boy is still too light in the shoulders still, limbs skinny and unfilled, strong for his age but not strong enough yet. He weighed it honestly.
"We'll see," he said at last. "I don't yet know how big you'll grow, nor how strong you'll be compared to now. You're strong, aye—but you're not ready for any melee training with me. Not yet."
Soap listened closely.
"In four or five years," Dym went on, "I'll teach you the basics. But I'll need to judge you first—your temper, your focus. How hard I train you will depend on that."
"I see," Soap said quietly.
Dym clapped a reassuring hand to his shoulder. "But know this—I won't teach you the way Stefan teaches Rajmund. Unless you truly deserve it."
Soap snickered, tension easing, and finished tying the reins. He moved to the saddlebags, unloading bedrolls and laying them out beneath the oak. The food came next—wrapped fish, cuts of meat from the day before. The smell had turned... faintly sour.
"Ser," Soap asked, wrinkling his nose, "are these still good?"
Dym picked up a fish. It was slick with slime. He sniffed, grimaced, then nodded. "Still good. But we eat everything that isn't dried meat. Today."
He dropped the bundle of firewood he'd gathered and gestured toward the river. "Come. Help me clean these before we cook them."
Together, they carried the fish and meat down to the water's edge, the river murmuring softly as it welcomed them.
Dym knelt by the riverbank and drew his knife. "Watch," he said, calm and patient. He showed Soap where to cut, shallow and careful, opening the fish's belly without nicking the bitter parts. He worked two fingers in, scooping the slick innards free, letting the current take them. Insects buzzed thick around the smell, and Dym flicked them away with the back of his hand, unfazed.
Soap tried next. His first cut went too deep.
"Easy," Dym murmured, adjusting Soap's wrist. "Let the blade do the work."
They cleaned the meat after—rinsing blood away, scraping sinew, the river turning faintly pink before running clear again. By the time they carried everything back, Soap's hands were steady, his movements surer.
At camp, Dym set stones for a small hearth while Soap skewered the fish and meat, laying them over the fire as Dym showed him how to space them so they cooked evenly. The smoke curled up into the oak's leaves.
When the fire settled into a good bed of coals, Dym stripped and stepped into the river. The water was cold enough to bite. Behind the oak, Soap kept busy out of sight—Dym noticed, but he waved it off. A child's embarrassment, nothing more. He'll get used to it when he's older.
Clean again, Dym hauled his clothes to a patch of mint and lavender. He beat the fabric against the bushes, hard and thoroughly. He sniffed, recoiled. "Oh fuck." Still stank. He beat them again, leaves bruising, scent rising green and sharp, until it was... tolerable.
By evenfall, the sky burned orange and violet. They ate by the fire, quiet and content, grease and salt on their fingers.
Dym wiped his hands and stood. "Well. It's evenfall. I should be the one going as planned." He pressed his dagger into Soap's palm. "I'll need the sword and shield to be known. Keep watch."
Soap nodded, serious. "Please keep your head cool, Ser..."
"I know," Dym said softly. "I won't be like with the Jabłoński. I know." He hesitated, then smiled thinly. "If all goes well, I'll be back soon. If not—sooner. I'll see if the vendors have food and stuffs for our fast tomorrow morn."
He mounted Thunder and leaned down. "Bury Ser Don's gift under the bedrolls. That's our savings. Safeguard it. It is our duty now."
Soap yawned. "Aye, Ser."
"And nap after, if you must."
"Aye."
Dym nudged Thunder forward. "Wish me luck. Keep watch."
The horse moved off, hooves galloping quietly on the grass, carrying him back toward the lights of Rudnicka Vale.
Dym rode on as the light thinned and softened, the sun sinking low enough that the air itself seemed to cool with it. One by one, braziers were lit along the paths and near the lists—iron bowls blooming into fire. Torches flared in the hands of guards as they took up evening watch, their silhouettes stretching long across the trampled grass.
Rudnicka Vale did not grow quiet with the arrival of dusk. If anything, it grew louder.
The market still hummed—vendors hawking late wares, laughter spilling from tented taverns where benches had been dragged outside, mugs clanking, voices raised in song. Smiths still worked their forges, sparks bursting into the dark like fireflies as armor plates rang under hammer blows. Dym passed them at a steady pace, Thunder's hooves unbothered by the noise, the smells of smoke, sweat, oil, and ale blending into a familiar haze.
As he neared the Włodarzewicz pavilion, his shoulders tightened.
Outside, behind a rough wooden table, sat the same curly-haired prostitute. A pantless man stood awkwardly before her as she finished stitching his trousers, needle flashing quick and practiced. She tied off the thread, handed the pants back, and the man snatched them up, muttering thanks as he scurried off.
She looked up then and spotted Dym.
"He's napping still," she said lightly.
"Still?" Dym blurted, genuinely taken aback.
"Mmm." She gathered her sewing tools, unbothered. "On account of his gouty toes. One of life's absurd little miseries, to be sure." She rose and started walking toward the tent.
Dym exhaled through his nose and followed, frustration creeping up his spine.
"Makes for restless nights," she added over her shoulder with a grin. "The poor dear."
At the tent flap, Dym stopped. He drew in a breath, forced his jaw to unclench, reminded himself—control. Then he ducked inside.
"Right. Absolutely. It's just…" He trailed off, then pushed on. "It is of some urgency that I speak with him. I mean to enter the lists on the morrow, and—"
He froze.
Inside, the other woman—the red-haired Cautus—was carefully wrapping what appeared to be a dead Cautus girl in cloth. Her skin was pale, eyes closed, clay-painted lids giving the illusion of stillness, of death.
"What's… this?" The red-haired feline asked.
The curly-haired cautus poured water into a cup. "It means the joust."
Her friend snorted softly. "Awful dangerous, that."
"Yes, well—" Dym gestured helplessly. "I'm not troubled with a wealth of options, am I? And if I mean to take service in a castle—"
"It must put its body at hazard," the Feline finished serenely, "for the pleasure of strangers."
The "corpse" suddenly opened her eyes. "Ain't that our job?"
Dym sucked in a sharp breath.
"Ah! Shut up!" The Cautus tending her snapped, then laughed, cupping the girl's face. "You're meant to be dead."
The girl rolled her eyes. "Hard life," she muttered, settling back as the cloth was pulled up again.
Dym stood there, stunned, the words he'd prepared scattered completely—left blinking in the dim firelight of a tent that smelled of smoke, sweat, and the strange, bitter humor of survival in the world they lived in.
The curly-haired Cautus shrugged easily. "Find a safer trade, lad. You'll be happier for it."
Her red-haired Feline friend grinned and added, almost kindly, "One whore to another."
They laughed together.
But Dym... did not.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding as heat flared in his chest. "Must you mock me?" he growled. "I was only asking for a bit of help." He straightened, pride bristling. "I'll try Ser Aleksandr back in the morn."
The girls' laughter died.
The red-haired prostitute sighed, rubbing at her brow. "Sorry, lad. We didn't mean it like that."
"Aye," the curly-haired one agreed, softer now. "We don't mean to mock you."
The Feline nodded toward him. "We see plenty of green boys like you every tourney we went on."
The girl laid out like a corpse chimed in without opening her eyes. "Mm. All with glory in their minds, but never in their hands." She shifted under the cloth. "When they lose, some turn to banditry. Some beg in the streets. Believe me—they're pitiful when you see one, and I was a beggar before I got employed."
"Aye," the curly-haired Cautus said. "Some die quietly. Some loudly by causing problems. Some lucky ones find a lord to serve. Most don't."
She leaned back against a post, studying Dym. "You know, folk think what we do is all the same. It isn't. There are grades to it. Good houses, bad streets. Some of us grow old with coins and scars. Some of us don't grow old at all."
The Feline picked up the thread easily. "Knights aren't so different. Tourney knights, hedge knights, sworn men. Some rise. Some fall. Some end up broken and forgotten."
Dym bristled. "It's different."
The curly-haired one raised a brow. "Is it?"
Dym hesitated, then nodded stiffly.
"Both are jobs, yea?" she said.
Reluctantly, he nodded again.
"And each job," she went on, "whatever it is, got its own risks. Its own endings. Some bright. Some ugly." She gave him a look that wasn't unkind. "You just don't see yours yet. Not clearly."
The tent fell quiet, firelight flickering over cloth and skin and the hard truth hanging between them—heavy, but an honest one.
The red-haired Feline tilted her head, voice lowering. "You're still young, ser knight. Think things through first, yea?" Her eyes flicked toward the tent flap, as if she could see beyond it. "And your squire's but a child. You want to orphan him when you lose?"
Dym shook his head at once. "N–no. I…" The words tangled in his mouth.
One of them went on, more serious now. "It hurts, you know. When you lose your flower." She made a vague gesture with her hand, and some half-formed image flickered through Dym's mind—something he didn't fully understand and wished he didn't have to if he did. "At first, there's the rush. Feels good. Euphoric, even."
She leaned closer. "But when you make one mistake. The pain and wounds will lasts. It festers and left a mark. And in jousts like these?" She shook her head. "It's a matter of when, not if."
"Aye," another chimed in. "Green boys like you fall on the first tilt more often than not."
"And tomorrow," the red-haired one added, "there'll be many foreign knights, lords from half the world over. Men with gold, training, and armor fit for kings." She snorted softly. "The odds are fucked against hedge knights like you."
Dym fell silent.
For a long moment he said nothing, staring at the packed earth beneath his boots. Ser Don's voice surfaced in his thoughts. A knight knows the risks before he rides. Courage isn't blindness. He thought of Soap by the river, of Thunder's steady breath, of the long road that had brought him here.
At last, he lifted his head and nodded once. "Well," he said quietly, "perhaps I will be different."
The red-haired Feline studied him, then smiled—not mocking this time. "If that's your answer…" She shrugged. "Be good to your body, knight. Last one you're like to have."
She and the others turned back to their work, arranging cloth and limbs as they resumed their mock funeral, murmuring and adjusting the "corpse" with practiced ease.
Dym lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes drifting to the woman laid out on the ground, painted eyes staring nowhere. He swallowed, then inclined his head. "Thank you," he said.
And with that, he turned and left the tent.
And walked.
No aim to it—just boots on trampled earth, He left Thunder behind in a stable nearby, the town swallowing him whole. The day bled into night without him noticing. Braziers flared brighter, torches multiplied, laughter grew looser, louder. Music drifted in uneven waves. Somewhere, someone was already drunk enough to sing badly and proudly.
He should have felt lighter. Instead, his thoughts crowded in.
Soap's face.Ser Don's voice.The women in the tent.The tilt. The fall. The when, not if.
He passed knots of knights boasting over cups, merchants counting coin, couples disappearing between tents with hands already tangled. Everyone seemed so certain of where they were going—even if it was only to the next drink.
Dym stopped, exhaled hard, and finally gave in.
The tavern was little more than a wide tent with trestle tables and a roaring firepit, but the ale was cold and cheap. He bought a mug, then another coin slid across for a coil of sausage, greasy and split. He drank deeply. The bitterness burned his throat, dulled the edge of his thoughts—only a little. He ate as he walked, grease on his fingers, the night air cool on his face.
He tried to enjoy it. Truly.
But the weight in his chest stayed.
Then, drifting over the noise, came a woman's voice—clear, strong, carrying a rhythm that cut cleanly through the din.
"Our brave hero forges on,Leaving all he knows behind."
Dym slowed.
"A father and a friend,May seem the world unkind."
He turned, following the sound. It came from a larger tent, canvas painted with crude stars and suns, light spilling out from within. People were gathering there—laughing, nudging one another, cups in hand.
Curiously, Dym shuffled closer with the others and ducked inside.
The first thing he saw made him blink.
A dragon.
Well—a dragon. A great thing of painted cloth and leather, jaws snapping, wings flexing. When he squinted, he caught the truth of it: figures dressed in black, half-hidden, poles and rods guiding the creature's movements. Cleverly done. Enough to fool the eye if you didn't look too hard.
The crowd cheered anyway.
Then Dym's gaze slid to the side.
And his heart stuttered.
Standing near the dragon's flank was an Elafian woman, tall—nearly his height—her light chestnut hair flowing loose over her shoulders. Firelight kissed her fair skin, warmed it. Her eyes, a gentle brown, were alive with mischief and warmth as she sang, moving with the rhythm of the tale.
The heaviness that had clung to him all evening… loosened.
Fluttered.
"Fate has set his lonely pathThrough corridors of chance."
"A boy from nothing risks it all,Ignoring looks askance."
The crowd leaned in, rapt. Children sat wide-eyed on the ground. Knights grinned into their cups.
Dym barely noticed any of them.
"Perhaps he's only stupid—"
Her voice lifted on the word, playful, teasing, and the tent rang with laughter and applause as the dragon reared back, wings beating.
Dym stood very still, ale forgotten at his hand, watching her as if the rest of the world had, for a moment, decided to leave him in peace.
From the side of the stage, an actor dressed as a knight whooshed into view with all the restraint of a thrown firework.
He wore, in Dym's honest opinion, the most ridiculous armor he had ever laid eyes on—plates painted in bright blues and reds, a plume like a rooster's crest bobbing atop his helm. In one hand he brandished a sword, in the other a polished mirror shield that caught the firelight and flung it back at the crowd.
Laughter rippled through the tent.
The Elafian woman stepped forward as if she had summoned him, her voice rising again, smooth and sure, as she paced the stage.
"…holding fast his mirror shield.
Great honor his ambition, must keep a truth concealed.
For if his humble shape is bared, a foul and fiery demise—
Should the dragon discover none but a man in great disguise."
On cue, the dragon shrieked.
Its great cloth jaws yawned wide, and fire burst forth—real flame, hot and bright, washing the stage in orange light. The audience gasped as one, Dym among them, his breath catching despite himself. Then the cheers came, loud and thunderous, applause pounding the air as the dragon recoiled and the gaudy knight struck a heroic pose behind his shining shield.
The Elafian woman laughed softly, brushing a lock of hair back as the noise swelled. She bowed, deep and graceful, accepting the praise.
And in that moment—brief as a heartbeat—her eyes found his.
Just him.
Dym felt it then, sharp and sudden. His heart began to race, faster than it ever had in the lists, faster than when he had ridden at Ser Arlan's side with lance in hand and blood singing in his ears. This was different. Unsteady. Bright.
He smiled before he could stop himself.
For a fraction of a second, it seemed she smiled back—small, knowing, as if she had seen him too, not as a knight or a stranger, but simply as a man standing in the crowd.
Heat rushed to his face. Abruptly embarrassed, Dym turned and edged toward the tent's exit, muttering an apology to no one as he slipped past shoulders and cups. Just before he ducked out, he glanced back once more.
She was already turning to the next part of the play, voice lifting again, light and fearless.
Dym stepped into the night.
The sounds of the town washed over him once more—music, laughter, crackling fire—but they no longer pressed so heavily on his chest. His steps felt easier. His thoughts, quieter. Peaceful.
For the first time that day, his heart felt lighter.