Outside, amid the chattering crowd and the constant flow of bodies brushing past one another, Dym finished his ale and set the empty mug atop a nearby barrel. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and exhaled through his nose. Enough for one day.
The market still hummed with life—lanterns glowing, vendors calling out late wares, laughter spilling from tented taverns—but Dym felt the weight of the day pressing at his shoulders again. He turned his steps toward the market lanes that would lead him back out of town, back to the riverbank where his squire waited. He had had enough of pride, of warnings, of strangers peering into his future as if it were theirs to weigh. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
"Halfman! Halfman!"
The voice came sharp from his left.
Dym kept walking.
It wasn't the first time someone had shouted something foolish after him, and he had no wish to invite more of it. But the call came again, closer this time, breathless.
"Halfman!"
His jaw tightened. Curiosity gnawed despite his better sense, and he finally turned his head.
A familiar square faced Kuranta pushed through the crowd toward him—broad-cheeked, dark-eyed, unmistakable. Rajmund Jabłoński. The squire closed the distance with long, hurried strides.
Dym turned forward again and resumed walking, but Rajmund matched his pace at once, crowding his side.
"Halfman," Rajmund said again.
Irritation flared hot and fast. Dym stopped so suddenly Rajmund nearly walked into him.
"Halfman?" Dym said, looking down at him. "Do I look like a half man to you?"
Rajmund blinked, then gestured openly at Dym's frame. "Aye. Half man, half giant. For a Kuranta like me—and everyone else—you're huge, man."
Dym's mouth thinned. He turned away and started walking again. He'd heard it all his life. Giant. Freak. Half this, half that. He had no patience left for it tonight.
"Wait," Rajmund said quickly. "Look— I'm sorry."
Dym slowed despite himself, then stopped.
Rajmund scratched at the back of his neck, gaze dropping. "I shouldn't have urged you to try my cousin. That was wrong of me."
Dym's hand slid to the pommel of his sword, thumb resting there out of habit rather than threat. He started forward again.
Rajmund followed, keeping pace. "He'd have broken your hand—or a knee—if he could," Rajmund went on quietly. "He likes to batter men in the yard. Says it's best to break them there, in case he meets them again in the lists."
Dym said nothing, boots striking the packed earth in a steady rhythm.
Rajmund glanced at him sideways. "I didn't think he'd take to you so fast. Or so hard."
The crowd thinned a bit as they walked, lantern light flickering across armor and cloth alike. Dym's grip on his sword eased, just a fraction, though his shoulders remained tight.
"Why tell me this?" Dym asked at last, not looking at him.
Rajmund hesitated. "Because I've seen what he does to men who don't deserve it." He swallowed. "And because… You didn't take the bait, where most would have."
Dym exhaled slowly through his nose. The river, the camp, Soap's quiet diligence—all of it felt very far away.
"Well," Dym said at last, voice low, "then I suppose I should thank you."
Rajmund gave a small, crooked smile. "Aye. I suppose you should."
They walked on together, lantern light stretching their shadows long across the packed earth.
"He did not break you," Dym said at last.
Rajmund scoffed softly. "I'm his blood. Though he's the senior branch of the apple tree—which he never ceases to remind me."
Dym glanced at him. "Will you and your cousin ride in the tourney?"
"He will," Rajmund replied at once. "I would that I could, but I'm only a squire."
Dym stopped in his tracks
"So am I," Rajmund added, puzzled by the halt.
Dym turned fully to him, measuring him anew—his stance, his shoulders, the way he carried himself. The memory surfaced unbidden: Rajmund standing his ground in the yard, striking back despite the odds, before being slapped down into the dirt by his cousin's hand.
"You fought well," Dym said. "For a squire."
Rajmund's face lit with a genuine smile. "Thank you, ser."
They resumed walking. After a moment, Rajmund asked, "You have the look of a challenger. Whose shield do you mean to strike?"
Silence fell between them.
Dym considered the question as they passed beneath a string of lanterns, the glow catching on mail and steel. At last he said, "Makes no difference."
Rajmund laughed. "That's what you're supposed to say."
Dym slowed again, until finally he stopped on a bridge, eyes drifting over the market tents and torchlit faces around them. "Though it makes all the difference in the world."
Rajmund chuckled, accepting that easily enough. "You hungry?"
Dym hesitated.
Soap's face rose in his mind—a tired, earnest boy, keeping watch by the river. The camp. Their belongings. If he accepted, Soap would have to wait longer. If he refused… it might be taken as a slight, however small, to a noble house of Kazimierz.
Ser Don's voice echoed in memory, something about:Tourneys are not just about the lists and jousts. They are a social event. There would feasts, gossips, dances, and more. You would make friends and enemies alike when you're in one, so best be in your good behaviours.
If anything, Rajmund's more likeable than his cousin.
Dym nodded. "Always."
Rajmund grinned. "Good. I know a place. You'll like it."
As they turned toward the brighter lanes of the market, Dym felt the faintest tug of guilt settle in his chest—leaving his squire behind, even for a little while. But he followed all the same, reminding himself that this, too, was part of the road he had chosen.
As they walked, Rajmund led the way toward the pavilion grounds, where the noise swelled into something almost alive—laughter, music, clashing cups, the thrum of voices layered thick as smoke. Rows of great tents sprawled across the field like bright, boastful beasts, each staked and roped with pride.
Inside the lanes between them, knights and lords mingled freely. Fine doublets stitched with gold thread and their own sigils brushed past silks and flowing dresses; feathers bobbed, jewels glinted by the light of nearby torches, and every race Dym could think of—and several he could not—moved and drank as though the world were kind and endless.
Dym felt painfully plain among them.
His roughspun tunic and grey cloak still bore some dust from the road, his old vest softened and faded with years of wear. He kept his shoulders straight anyway, though he was keenly aware of every curious glance that slid off him and moved on.
Rajmund stopped before a pavilion that dwarfed the rest.
It was a deep, rich yellow, its canvas taut and proud, emblazoned with a great antlered black lion rearing on its hind legs. The beast's antlers spread wide like a crown, sharp and branching, its claws raised as if ready to trample the world beneath it. Atop the pavilion stood a gilded statue of a lion, polished to a bright shine, catching firelight and moonlight alike—defiant, unbowed, eternal.
Beside it crouched a smaller, darker pavilion. Its cloth was dyed in muted tones—deep blues and charcoals—and marked with foreign sigils and angular motifs that meant nothing to Dym's eye. The lines were unfamiliar, the symbols strange and sharp, like a language carved rather than written.
Rajmund gestured between them. "Here we are. The Kamiennogród pavilion." Then he pointed at the darker tent. "That one's a Leithanien lord's abode."
Dym raised his brow, following his finger.
"Poor old sod came a bit late, I heard," Rajmund went on. "So he's had to make camp among the Kazimierzan knights and nobles. Sadly for him, he ended up right next to what'll be a nightmare for his sleep."
Dym glanced back at the massive yellow pavilion, already spilling music and laughter through its open flaps.
Rajmund grinned. "Come. You'll like it."
Uncertainty crept up Dym's spine. "A–are you sure?" he asked quietly. "I mean… would I be allowed?"
Rajmund waved a hand as if brushing away smoke. "Don't worry, ser. The Kamiennogród welcomes plenty at their feasts. Besides, you're coming with me. I'm sure Ser Władysław won't mind—so long as you don't cause trouble."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice with a conspiratorial grin. "Not to mention, my house is serving the drinks for his feast. So really, just enjoy the party, Dym."
Dym nodded stiffly. "Very well… lead the way."
Rajmund's grin widened. "Come on. You'll like the food." He leads Dym inside.
But Dym had barely taken two steps toward the pavilion entrance when a mailed arm barred his way.
The Kuranta guard stood solid as an oak trunk, helm tucked under one arm, eyes sharp and glinting by the torchlight. His gaze flicked from Dym's face to the sword at his hip and the shield on his back.
Before Dym could speak, Rajmund leaned in easily. "No worries. He's with me."
The guard studied them a heartbeat longer, then nodded. "Very well."
He turned his attention back to Dym. "I'll need you to surrender your weapons and shield first, ser."
Dym stiffened—only for a moment—then nodded. "Of course." He unbuckled his sword and knife from his rope belt, handed over the shield, and finally shrugged out of his cloak. The weight left him all at once, and he felt oddly bare without it.
The guard took everything with practiced care. "No need to worry, ser," he said evenly. "They'll be safe with me and the other guards. You're not the only one who came armed and left it to us. Just enjoy the feast."
Dym dipped his head. "Th–thank you."
Inside the pavilion, sound and warmth crashed over him like a wave.
Crowded did not begin to cover it.
Tables ran the length of the tent, packed shoulder to shoulder with knights, nobles, merchants, and guests whose titles Dym could only guess at. Cups were raised, drinks spilled, laughter roared. Servants wove through the chaos carrying pots of cider and ale, ducking and slipping with astonishing grace.
A band played near the far end—drums pounding, fiddles singing—and somewhere to Dym's left, two men were loudly clashing swords in a mock bout, sparks flashing as steel met steel.
Dym stared, wide-eyed.
And here I had to leave mine with the guards, he thought, a little sour. Must've been a highborn knight.
He shuffled forward awkwardly, trying to find a place to sit, only to realize he'd lost sight of Rajmund entirely. The press of bodies swallowed him whole.
This is entirely different from what Ser Don described about parties… It felt... suffocating...
He swallowed. Just lay low. Cause no trouble.
A faint, helpless huff escaped him. Gods, I don't think his lessons would work here…
He offered stiff smiles and nods to those he passed. Most didn't even notice him.
Then—salvation.
"There you are," Rajmund said cheerfully, appearing at his side with a cup in hand. "Almost lost you, ser. Thank the gods they made you big, even while sitting."
He filled the cup with cider and pressed it into Dym's hand.
Dym glanced down at it, then back up, and nodded awkwardly. "Thank you."
He took a sip just as a booming laugh rolled across the pavilion—deep, thunderous, and warm.
For a heartbeat, it almost sounded like Ser Don.
Dym turned toward the sound, his gaze following the rolling thunder of that laugh. Rajmund noticed at once and leaned closer, nodding in the same direction.
Seated upon a raised dais was an elafian man who looked carved from excess and confidence alike. His face was broad and open, weathered yet handsome in a way that spoke of long years of feasting, fighting, and laughing hard through both. A thick beard framed his mouth, dark with flecks of lighter hair, and his blue eyes—bright and alive—crinkled deeply as he laughed again, slapping the table before him.
From his curly hair rose a great rack of antlers, wide and heavy, branching like an ancient oak's crown. They marked him unmistakably elafian, yet everything else about him felt larger than life. His shoulders were broad, his chest thick, his limbs powerful. Even whilst seated, Dym can tell that the man was taller than most. But even so, he would still have to look up to meet Dym's eyes.
He lounged back in his chair as though the world itself were a comfortable cushion, one boot propped carelessly on a rung, a trench of food and drink spread before him. Around him sat other lords and knights, all leaning in lazily, some with women in their arms.
Rajmund murmured, "That's Ser Władysław Kamiennego Lwa."
He grinned. "They call him many names, but the famous one was the Laughing Catastrophe of Kamiennogród."
Dym studied the man for a long moment, eyes tracing the antlers, the powerful build, the ease with which the entire pavilion seemed to bend around him. Then, quietly, he said, "Thought he'd be bigger."
Rajmund snickered. He set the pitcher down, gave Dym's shoulder a friendly pat, and started off toward another table, already lifting cups and greeting guests as he went—doing his duty for House Jabłoński and its freely flowing apple cider.
Up on the dais, Ser Władysław rose to his feet, one hand lifted for attention. The music faltered. The chatter softened.
He cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice booming out across the pavilion.
"A thousand years ago… A thousand years—"
The rest was swallowed by renewed laughter, clinking cups, and a servant dropping a tray somewhere near the back.
Rajmund was still within sight, weaving through the crowd, when Dym turned sharply and called after him, "Where are you going? Rajmund!"
Władysław continued, his patience thinning.
"…ago… cunts."
He waved both hands in sharp frustration. "I can't hear myself." He raised his voice as a man in a yellow doublet beside him lifted a hand, calling for silence.
"I've had a profound thought," Władysław declared, "if anyone would care to listen."
Slowly, the pavilion quieted. A few tables banged their mugs against the wood, demanding silence from the rest.
Władysław went on, "A thousand years ago, our ancestors gathered in that…" He pointed vaguely toward the outside, then cleared his throat. "…big field out there, to blood each other with sticks and have a little bit of gay fun. And they say it was this country's first-ever joust."
"Well, I say—"
He leaned forward, brow furrowed in sudden seriousness, then stopped.
"Uh… the fuck was I gonna say?" he muttered.
At a table among the guests, Dym, uninterested, poured more ale into his mug.
Then Władysław suddenly barked out, loud and triumphant, "First-ever joust… to raise up and fuck the Khagan and his horde in the arse!"
He grinned broadly. "Ah. Men could not have devised such a joy."
"So," he said, eyes sweeping the hall, "who was it?"
Back at the table, Dym was the only one still sipping his ale, the sound far too loud in the sudden hush. He froze, then slowly lowered the cup, setting it down as carefully as if it might shatter. He glanced around, heat creeping up his neck.
Władysław asked again, louder this time, "Huh? Who was it?"
Silence answered him. A cough here, another there. A chair scraped. Beneath it all, anticipation thickened the air, taut as a drawn bowstring.
Władysław hummed. "Mm."
Then he laughed—deep and booming—as he leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh. "Fuck it."
He leaned forward again, grabbed a leather pouch heavy with coin, and raised it high. "A hundred gold to the man, beast, or god who sticks me best."
He hurled the pouch into the crowd. It struck a nearby table with a dull, satisfying thud.
Cheers erupted at once. Mugs were lifted and slammed down in approval, ale sloshing over rims as laughter and shouts filled the pavilion. The feast roared back to life.
Władysław slapped the table with an open palm, grinning wide. "Now eat your birds, so we can dance!"
The pavilion exploded in approval. Cheers rolled like thunder, mugs crashed against tabletops, and servants surged in from every side carrying enormous platters of roast chicken. The smell alone made the room feel warmer.
One such platter thumped down in front of Dym just as he lifted his ale.
His eyes widened.
The leg closest to him was absurd—easily half the length of his forearm, glistening with fat and herbs. Someone laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, another voice shouting something approving about "feeding the giant right." Dym blinked, then laughed under his breath, giddy despite himself. He picked the thing up, turned it once in his hands as if to make sure it was real, and took his first bite.
Juices ran down his fingers. It was rich, smoky, perfectly salted and spiced.
Gods it was good.
Around him, the feast truly began.
Drums kicked into a faster rhythm, heavy and insistent. Fiddles and strings joined in, wild and bright, the melody looping and rising as guests leapt to their feet. People danced between tables, boots stomping, skirts spinning. Laughter burst out in peals; voices shouted half-remembered lyrics, others just whooped for the joy of it. Somewhere, someone climbed onto a table, shirt gone, hair loose, dancing like they'd forgotten the world existed. Another followed—this one without trousers at all—to raucous applause and rhythmic clapping.
Dym stayed where he was, content. He ate, slow and unhurried, tearing meat from bone, reaching for bread and cheese when it was passed his way. A cup was pressed into his hand, then another. No one questioned him. No one stared for long. He was simply… there.
Later, he took a small jam pastry from a tray and bit into it as he wandered, sweetness bursting on his tongue. He watched the dancers whirl, the musicians sweat, the servants weave through the chaos with ease.
His gaze drifted, almost without his meaning to, toward the raised table.
Władysław lounged there amid his companions, laughing, shouting, pounding time with his cup. For a brief, dangerous moment, his eyes met Dym's.
Dym immediately looked away, suddenly very interested in the roof, in the pastry, in anything else at all. He drifted aside, pretending to study the dancers again.
A moment later, he glanced back.
This time, he caught sight of the massive, grey-bearded caprinae man seated beside Władysław—broad as an ox, horns curling back from his temples. The man noticed him at once and crooked two thick fingers, gesturing unmistakably for Dym to come over.
Trying to be certain the gesture was meant for him, Dym mouthed a silent me? and pointed at his own chest.
The caprinae nodded once, firmly, then curled his fingers again.
Oh Gods and heavens above, what did I do?
Gods damn it, Rajmund! I should've just went back to camp!
Dym started forward, every step heavier than the last. As he walked, Ser Don's voice surfaced in his mind, clear as if spoken beside him: Stand straight. Bow. Speak clearly. Easy lessons—on roads, by campfires, with a hedge knight who laughed too loud and meant no harm.
But this was different.
This was a noble knight of the realm. A stranger. Power in his voice, wealth on his table, with men around him who would laugh if he erred—or worse.
Control, Dym told himself. Just control yourself. It will be fine.
He reached the raised table at last, his height putting him uncomfortably above Władysław and his fellows. He stopped, straightened his back as best he could, and bowed—awkward, but earnest.
The caprinae settled back beside Władysław, folding his massive arms. Dym remained standing, painfully aware of the half-eaten jam pastry still clutched in his hand. He swallowed and held it there anyway, unsure what else to do.
All eyes were on him now.
Music still played. Hands still clapped. But the space around the table felt tight, expectant.
Władysław didn't look up at first. He was turning an ornate knife in his fingers, admiring the etching along the blade, sighing as if bored of the entire world.
"You ever been punched in the face before?" he asked, casually.
Dym blinked. Leaned forward a fraction. "I beg— I beg your pardon, Ser Władysław?"
Władysław didn't look offended. If anything, he seemed amused. He continued turning the knife, voice lazy, yet somehow heavy enough to press down on Dym's chest.
"Big men get punched more than little men," he said. "Did you know that?"
The laughter and music rolled on around them, but for Dym, everything narrowed to the man before him—and the sudden, sinking realization that whatever this was… it was not a question with a right answer.
Dym shook his head, a little too quickly. "N-no, but… but I believe it."
Władysław chuckled. "That why you slouch?" He lifted the knife and waved it lazily in Dym's direction. "So you don't get punched?"
Only then did Dym realize—too late—that he was slouching. Not much, but enough. Enough to be seen. He straightened halfway, then faltered, shaking his head all the same. "I… I don't slouch."
"Oh, you've been cowering all evening like a maiden on her wedding night," Władysław said, laughing. His table joined in, cups thumping, voices roaring.
"I—I meant no disrespect, ser, honest," Dym said quickly. "Where I grew up, you… you learn to go unnoticed, is all."
Władysław gestured with the knife, its edge catching the light. "The heavens above gave you tallness. So, be tall."
There was a pause.
Then the knife lifted again, this time pointing straight at Dym's chest. "Or I will name you a heretic and burn you—" He stopped, frowned. "Drown you." He shook his head. "Drop you off a tall pl… I don't know." He glanced at the men beside him. "W-what do they do to heretics?"
"Burn them, my lord," said the kuranta man calmly.
Dym shuddered. What have I gotten into? His eyes darted briefly through the crowd. Rajmund—
Władysław sighed. "Fine." He let the knife drop; it clattered loudly against the table. Then, as if the matter bored him already, he looked back at Dym and asked, dismissive as a king swatting a fly, "What have you brought me?"
Dym's mind went utterly blank.
Brought him?
Kurwa!
Rajmund! You didn't tell me I need to bring presents!
His mouth opened. Nothing came out. He swallowed hard. "Um… uh, ser, I—" He cleared his throat, heat crawling up his neck. "Beggin' your pardons. I… I didn't realize."
Władysław cut him off. "You wish to curry my favor, some," he said, disappointed. "Yet you come with an empty hand."
He pointed with the knife toward the dance, where a Liberii noble staggered drunkenly atop a table. "Lord Zieliński z Borowa," he sneered. "The smug cunt in green and red…" Laughter and cheers swallowed the name as the man nearly toppled over.
Władysław continued, voice rolling on, "He is scarce to pay his rents. His people starve each winter, yet even he shinied up this—" He lifted the decorated knife again. "—bauble from his family's cellars. For he understands that all men, in their way, wish only for your help, or your head."
He fell silent then.
The music seemed to thin. The clapping dulled. Władysław leaned forward, storm-blue eyes glinting as his tone hardened into something sharp and dangerous. "You've come for my head, then."
Shocked, Dym shook his head rapidly. "W-what? No! No."
Annoyed, Władysław asked, "Then why the kurwa are you in my tent?"
There was a pause.
Dym's mind seized, then spiraled. A dozen answers clawed at him and died halfway to his tongue. Because I was invited. No. Because I wandered in. Worse. Because I thought this was the latrine. Gods above, absolutely not. Ser Arlan ad Ser Don would kill me twice over!
His pulse thudded in his ears. He could feel every eye on him—judging, waiting. Ser Don's lessons tangled uselessly in his head, etiquette warring with instinct, dignity strangled by panic. Say something clever. Say something safe. Say anything.
Then his gaze dropped.
The jam pastry. Still in his hand. Sticky, half-eaten, absurd.
Dym stared at it, swallowed, and thought, Fuck it.
He lifted it slightly, gesturing with the pastry as if it explained everything. "S-Supper."
Silence.
Thick, bewildered silence rolled across the table. Władysław's fellows stared at him as though he'd grown a second head. One of them blinked. Another frowned. Someone coughed.
Then—Władysław laughed.
At first it was just a short, surprised bark, awkward and sharp. Then it softened, cracking into light chuckles. Not mocking him. More like amused. Genuinely so. The others followed, laughter rippling outward as the tension bled away.
"Alright," Władysław said, still chuckling. He dropped the knife again; it clattered harmlessly against the table. "Actually makes sense," he added.
Dym nodded, as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world. "Supper."
Władysław looked up at him. "What is your name, man?"
"Dym… Ser Dym—"
"That's ridiculous," Władysław cut in. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, motioning for Dym to do the same. "Do you like dancing?"
Behind them, the guests began stomping in rhythm, boots pounding the floor as drums took up the beat.
Dym hesitated only a breath. "Doesn't everyone?"