Dym's heart did not so much beat as hammer.
Like hammer beating an anvil.
Kuwa kurwa kurwa.
The curse burst through his mind in a hot, spiraling loop as every lesson he had ever learned about doors, walls, and noble privacy collapsed around him. What in all the Saints' names had possessed him to slip through a servants' passage into a council chamber full of princes and great knights? He could almost hear Ser Arlan's voice—flat, incredulous, disappointed: You went where, lad? And worse still, imagine Ser Don's gentle sorrow: A knight does not creep, Ser Dymitr. Even when desperate.
"Why did you enter the castle? he raged at himself. Why not wait? Why not ask properly? Why not anything but this?"
Because you were tired.
Because six days of refusal had worn your pride thin as old leather.
Because you wanted—just once—to stand before the Silverlances and be seen.
The answer burned.
Craven, he called himself, even as he knew it was not cowardice but hunger that had driven him. Hunger could look the same from the outside.
Inside the chamber, steel shifted.
Someone's chair scraped.
He could not remain hidden now; concealment had already turned to exposure. So Dym drew in a breath that felt far too small for his chest and stepped through into light.
"Um..." He cleared his throat, the sound thick. "My lords."
His boots sounded enormous on the stone.
He moved a pace closer, vision skidding across the figures arrayed before him: Ser Aleksandr Nearl already on his feet and advancing a step toward the entrance, his silver prosthetic hand catching a hard gleam from the tall window; Ser Młynar Nearl still standing by the table in front of Prince George, a few grapes resting loose in his palm as though nothing in the world could hurry him; suprisingly he also saw the Master of the Games too here; stiff-backed behind the board beside the portly Lord of Rudnicka Vale; servants frozen in their tasks; and the hooded Feline woman seated, green eyes fixed on him with the terrible calm of a physician deciding where to cut.
Dym swallowed.
"And Lady," he added, voice roughening as his gaze brushed hers. "I do apologize for my interruption. I, um..."
His eyes flicked, desperate for anchor, and landed on the Master of the Games.
The older Feline man gave a minute, horrified shake of the head—no, don't—a silent plea for restraint, retreat, sense.
Dym saw it.
Ignored it.
If he had already disgraced himself by creeping, then he would at least speak plainly now. Better a fool in daylight than a rat in shadow.
He stepped another pace in, shoulders squaring by habit learned beside Ser Arlan's saddle.
"I have asked Ser Aleksandr Włodarzewicz to vouch for me," he said, forcing steadiness into the words, "so that I might enter the lists. But he has refused to do so."
Silence fell.
Aleksandr Nearl's advance halted outright. The anger that had been coiling in him drained into bafflement; his brows climbed as he looked up from Dym to the others and back again.
"Who?" he said.
The single word hung there, nakedly confused. He glanced around the chamber as if suspecting some elaborate jest. "What the fuck is going on?"
Prince George spread his hands faintly, mouth quirking in equal bewilderment. "Don't look at me," he said. "I also have no idea."
Młynar Nearl rolled a grape between his fingers, studying Dym with a long, measuring calm that made the knight feel as though he stood again before a tournament marshal weighing a horse's soundness. The Master of the Games closed his eyes briefly, as though praying for the floor to open.
At the side, the hooded woman did not move at all.
Her gaze remained locked on Dym—cool, precise, unblinking—as if the chamber, the princes, the confusion, even the Nearl brothers themselves had receded into irrelevant background and only this enormous, dust-streaked hedge knight in borrowed light remained worthy of observation.
"Ser Aleksandr... Włodarzewicz?" she repeated softly, confused.
And Dym, standing alone in the center of too much attention, realized with sinking clarity that whatever happened next would decide far more than whether he entered a tourney list.
Młynar lifted a hand before the rising murmur could harden into alarm. His voice, when it came, carried that unforced authority that quieted rooms without ever seeming to try.
"We are the intruders here, brother. Friends," he said, glancing once toward Aleksandr and then to their host. He turned back to Dym and made a small, inviting motion. "Come closer, ser."
Behind a servant's shoulder, the Lord of Rudnicka Vale bobbed anxiously, sweat already shining along his temples. "I–Is it wise?" he stammered. "He may have been an assassin sent by Kazdel! O–Or by that Phine—"
The hooded woman did not even raise her voice when she cut across him. "Then he is Kazdel's worst assassin that I've ever dealt with," she said, tone cool as winter glass. "And the Sun Knight would have dealt with us all by himself. And come out unscathed. It wn't be his first, nor the last."
A faint ripple of uncomfortable amusement touched Prince George's mouth. Aleksandr snorted once into his cup.
Młynar waved the concern aside as though brushing away a fly and closed the last steps between himself and the towering hedge knight. Up close, the difference in bearing was stark—one man composed like a drawn blade at rest, the other all nerves and road-dust and earnest strain.
"Don't mind them, young man," Młynar said, mild and almost kind. "As you were saying about vouching?"
Aleksandr had already retreated to his seat, reaching for a small bowl of fruits with the air of a man resigned to tedium. He leaned back, silver hand resting against the table's edge, attention only half engaged.
Dym nodded, throat tight. "A–Aye, ser. You see... for the past week I've tried to ask any knights and lords in this tourney to vouch for me and my knighthood." His fingers twitched unconsciously at his sword. "I–I was squire to Ser Arlan of Przozowa Polona. And I was recently knighted by him. But there were no witnesses." The admission scraped. "So I was tasked to find someone who would vouch for me all this time. But so far, all twelve of them say they know not Ser Arlan of Przozowa Polona." His voice thickened with a stubborn hurt he could not quite hide. "But he served them. I swear it. I have his sword and shield."
The Lord of Rudnicka Vale gave a derisive puff. "Sword and shield do not make a knight." He looked to Aleksandr and Prince George for reinforcement. "Mm?"
Neither prince stirred to take the bait. Aleksandr flicked a seed aside from an apple with bored precision; George only watched Dym with that same courteous curiosity.
Dym's shoulders dipped a fraction, but he forced himself on before the silence could swallow him. "I–I almost lost hope for everything," he confessed, words tumbling faster now that they had begun. "And planned on meeting with this Lord Fremont of Leithanien that a travelling companion told me had owed him—said he would help me. But I still held some hope that someone in Kazimierz would know before I went to a foreign one's aid." He swallowed. "So I kept asking. And asking."
"Mm," the portly lord said again, dubious, fingers drumming his sleeve. "Unless you have better proof to support what you say—especially of this Fremont of Leithanien since he is a foreign lord, boy. Some writing or..."
Młynar did not look away from Dym. "You carry his sword," he said quietly. "And his shield?"
Dym straightened a little. "Aye, ser."
"Then show us," Młynar said.
Across the table, the hooded woman's green eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly, as though something in that simple request had shifted the entire balance of the room.
For a heartbeat Dym did not move, as though the simple command had unstrung him more thoroughly than any insult. Then, with a hurried swallow, he fumbled at his shoulder strap and eased Ser Arlan's shield free. The wood came away with a dry rasp of leather and dust, the old paint dulled by weather and travel but still clear enough: a white birch tree with wide-spreading branches, its trunk split by a single straight line, roots clawing downward like grasping fingers.
He set the shield upright before him, then drew the sheathed sword from his hip with both hands and sank to one knee, head bowed as he presented them—awkward, reverent, utterly sincere.
Młynar took the shield first. His gauntleted fingers moved over the surface with surprising gentleness, tracing the grooves where blows had once bitten deep. He hummed under his breath as his eyes settled on the sigil, studying the birch and its split trunk as though reading a half-forgotten line of verse.
Beside him, Aleksandr rose from his chair with a faint scrape of steel on stone. He accepted the sword without ceremony, thumb testing the balance through the scabbard before he drew it free in a smooth pull. The blade flashed pale in the light from the window, its edge worn but honest, its fuller scarred by years of sharpening and use. He turned it once, measuring weight, point, temper, expression unreadable.
Kneeling there, Dym's gaze darted between them, breath shallow. And then, as if grasping for any thread that might hold them to memory, something jolted loose in his mind.
"H–He once unhorsed a pegasi knight in a tourney in Brzeźnikowo," he blurted, voice rough with urgency. "It was many years ago."
Młynar's mouth curved, not in mockery but in a brief, almost boyish fondness that softened the hard planes of his face. "That pegasi knight would be a younger and far dumber version of me, ser," he said lightly. He turned the shield once more, then stepped forward and returned it to Dym's waiting hands. "Ser Arlan of Przozowa Polona. I remember him."
Aleksandr slid the blade back into its scabbard with a clean click and passed it down, the silver hand gesturing curtly. Rise.
Młynar continued, tone thoughtful now rather than amused. "He never won a tourney that I know."
Dym clutched the relics of his master and shook his head too quickly. "Yes, ser. I mean, no. No, he didn't—"
The hooded woman spoke, cutting through his fluster with clinical precision. "He overthrew Lord Stokewicz in the melee at Kawalerielki," she said, as if reciting from a ledger. "And years before, he unhorsed the Red Bear himself. Yes?"
Dym's head snapped up, eyes wide. "He–he told me of that many a time."
Młynar's gaze rested on him, steady and measuring now. "Then you will recall the Red Bear's true name," he said quietly. "I have no doubt."
Dym's mind went blank for a heartbeat that seemed to stretch far longer than it had any right to. Every gaze in the chamber rested on him now—weighty, curious, impatient, amused, suspicious in turn—and he could feel the pressure of it like hands on his shoulders.
The Lord of Rudnicka Vale had already decided, that much was clear from the way his lips pinched and his eyes rolled heavenward, as if silently begging the room to endure this peasant's obvious fabrication a moment longer. To him, the answer hardly mattered; the great hedge knight had overreached himself and would soon hang by his own foolish tongue.
Prince George watched with a different impatience—less scornful than weary, as though this entire interruption were an inconvenience to be cleared away before more pressing matters resumed. His fingers drummed once on the table near his cup.
The master of the games leaned slightly aside, half-hidden behind the lord's shoulder, brows knitted in anxious anticipation. He seemed almost to will Dym toward a correct answer, as if the poor man's dignity—and perhaps his own—hung upon it.
Aleksandr lounged back in his chair, one elbow slung over the armrest, silver hand glinting idly in the light. His expression had settled into open disbelief edged with crude amusement; to him, this was already a farce worth savoring.
The hooded woman did not move at all. Her green eyes held Dym in an unblinking, surgical regard, not mocking, nor sympathetic—simply waiting to see whether the specimen before her would confirm or contradict its claim.
Dym swallowed. Names tangled in his head—old tourneys, fireside boasts, Ser Arlan's stories told half laughing and half proud beneath cold stars. And then one surfaced clear enough to grasp.
"Um... Ser Damon Złotowir," he said at last, voice rough but steadying as he spoke it. "The Red Bear. He's lord of Złotowir Keep now."
Młynar's smile deepened a fraction, the answer settling into place with the ease of remembered truth. "So he is," he said, nodding once. "And enters the lists upon the morrow."
Aleksandr snorted, pushing himself upright as he turned back toward his seat. "How can you possibly remember some fucking hedge knight who chanced to unhorse Damon Złotowir sixteen years ago?"
Młynar only moved to the table, unhurried, and reached for the wine. "I make it a practice to learn all I can of my foes," he said mildly, pouring two cups with steady hands. He turned back and held one out.
Dym blinked, startled, then took it with both hands as though receiving a relic. "Th–thank you, ser."
Prince George gave a short, incredulous scoff. "And why would you deign to joust with a hedge knight anyway?"
"It was many years past," Młynar replied. "At Kamieniec." He glanced toward the prince. "Lord Kamiennogród held a hastilude to celebrate the birth of a grandson. The lots made Ser Arlan my opponent in the first tilt. We broke four lances before I finally unhorsed him."
Dym, who had been listening with breath caught and eyes shining at the sound of his master's name spoken so plainly among great men, spoke before sense could catch him.
"It was seven."
The words left him without thought, as natural as correcting a miscount beside a campfire.
Silence struck the room like a dropped shield.
Every head turned.
The master of the games froze mid-breath. The lord of Rudnicka Vale's mouth fell open in scandalized disbelief. Prince George's brows lifted. Even the hooded woman's eyes sharpened a fraction, one pale brow rising at the audacity of a lowborn knight correcting a lord of Kazimierz, a Grand Knight of the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi Kazimierz—before nobles and foreign prince alike.
Only Aleksandr laughed—loud, sudden, delighted. The sound cracked through the tension like a thrown stone.
Dym's stomach plunged.
He felt the breach the instant it landed—the impropriety, the insolence, the unforgivable presumption. Heat flooded his face as he jerked his head down, clutching the wine cup as though it might anchor him to the floor.
"I–I believe," he stammered hoarsely.
Młynar only smiled, patient and unruffled, as though the interruption had been no more than a child's earnest mistake. "Tales grow in the telling," he said gently. "I know. Do not think ill of your old master—but it was four lances only, I fear."
The correction landed without sting, yet Dym flushed all the same. Mortification rushed through him in a hot wave. He dropped at once to a knee again, heedless of dignity or decorum, clutching the wine cup too tightly in both hands.
"As you say, my lord," he blurted. "I–it was four. I do apologize—" His elbow jolted as he bowed, and dark red wine sloshed over the rim, splattering across the stone between them. "—and for the wine. The old man, Ser Arlan... he used to say I was thick as a castle wall and slow as an aurochs. Forgive me, my lords."
"No harm was done, ser. Rise."
Młynar's hand lifted in an easy, dismissive gesture even as he inclined his head toward a servant, who hurried forward with cloth and sand to blot the spreading stain.
Dym scrambled back up, ears still burning. "You gave him back his horse and armor and took no ransom," he went on, words tumbling over themselves in his need to mend the moment. "Ser Arlan often told me you were the soul of chivalry... and that one day Kazimierz would be safe in your hands."
Aleksandr made a low, theatrical groan. "Ugh."
Młynar only chuckled and reached again for the folded parchment that lay among the fruit and cups—though this time, instead of idly turning it in his fingers, he broke the wax seal with his thumb and unfolded it fully. "Not for many years yet, I pray."
Fresh ink marked the page in a strong, even hand; at the foot of the text gleamed two impressed seals in dark wax: the black and white pegasi, shield, swords and lances sigil of House Nearl and, beside it, the pegasi and the three lances of the Silverlance Pegasi Order.
He scanned it once, as though confirming what he himself had just written, then refolded it with care.
"No, I—I did not mean that your lord father should—" Dym began, still flustered.
"You wish to enter the lists," Młynar said, lifting his eyes back to him. "Is that it?"
Dym nodded at once. "Yes, ser."
"The decision rests with the master of the games," Młynar continued, glancing aside, "but personally I see no reason to deny you. What do you think, Perun?"
The feline official bowed from behind the table. "As you say, my lord."
Prince George leaned forward, idly selecting a small fruit as he spoke. "Even then, won't he need some sort of bureaucratic proof? I do not know precisely how Kazimierz handles hedge knights, but in Victoria we would demand letters—recommendations, acknowledgements from recognized knights or lords. If he is to ride in a grand tourney among delegations of seven nations, such proof would solidify his claim." He tossed the fruit lightly from palm to palm. "And if questions arise later, you cannot always be present to verify him in person. It would spare the man needless trouble."
"Sensible," Młynar agreed at once—and without further word, he motioned to a nearby servant. The man stepped forward; Młynar placed the folded parchment into his hands and inclined his head toward Dym.
The servant approached the tall hedge knight with quiet ceremony and held it out.
Dym stared, uncomprehending for a heartbeat, before accepting it with both hands as though it were something sacred.
"It is a first acknowledgement," Młynar said, tone mild, as though such things were given every day. "My own word that Ser Arlan of Przozowa Polona did indeed knight you, and that I recognize you as a knight in good standing. It bears my seal as Grand Knight of the Adeptus Sprawiedliwi Kazimierz, and that of the Silverlance Order. Keep it safe." His gaze softened a fraction. "You may find it useful should you need to register at another tourney in the future, ser."
For a moment Dym could not breathe. The parchment trembled faintly in his grip. The Nearl sigil. The Silverlance stamp. Not rumor, not hearsay—ink and wax and a lord's name set down for all to see.
"S–ser..." he managed, voice breaking.
"And," Młynar went on, practical once more, "you mentioned a Lord Fremont. A Leithanien lord of some standing, if I recall your words. I do not know the man personally, but I have heard of him—an eccentric patron of knowledge, artifacts, and many more curiosities, and rather closer to the Witch King than most would find comfortable. Such proximity alone speaks to rank." He inclined his head slightly. "Obtain his signature as well, if you can. Mine may be enough, but two attestations from distant courts will make your claim unassailable, even beyond Kazimierz."
Relief surged through Dym so sharply his knees almost weakened again. He did not need to scour the lists for yet another lord, endure yet another dismissal, another blank stare at Ser Arlan's name. He needed only to find the one man Ser Don had spoken of—and now he carried, against his chest, the written word of Młynar Nearl himself.
He bowed so low the parchment nearly brushed the floor. "S–ser... I—"
Aleksandr slouched deeper into his chair, already bored of the exchange. He waved a dismissive hand, irritation sharpening his voice. "Yes. Yes. Very well, ser. You are grateful. Now—fuck off."
Ser Młynar Nearl let out a slow, weary breath and inclined his head ever so slightly. "You must forgive my brother, ser," he said with gentle patience, his voice carrying the calm authority of long practice. "His children went astray for a week upon the road to this place, and he fears for them more than he cares to admit."
Dym nodded at once, his large head dipping in earnest sympathy. "Of course," he murmured softly, then—after a brief, unfortunate hesitation in which his thoughts outpaced his tongue—added with painful sincerity, "I trust they will not be found dead."
As subtle as a brick thrown to a window.
The effect was immediate and disastrous.
Ser Aleksandr's brow twitched as though struck by a lash, and he leaned forward in his chair with a predatory slowness that made the wood creak beneath him, his eyes narrowing upon Dym as if measuring the distance required to cross it in a single bound. Across the table, Kal'tsit's green gaze flicked briefly toward the hedge knight, and for the faintest instant something like dry amusement touched the corner of her mouth.
Prince George spoke before the tension could snap. "Careful now, ser," he warned, his tone still courteous yet edged with unmistakable steel. "We have been more patient with you than most noble courts would care to be towards a lowborn, but words such as those demand immediate explanation, else blood will surely follow them—and believe me when I say that conflicts far greater than this have begun over nothing more than an ill-chosen phrase."
Inside his skull, Dym cursed himself with heartfelt fervor. Kurwa! That is exactly what Ser Don said! He thought miserably, recalling the old knight's lectures by the campfires and on the road to Rudnicka Vale. His throat tightened as he hurried to bow his head again.
"I—I beg pardon, my lords, Your Grace," he stammered, voice thick with mortification. "It is not what I meant. I only meant... that I understand how it feels to lose one dearer than life itself. Ser Arlan—he was as a father to me, and he raised me from boyhood until last week. I would not wish such loss upon any man, least of all upon Ser Aleksandr and his children."
The "Silver Hand" Nearl held his stare for a long moment more, then leaned back at last with a heavy exhale, some of the iron draining from his posture. "Very well," he muttered. "I... would have bashed your skull in with my bare hands, even had I needed to leap across this table to do it, you big bastard—but it seems that will not be necessary." His gaze lingered, then softened by a degree. "Still... thank you, ser. I... appreciate the thought."
Dym nodded repeatedly, relief making him almost light-headed, and he bowed to everyone present in clumsy gratitude, thanking not only the lords and prince but even the servants who hovered along the walls. Then he turned and began to make his exit with careful haste.
"Ser," Młynar called after him.
Dym stopped at once and turned back. "My lord?"
"You are not of Ser Arlan's blood?"
"No, my lord," Dym said, straightening. "I am not."
Młynar's expression grew thoughtful. "By law in Kazimierz, only a trueborn son may inherit a knight's arms," he said. "You must therefore devise a sigil of your own, and take up a weapon that is yours by right rather than memory. It is an unfortunate strictness, perhaps—but the law remains."
Aleksandr snorted. "The same law my brother here has tried to overturn for decades," he added dryly. "You may thank him for that effort, at least."
"I—I see," Dym said, clearing his throat. "I will, my lord. Thank you again, my lords... Your Grace." He bowed to the prince, then to Kal'tsit. "My lady." At last he looked back to Młynar. "I will fight bravely. You will see."
He turned once more and set off, only for a woman's voice to slip through the hall like a thin blade.
"Who told you about Lord Fremont?"
Dym halted mid-stride and turned, confusion plain upon his face. "Pardon, my lady?"
Her green eyes rested on him with cool precision. "You mentioned a traveling companion who directed you to seek this Leithanian lord. Who is he?"
Prince George glanced toward her. "Dame?"
"A curiosity of mine," she said lightly, though her gaze never left Dym. "You said this companion knew Lord Fremont. Do you know his name?"
Dym looked at her then—truly looked—and heat crept suddenly into his ears as he noticed, perhaps for the first time, how striking the feline woman's features were beneath the hood. The realization lasted no more than a heartbeat before the chill of her stare cut through it, and he blinked hard, stumbling over his words.
"S-Ser Don, my lady," he said. "Ser Don Quixote. H-he is... a hedge knight like myself. I-I met him when I was burying Ser Arlan."
Silence followed.
Every eye in the chamber shifted toward the hooded woman
At length she inclined her head, expression unreadable underneath the hood. "I see. You may go, ser."
Dym nodded too quickly, turned—and strode off with visible eagerness, only to veer immediately into the wrong corridor. He froze, turned back in mortified correction, then pointed the proper direction to no one in particular.
"It is—ah—it is this way," he muttered, and fled.