A week after their visit to the village, news reached the manor that traveling knights had set camp near the old river plain. They were said to be veterans of border skirmishes, men who had seen true battle, not just training yard bruises.
Klaude was restless the moment he heard.
"We are going," he said firmly.
Ruther studied them both before nodding. "You may watch. Nothing more. Real combat is not a game."
They rode out by midday.
The river plain was alive with movement. Tents bearing different crests dotted the grass. Horses were tied in rows, armor laid out in the sun for polishing. At the center, a circle had been cleared. Two armored knights stood within it, swords drawn.
The clash began without ceremony.
Steel struck steel with a ringing force that carried across the field. It was nothing like wooden practice blades. Each strike was heavy, precise. Sparks leapt where edges met. The men moved with surprising speed despite their armor, feet steady, shoulders controlled.
Yoren felt his breath catch.
Klaude leaned forward slightly, eyes wide but focused. He watched the footwork, the timing, the way one knight twisted his blade to slide off the other's guard before countering.
"This," Klaude murmured, almost to himself, "is what it means."
One knight was knocked to his knee, but he rolled and regained footing, raising his shield just in time to block a downward strike. The sound echoed deep in Yoren's chest.
They were not angry. They were not wild. It was controlled, disciplined violence. A test of skill and endurance.
When the bout ended, both men removed their helmets, sweat-soaked but smiling. They clasped forearms in respect.
Yoren exhaled slowly. "They are… different from us."
"Not different," Klaude said quietly. "Just further ahead."
Yoren looked at him. Klaude's gaze burned with admiration, but also hunger. Not envy. Aspiration.
As the knights rested, a small group gathered nearby, speaking loudly. One of them mentioned a name both boys had heard since childhood.
"The Burshè Dragon was twice the size of any warhorse," the man said. "Wings like storm clouds. Breath that melted stone."
Klaude's attention snapped toward them.
Another laughed. "And yet it fell."
"Of course it fell," the first replied proudly. "Will Shaketes himself struck it down. One man. One blade."
Yoren felt a chill, though the sun was warm.
The Burshè Dragon was legend across the kingdom. It had terrorized three provinces, burning villages and scattering armies. Some believed it could not be killed.
Until Will Shaketes rode alone to face it.
Yoren had heard the tale countless times by hearth fire. How Will Shaketes waited until the dragon descended to strike, how he pierced the softer scales beneath its jaw, how the beast's roar shook the mountains before it fell.
"Strongest knight in history," Klaude said quietly.
Yoren nodded. "They say his armor still bears scorch marks."
"And they say he did not retreat," Klaude added. "Not once."
The image settled in both their minds. A single knight standing before a creature of fire and terror.
Klaude's jaw tightened slightly. "That is the kind of commander I will be."
Yoren smiled faintly. "The kind who fights dragons alone?"
"The kind who makes sure no dragon ever reaches his people again."
They stayed until evening shadows stretched long across the plain. As they rode back, the sky shifted from gold to deep violet.
By the time they reached the hills near their manor, night had fully fallen.
They stopped at the same crest as before.
Above them, the sky was clear and endless. Stars scattered like silver dust across dark velvet. A thin moon hung low.
For a while, neither spoke.
Yoren lay back against the grass, staring upward. "Do you think Will Shaketes was afraid?"
Klaude lay beside him. "Of course."
"But he still fought."
"Yes."
Yoren's voice softened. "Then perhaps fear is not weakness."
Klaude turned his head toward him. "It never was."
They lay there longer than they should have, watching constellations shift slowly. For a brief time, the world felt vast but peaceful. No plague. No dragons. No expectations.
Just two friends beneath the stars.
When they returned home, the manor lights were already lit.
At first, nothing seemed wrong.
Yoren dismounted, laughing softly at something Klaude had said.
Then it happened.
A sharp pain tore through his chest.
He froze mid-step. The laughter died in his throat.
It felt as though something inside him had twisted violently. Heat spread beneath his skin, and the faint silver veins along his neck began to glow brighter than they had in years.
Klaude noticed immediately. "Yoren?"
Yoren staggered, gripping the edge of the stable door. His breathing became uneven.
"It… hurts," he managed.
Servants rushed forward. Ruther appeared within moments, his expression hardening when he saw the glow.
"Inside," he ordered.
They carried Yoren to his chamber. The silver patterns along his arms shone vividly now, pulsing faintly. His skin burned to the touch.
Elswyth pressed a cool cloth to his forehead, her hands trembling despite her calm voice.
"It has returned," one of the older servants whispered.
"Silence," Ruther snapped.
Through the haze of pain, Yoren heard fragments of voices, movement, the clink of glass bottles. The agony came in waves, tightening around his ribs and throat.
Klaude did not leave his side.
He sat there through the night as Yoren drifted in and out of restless sleep.
By morning, a physician had been summoned from the nearest city. His verdict was grim.
"The Ryspek Plague is flaring," he said. "There is a rare medicine that may suppress it. It is costly. And it must be taken consistently."
"How costly?" Ruther asked.
The physician named a sum that made even the old knight fall silent.
Klaude's jaw set.
That very afternoon, he began working.
He trained longer hours in the yard, offering his skill to traveling knights who would pay for sparring. He rode messages for merchants across dangerous roads. He took on guard shifts in nearby towns during the night.
Eighteen hours a day.
He slept little. Ate quickly. Returned home only to check on Yoren before leaving again.
For two months straight, he did not falter.
Ruther protested at first, but Klaude would not be stopped.
"If gold is the price," Klaude said simply, "then I will earn it."
Yoren grew weaker during those weeks. Some days he could not rise from bed. The pain came without warning, sharp and cruel.
Yet each time he opened his eyes, Klaude was there.
Sometimes with dirt still on his boots. Sometimes with blood from training not yet washed away.
One evening, as Klaude placed a small pouch of coins onto the physician's table, his hands trembled from exhaustion.
"It is enough?" he asked.
The physician counted carefully, then nodded.
"It is enough."
The medicine came in small glass vials, filled with a faintly glowing liquid.
When Yoren swallowed the first dose, the pain did not vanish instantly. But over the next days, the brightness beneath his skin began to dim again.
The fever eased.
Strength slowly returned.
The morning Yoren finally stood without help, Klaude nearly collapsed in relief.
"You look terrible," Yoren said weakly, managing a small smile.
Klaude laughed, though his eyes were red from sleepless nights. "I was about to say the same to you."
Yoren stepped forward and gripped his friend's forearm.
"You should not have worked so hard."
Klaude's expression softened. "I told you once you would stand beside me when I lead armies."
Yoren swallowed. "Yes."
"Then you must stay alive."
Silence hung between them.
Yoren's eyes burned, but not from fever this time.
"I will," he said quietly. "For you."
Outside, the banners of House Will moved gently in the wind.
The plague had not taken him.
Not this time.
And in the bond between the two young men, something had grown stronger than sickness, stronger than legend.
Stronger even than dragons.