Only when I, utterly exhausted, was ready to admit total worthlessness, he approached:
— You're not weak, boy. Just haven't learned to hear her breath, fear, trust. You try force, but need instinct. When you stop fighting her and start fighting together—she'll become your extension.
Those simple words cut into me like a knife into wood—sharp but needed. In them was such faith that poured in against my will.
He managed to praise where I saw failure. Believed when I, plopped in mud, was ready to cry. Didn't promise easy wins—just instilled tiny hope: I might succeed. His main lesson—not to break under mistakes' weight, but turn them into steps.
Now, when each step on field may turn blinding fire or icy blast, I don't lose cool. Horse trembles but obeys—not because I force, but because we understand each other. I feel every muscle twitch. She—my resolve. We're one, as he promised.
I survive not by blind fate—don't count on gods in our business. Survive thanks to his lessons soaked into blood. This my little rebellion against war's absurdity, against death itself.
Knighthood... loud word. And empty sometimes. We wear crests, give oaths, speak of honor. Then walk fields strewn with "flowers" of fire and ice. Urben never uttered lofty words. Taught deeds. Taught to face truth.
— Knighthood is responsibility, —he said. — For those following you, believing in you. Understanding life belongs not only to you.
Each time making right choice, leading people through danger, I know—it's not me. It's him, Urben de Silvan, living on in my actions. In that silent courage he nurtured in me. In simplicity honed to genius of survival.
My teacher. The man who taught not only to survive but to remain human when hell around. In that all the bitter irony of our craft—to preserve soul where it's easiest to lose.