The inn stood at the edge of the village, where the road thinned into mud and grass before surrendering to fields and hedges. Its weathered wooden sign creaked softly as it swayed in the evening breeze, the carving upon it long-smoothed by rain and time. The building itself looked as though it had grown out of the land—thick timber walls, stone footings sunk deep into the earth, and a tiled roof darkened by years of smoke and storm.
Warm yellow light spilled from its windows, laying a welcoming path across the ground like a promise.
Dymitr drew in a slow breath as they approached. The smell of cooked food reached him even before the sound of voices—meat, onions, bread. It made his stomach tighten painfully, reminding him how long it had been since he'd eaten anything more substantial than road fare.
Two knights rode side by side toward the gate, their horses' hooves drumming a steady rhythm against the dirt road. Dymitr sat tall in the saddle, though his shoulders ached and his thighs burned from the long ride. Riding beside Ser Don still felt strange. Familiar, yet not. He had spent so long measuring himself against Ser Arlan's shadow that sharing the road with another knight felt like stepping into a life not fully his yet.
They passed through the open gate, and Ser Don lifted a hand.
"Ho there," he called.
A boy stood just inside the yard, holding a long staff topped with a burning brand. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face. He was bald-headed, thin, dressed in rags that hung close on his frame. His skin was fair—oddly so in the torchlight—but otherwise unremarkable. Nothing about him caught Dymitr's attention beyond the sharpness in his eyes.
"Aye," the boy said cheekily. "I'm here."
Something about the tone tugged at Dymitr's nerves.
He dismounted stiffly and handed over the reins. "See to our horses," he said. "Oats for all of them. Rub them clean as well."
The boy looked him straight in the eye. "I could," he said. "If I wanted to."
Dymitr felt his jaw tighten.
Before he could answer, Ser Don placed a gentle hand against his forearm.
"There's no need for hostilities," Ser Don said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "We're guests under this roof now. The lad is but a servant of the master of this place, and it would be a poor choice of us as its guests to antagonize our shelter."
He glanced at Dymitr sidelong. "After all, we are the ones in need, Dym."
Then, without another word, Ser Don reached into his pouch, flicked a coin into the air, and caught it once before tossing it lightly toward the boy.
"For the trouble," he said, "and for the feed for our five horses here."
The coin glinted briefly in the torchlight before the boy snatched it from the air. His expression shifted—not softened, exactly, but sharpened with interest.
Dymitr exhaled slowly. Cheeky boy, he thought. He knew many knights who would have answered such insolence with a cuff. The boy was fortunate—fortunate that Ser Don stood beside him, and that Ser Arlan had taught him restraint as well as steel.
Ser Don, for his part, seemed faintly amused.
"Still, that's no way to speak to your guests, lad," he added mildly. "Your parents and the innkeepers would be angry if they heard you; You could cost the latter his business you know."
Dymitr straightened. "You're speaking to knights," he said, voice firmer now. "Show some respect."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "Knights? I thought you were his manservant. You wear a rope for a belt."
For a heartbeat, the words hung in the air.
Then Ser Don burst into laughter.
It was loud, sudden, and rich—an unrestrained peal that echoed off the stable walls and cut clean through the quiet yard. The sound startled the boy so badly that he flinched, fingers tightening around the reins. It startled Dymitr too, who nearly jumped where he stood, already worn thin by rain, grief, and the long road.
Ser Don leaned back slightly, one hand on his side as if the words had struck him physically.
"Oh—oh, that is a good one," he said between chuckles.
Dymitr blinked, caught between embarrassment and confusion. He glanced sideways at Ser Don, studying him with a tired curiosity.
Does this old knight ever get tired? he wondered.
Throughout their journey, Ser Don had ridden easily, spoken freely, laughed often. Rain, mud, long miles—none of it seemed to cling to him the way it did to others.
Ser Don wiped at his eye beneath the hood and looked down at the boy, still smiling.
"Well," he said lightly, "to answer that—no, not all knights are rich, young one. Many are impoverished." He tilted his head. "Even those who serve lords. They're just… less impoverished than us hedge knights."
The boy frowned, clearly unsure whether he was being mocked or instructed.
Ser Don gestured vaguely at Dymitr's belt. "Leather and iron are expensive things. We save them for when steel is needed." His voice was calm now, almost conversational. "For travel? Tied rope and cloth do well enough. They hold just fine and complain far less."
Dymitr felt heat creep up his neck, but some of the sting eased. Ser Arlan's words echoed faintly in his mind—Spend coin where it matters.
He glanced down despite himself. The rope was frayed. Ser Arlan had also always said it did the job well enough.
Yet, he was too tired to argue, he waved a hand. "Think whatever you like. Just do your job."
The boy shrugged and turned toward the stables, reins in hand.
They left him with the horses and crossed the yard toward the inn proper. The door opened with a low groan, and warmth rushed out to meet them.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasting meat, spilled ale, and old wood soaked deep with smoke. Heat from the hearth pressed against Dymitr's face, welcome after the long ride in rain. The common room was alive—not boisterous, but comfortably so. A handful of tables were occupied by travelers and locals alike: a pair of merchants murmuring over cups of ale, two laborers laughing quietly as they shared a loaf, and a trio of men in worn mail arguing amiably over dice.
Near the fireplace, a man lay slumped across a bench, snoring loudly, his tankard tipped on its side. Someone had draped a cloak over his shoulders, whether out of kindness or to muffle the sound, Dymitr couldn't tell.
Conversation ebbed and flowed like a low tide, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the crackle of the hearth. A serving girl moved between tables with practiced ease, balancing plates and pitchers without ever seeming to look at them. From behind a half-open door came the clatter of pots and the sharp voice of someone giving orders.
Dymitr paused just inside, rain-soaked cloak heavy on his shoulders, boots leaving damp prints on the floorboards. For a moment, he simply stood there and breathed.
No wind. No rain. No open sky pressing down on him.
Ser Don stepped in beside him, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the road itself.
He whistled, "Smells like a place that knows how to keep its guests alive," he murmured.
Dymitr nodded faintly. His eyes drifted over the room, taking in faces, weapons leaned casually against walls, cloaks hung to dry. No one paid them much mind beyond a few curious glances—two more riders on a well-traveled road, nothing worth staring at.
For the first time since the grave, there was noise enough to drown his thoughts.
They took a table near the hearth, its surface scarred by years of knives, mugs, and careless hands. Ser Don nodded politely to the room as he sat, then reached up and drew back his hood.
Dymitr froze—just for a heartbeat.
It was the first time he had truly seen the old knight's face in full. Ser Don was older than he'd guessed, his brown skin weathered like leather left too long in sun and wind, creased by years of what could be his laughter and pain alike.
His left eye was a warm, dark brown, sharp and alive despite the lines around it. His right was covered by a strip of dirty bandage, wrapped carefully but worn with age, the cloth stained faintly where old blood had once been.
A jagged streak of healed scar tissue ran along his cheek, half-lost beneath his beard. His curling hair, both on his head and his well trimmed beard—once black, still mostly was—but streaked now with gray and white, threads of age woven through it without dulling its strength.
And yet—
He still looked… youthful.
Not young, yes.
Not unmarked by wrinkles—but virile.
Handsome, even. The sort of man who, in his prime, must have stepped straight from a storybook: a laughing knight, bold and broad-shouldered, riding down the road to rescue princesses and break curses with a grin and a sword.
Didn't he say he was married? Dymitr thought suddenly. And that she was nearly as tall as me?
As he studied him, another thought crept in, quieter but stranger.
There were no... animal traits.
At first, Dymitr had assumed Ser Don must be Liberi—many knights were—but now that the hood was down, he could see clearly. No feathers crowned his head. None peeked through his hair, no matter how closely Dymitr looked. And he certainly wasn't a Kuranta like him, or any other race with tails or ears—there had been no sign of either during their ride.
Could they be hidden? Dymitr wondered. Braided back? Cut short?
No. There were none. He was sure of it.
He's also not a Sarkaz, he didn't see a horn, or a piece of where horns could be in his head. He doesn't seemed malicious enough like those demons, anyway.
That left only stranger answers.
Ægir? The thought made him blink. Ser Arlan had told tales of them—mythical folk from the depths, from rivers and seas, half-legendary beings said to walk the land only rarely. Dymitr had never been sure whether to believe those stories or not since they were mostly believed to be in Iberia.
Before he could think further, he noticed something else.
He noticed the looks. The matron behind the counter had noticed. One of the serving girls slowed her steps. A woman at a nearby table flushed faintly as her gaze lingered just a second too long on Ser Don's face.
Ser Don, oblivious—or pretending to be—offered the matron a genial smile.
"Food and ale for the both of us," he said easily.
The matron returned not long after with two heavy tankards and plates piled high with tender lamb and roasted duck, the fat still sizzling. As she set them down, her fingers lingered—just briefly—gliding over Ser Don's hand in a way that was anything but accidental.
Dymitr saw Ser Don's eyebrow lift.
He blinked once—whether in response or reflex, Dymitr couldn't tell.
Ser Don glanced sideways at him, lifted his tankard, and murmured dryly, "Should've kept my hood up."
He drank.
Dymitr was still processing that when a sudden shout cut through the room.
"You!"
The drunken man near the fire lurched upright, eyes wild, finger stabbing the air in their direction.
"I've dreamed of you both before!" he shouted. "Stay away from me, you louts! Stay well away!"
Dymitr stared, startled, then looked to Ser Don, bewildered. Ser Don returned the look, equally puzzled, mouth half-open as if considering whether to laugh or sigh.
Before either could speak, the matron leaned close to them, lowering her voice.
"Don't you mind him, sers," she whispered. "He does nothing but drink and sleep all day. No wonder he can't dream right."
Her gaze slid back to Ser Don, her smile sharpening into something unmistakably suggestive.
"What about you, good sir~" she murmured. "Do you sleep well?"
Ser Don laughed, a deep, easy sound.
"I always have," he said cheerfully. "Though I've found sleep comes easier with good company, a warm bed, and someone clever enough to make the night… memorable."
The matron, and any other ladies nearby's cheeks colored, just a little.
Whatever meaning lay beneath those words sailed clean over Dymitr's head.
He focused on his plate instead, ears warming faintly, suddenly very interested in carving his meat properly, and wondered—once again—what sort of knight he had chosen to follow onto the road.
And whether the road itself had just become far more complicated...
Yet still, Dym watched as the drunken man seemed to be mumbling something under his breath, his attention already elsewhere as he climbed the stairs, demanding wine all the way. Dym scoffed. Drunkards—who could ever make sense of them?
He turned back to the table, but his appetite dulled. The inn was lively enough now: low laughter, the clink of cups, the hum of conversation blending with the crackle of the hearth. It should have felt warm. Familiar. Like the stories.
Yet something nagged at him.
In the songs, inns were places of destiny—where knights were recognized at once, where grateful folk whispered legends over mugs of ale. Not places where a knight bartered for beds, traded banter with matrons, or laughed while a drunkard staggered past demanding more wine he clearly didn't need.
Dymitr stared at his plate, brow furrowing.
Ser Don noticed.
He was midway through cutting into his food, knife moving with the same unhurried confidence he carried everywhere, when he glanced up at the boy.
"Something on your mind?" he asked, almost casually.
Dymitr hesitated. Then he sighed, shoulders slumping just a little.
"It's just…" He searched for the right words. "Knighthood isn't how I imagined it. In the songs, knights are always grand. Honored. Everyone knows who they are. They stay in castles, not inns like this. They don't argue over beds, or joke like—like ordinary men."
Ser Don paused, knife resting against the plate.
"And now?" he prompted.
"Now it feels…" Dymitr gestured vaguely around them. "Messier. Smaller. More... relateable."
For a moment, Ser Don simply looked at him.
Then he laughed—softly this time, warm rather than booming.
"Oh, that," he said, returning to his meal. "You're beginning to see clearly, young one."
He cut into the food with ease, chewing thoughtfully before continuing.
"The songs are written by those who never carried armor for a day, nor slept with their boots as a pillow—or even eat them when they're starving. They polish knighthood until it shines, then forget to mention the dents."
He glanced around the inn, at the laughter, the weariness, the life moving all around them.
"A knight is not made grand by where he sleeps, nor by who bows to him," Ser Don said. "He is made by what he does when no one is singing."
Dymitr listened quietly, something settling in his chest—uncertain, but steady.
Ser Don smiled faintly.
"Besides," he added, lifting his cup, "if knighthood were as neat as the songs claim, it would be dreadfully boring."
Dymitr almost smiled.
Ser Don glanced at him again, really looked this time, as if weighing Dymitr against a memory.
"You lived with Ser Arlan before this," he said, not as a question.
Dymitr nodded.
"And tell me," Ser Don continued, cutting another piece of meat, "did you always sleep in feathered beds and stone halls?"
Dymitr hesitated, then shook his head. "No… sometimes we stayed in inns like this. Sometimes worse." He gave a small, humorless breath. "And there were times we slept in the wild. Under trees. In the rain, once."
Ser Don smiled faintly, as though that answer pleased him.
"So," he said, lifting his fork and pointing it gently at Dymitr, a piece of meat skewered at the tip, "what's truly changed?"
Dymitr frowned, thinking. Then, slowly, he admitted, "Nothing, really. There's… almost no difference."
Ser Don's smile widened—not mocking, but approving.
"And that," he said, still pointing with the fork, "is the progress of knighthood, Dym."
He brought the fork to his mouth and ate, chewing deliberately. He took his time, as if measuring each word before letting it pass his lips, speaking between slow, careful bites so Dymitr could follow.
"Everything starts extremely slowly," he said. "Honor is earned slowly. Fame is earned slowly. Wealth—" he snorted softly, "—is earned slower than the two."
He swallowed, then took a sip of ale.
"All of it applies to life as well," Ser Don finished. "Anyone who tells you otherwise is either lying… or selling a song laced with snake-oil."
Dymitr looked down at his plate again, but this time the weight in his chest felt different. Not disappointment.
Understanding.
Ser Don leaned back slightly, rolling his shoulder as if easing an old ache, then spoke again, his voice lower.
"If one wishes to earn all three instantly," he said, "honor, fame, and wealth—there is a way."
That caught Dymitr off guard. He looked up at once, eyes sharpening with curiosity despite himself.
"And what is that, Ser?"
Ser Don did not answer immediately. Instead, he fixed Dymitr with a hard, unyielding look—one that stripped away the warmth from his features and left only the veteran beneath. When he finally spoke, his tone was grave.
"Be a robber knight."
The words struck like a slap.
"A robbe—" Dymitr sputtered, nearly choking on the thought. "I can't do that! T-that's wrong! Cruel! Evil!"
Ser Don nodded once. "Good—"
But Dymitr was already seething. "Good?! What good do you mea—"
Tap.
The knife struck the table—sharp, controlled, and deliberate. The sound was loud enough to cut through Dymitr's rising voice, but not loud enough to draw the eyes of the room. The chatter of the inn swallowed it whole.
Dymitr froze. His breath hitched, then slowly steadied. He sank back into his seat, shame creeping into his expression as he forced himself to calm down.
Ser Don watched him for a moment longer, then his features softened.
"As I was saying," the old knight continued evenly, "what I meant by 'good' was this—good that you reacted the way you did." He met Dymitr's eyes. "Good that you still have a good heart."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"Not good as in 'it would benefit us,' Dym. Never that."
Dymitr swallowed. "I… I see." He cleared his throat and lifted his tankard, taking a hurried drink of ale. He cleared his throat again, flustered. "Sorry, Ser. I—I—"
Ser Don raised a hand from the table, palm outward, gentle but firm. "No need." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I would've said the very same thing, were I in your place."
He nodded once, more to himself than to Dymitr.
"Ser Arlan taught you well, Dym. Be proud of that."