The drawbridge was lowered, the gates wide open and there was brisk traffic of farmers with loaded carts, traders on their carriages and all sorts of peasants on the way.
Lowell, who had spent the last years of his life in the capital, marvelled at the rural peculiarities. Behind the first wall, a market was set up, a colourful bustle of ties and people between the stalls. Traders advertised their goods by shouting the prices loudly, donkeys brayed under the weight of clay jugs and plates, tons of fabrics and baskets full of apples and pears strapped to their backs. Elsewhere, chickens cackled and children crawled out from under the stalls in nothing more than loose dirty shirts, their hands full of stolen goods.
Lowell made his way through the peasants until he stood in front of another, lower gate, flanked by heavily armed men in leather armour. Without hesitation, the guards crossed the handles of their halberds, blocking the newcomer's access. Although such security measures had their good reasons, Lowell snorted offended. He wasn't a dirty lowlife who could just be impeded, he was a damned pawn in his majesty's service.
All he needed was the thought of his weapon, the leather-covered handle of his Glaive, the rusted iron blade and the weapon followed his call. A brief flash of a white, bright light, and Lowell felt the familiar weight of the spear in his hand. It almost felt as if the Glaive was buzzing with energy, eager to be used more meaningful than for bragging in dirty, seedy taverns. The heaviness of the Glaive in his hand, the wincing of the guards, all this gave Lowell the intoxicating feeling of power and brought a blissful smile to his lips.
Immediately, he was led inside, through a small courtyard with an impressive stock of old trees, into a building with high ceilings and thick stone walls, on which hung pictures of past battles and portraits of long-murdered knights. Then he was simply made to wait, with the queasy question of whether his face would one day look down on the visitors of these halls as well. The power-induced high from summoning his weapon slowly ebbed, giving way to a feeling of bitter impatience.
Why had he been kept waiting? Prancing restlessly along the hall, he all but missed the nearing footsteps and the creaking of an opening door. Lowell turned on the heels of his boots as a surprising sight met his eyes.

"I deeply regret the delay," a soft voice rang out.
The boy walking towards him was at least ten years younger and had the most striking hair colour Lowell had ever seen. He had seen gingers before, but the youth's curls shine in such a dark shade of red, as if they were soaked in dried blood.
"I hope you had a good journey?", the boy asks, and Lowell manages a bemused grunt in his perplexion. Who was that pale kid, and where was his commander?

"Oh, how terribly rude of me, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Payton, the rook", the boy says, smiling apologetically and holding out his hand for Lowell to take. Yet Lowell remains frozen, only a sound of terribly inadequate confusion escapes his lips as he fails to make the connection between a rook and this slender lad.

"I said my name. Now you can tell me yours. That's called an introduction", says the boy slowly, stressing each syllable as if he were talking to an idiot. Then, a sly grin spreads on those pink lips, and Lowell realizes he is being made fun of by this child.

"Listen there, kid. There's a misunderstanding. I'm Lowell-"

"Oh, you're a fast learner! Now that you've mastered the art of introduction, let me show you around", the youth chats cheerfully, grabbing Lowell's leather clad arm with fingers covered in elegant gloves like the protocol demanded of high nobility. But except for the decent, clean clothing and the way the boy held himself, head raised high, nothing speaks of status.
Back in the capital, Lowell had met a bishop once, covered in costly robes and refined jewellery and accompanied by a tross of knights in silver armour. They had blocked the streets for commoners as the bishop crossed it, making Lowell feel incredibly insignificant as he waisted his time avoiding his duty.
And although small, fragile looking Payton has nothing in common with the grim, burly bishop, there is the same seriousness in his thoughtful, calculating green gaze as if a heavy dignity weighs on his shoulders, that made him grow up way too early.
The rook leads him through the old walls, shows him time-honoured halls and winding secret passages and explains the organization of the fortress. The stone walls are arm's length thick and radiate a coldness that settles in Lowell's bones. Inside the castle, the windows are mounted so high that hardly a ray of light reaches the ground and the rooms have to be illuminated by torches and candlesticks.

"It's kinda empty here", Lowell notices as they passed several vacant rooms and dusty old corridors, in which an eerie silence hangs in the air, making him wonder, how long it would take for someone to find him here if something were to happen. They are so far away from the last maid and soldier he had seen, that cries from this wing of the castle would be swallowed by the walls. Images of rotting skeletons covered in layers of dust laying here to rest in dead silence haunt him.

"Of course it is. The fortress must accommodate all people from the surrounding villages in case of attack", Payton explains with his back to Lowell while trying to a heavy, metal-hewn door, that groans, but does not give in under his weight as he braces himself against it.
"Would you mind?", the boy asks, nodding to the door and takes a step back to make way for Lowell. The door swings open as soon as the pawn pushes against it, who can not help but smirk at the blushing youth.
"You know, a little training wouldn't hurt", Lowell states as he enters a circular space. High windows of reddish glass paint the room in dark, uncanny light, but it is bright enough to illuminate Payton's annoyed frown. "I'm a strategist, not a soldier, pawn", he huffs, but his reddened cheeks prove this a sore point.
Lowell decides to drop his jibes as soon as he lays his eyes upon a single armour exhibited in the middle of the small chamber. The iron is beautiful, artfully processed, small flourishes decorate the breastplate and certainly the metal is old, very old, even if the leather straps seem to be in excellent condition.
To his amazement, Lowell recognizes the pattern on the iron. If he is not very mistaken, there were originally exactly eight armours of this kind.
"Is this-?", he whispers in awe, leaving the rest of his sentence hanging in the air, almost afraid to be disappointed in his excitement.

"It is. And if I remember correctly, it is yours now, Sir Lowell."

Proud fills the pawns chest with warmth at these words, and he beams as he studies what used to be the armour of one of the eight first, original pawns centuries ago.

At this moment Lowell vows silently to do justice to his dignity, to decide battles in this armour, to soak it with the blood of the kingdom's enemies until it shone as scarlet as his commander's hair.