High in the clear, blue sky, the midday sun burned viciously. The barren steppes of Wildfields had the harshest summers – a constant tug and pull between deathly heat and intense thunderstorms. Unlike the northern woods, where tall pine trees or mighty oaks could shield one from the heat under their shadows, the steppe was an endless sea of scorched, yellow grass. Rustling, it danced in tides with each gust of wind, truly resembling a restless sea. 

The air was so dry it was hard to breathe. 

Stephan unfastened his waterskin, taking a generous gulp of disgustingly warm water. He loved Wildfields steppes as his second home; racing his trusty horse through those dry grasslands was the best feeling in the world. Yet now, he had to stay put, waiting under the relentless sunlight. 

“Got some wine in there, too?” Rador asked. A drop of sweat slowly slid down his temple and disappeared in his beard. 

“How can you even think of drinking now?” Stephan refused even to entertain the idea. 

“Experience, youngling,” Rador chuckled. “How long has it been?” 

“Two hours or so. They should arrive soon,” Stephan dutifully replied. Though he and Rador both commanded a hundred, Rador was also one of Demyan’s Host Elders. Thus, Stephan was obliged to comply. 

“Hm, can’t wait,” the old warrior acknowledged, a bit too dryly. 

Stephan raised an eyebrow. 

“What’s with the attitude?” he questioned. As far as he knew, Rador endorsed the decision to negotiate with the Kingless Knights. 

Rador’s horse, a burly steed bred specifically to withstand long-distance travel with a heavy rider, tossed its head. Even for a well-trained warhorse, standing for long hours under the sun was a challenge. Rador soothingly patted its neck. 

“Not attitude. I just dislike the brat,” he shrugged. 

“And by ‘brat’ you mean?” Stephan continued. It wasn’t like they had something better to do; they might as well talk. 

“The High Warlord, who else?”  

Rador’s way of saying the title was bordering on sarcastic, far away from the crude yet still respectful tone he used when addressing Demyan. 

Stephan tilted his head curiously. 

“Leksa? But I heard he’s great. He burned down Ikarvan and almost took their fortress with less than two thousand men. They say he even risked sailing over thawing spring ice to get them by surprise,” Stephan recounted. 

Maybe Rador didn’t know; it was hard to get news of the Kingless Knights' movements back when Demyan rushed them all over Waravia. Busy on their own campaign against the Golden Empire's advances, no one had the time to learn of their fellow Knights' dealings further east. But once they got back to Wildfields, every tavern boomed with praises of the High Warlord’s achievements in Ikarvan. Knowing Rador's bottomless love for drinking, it was unlikely he’d miss the rumors.

Radar grimaced, hardly hiding his irritation. Maybe it wasn’t that he didn’t hear, it was that he didn’t want to. 

“You think being chosen by the Kingless Knights as their High Warlord can be achieved just so? Of course, he’s good on the battlefield! I had the misfortune of training him myself!” Rador suddenly got fired up, raising his voice and even throwing his hands. 

Stephan blinked. That was certainly a unique way to be proud of one’s disciple. Being responsible for teaching the current High Warlord was no small feat. Especially considering Rador himself was never chosen to lead the Kingless Knights, despite being in the host for more than 20 years.

Meanwhile, Rador was too agitated to acknowledge Stephan’s surprise. 

“It’s not his skills. The brat is also too easy on the eyes, like a fucking maiden, you can’t even smack him without feeling sorry. No, no, Stephan, what’s the worst, it’s his nasty, stuck-up, arrogant, snobby, foul, money-hungry, power-greedy, selfish, unprincipled…” he kept listing adjectives with such fervor that Stephan almost forgot to be shocked that Rador, illiterate as he was, even knew so many words. 

“... two-faced, lying, scheming, conniving, underhanded, superficial personality.” Rador finished, out of breath and bright red in the face. 

Stephan didn’t have any words. Rador used them all. 

“I’m glad to know you still think so warmly of me, old man. Did you finally learn how to read?”

Almost falling from his horse in surprise, Stephan snapped his head in the direction of the unfamiliar voice. 

The first thing he noticed was a pair of bottomless, huge black eyes, blinking at him amicably. Then, Stephan noticed a pleasant, easy smile on delicate, too delicate, lips. Finally, Stephan registered a cascade of messy blonde hair, tied in a loose, low northern braid. Stephan blushed. 

“Fuck! Leksa!” agitated since earlier, Rador erupted akin to the East Volcano. “How many times have I told you not to sneak up on your elders!” Rador roared. 

“But I didn’t,” Leksa retorted. “We’ve been here for some time now,” he motioned to the horsemen behind him. Indeed, there were four other Knights that Stephan didn’t notice before. 

Stretching those delicate, pretty lips in a humble smile, Leksa still conceded, “You were just praising me so loudly, I couldn’t interfere.”

Stephan, feeling his heartbeat speeding up, shook his head. What the fuck?

Rador, though, had quite a different reaction. He sputtered, released a frustrated guttural groan, and dragged a hand over his face. Then, when nothing seemed to appease his anger, he went on to voice out another stream of unexpectedly sophisticated profanities. 

Leisurely, the source of Rador’s vexation played with a slim dreadlock that got loose from his braid. The way he calmly listened to all the insults felt blatantly condescending, and yet, somehow, the slight crease of his eyebrows and an honest, even worried shade in his eyes turned the situation upside down. A benevolent ruler patiently gave ear to his subject’s petty displeasure. 

Stephan tore his gaze away from that face. Why was he staring so much, what was he thinking!? 

Instead, Stephan firmly set his eyes on that dreadlock. It was decorated with small golden beads and rings, an archaic show of status that no one acknowledged anymore, much less could accurately name. Stephan himself knew about it only because Demyan once tried to wear something similar but got too lazy to take proper care of it. 

That’s why it felt so out of place, Stephan realized. 

While dressed in lavish forest-green zhupan robes of the latest style, even wearing a breastplate of the newest alloy that was lighter yet just as sturdy, Leksa’s hair was a remnant of the long non-existent Veliruth. The northern braid, the decorated dreadlock – that was how scholars depicted warriors of the old times in the books his father treasured more than gold.

Deep in thought, Stephan nonetheless noticed that it was too quiet – the background noise of Rador’s ranting disappeared. In its place, heavy silence resided. 

Stephan swiped a glance over the scene. 

In front of him, Leksa and Rador leveled each other with even stares. Each stone-faced, each oozing primal, prideful arrogance, as if refusing to yield. Whatever it was, it shifted the mood of their reunion from surface dislike to something more profound, probably hidden in their shared history. 

The hot, dry air felt even heavier. Stephan didn’t know how to ease the mood — two lions were sizing each other up and interrupting them was akin to jumping into their den to his death.

Rador’s horse, though, was not bothered by human squabbles. Once again, it stamped the ground in agitation. Stephan promised to feed it apples for a week. 

He would rather be left alone to take a southern city with only his Hundred and no reinforcements than ever again be left alone with those two. 

Stalemate broken, Rador sighed and reined in his steed. 

“It’s been years, Leksa,” Rador lamented, so tired Stephan saw each of those long years marring his face with shadows and scars. “Haven’t you tortured me enough?” he almost pleaded.

A truly nasty smirk curved Leksa’s lips; his unnaturally dark eyes resembled two bottomless pools of blackwater, cold and empty – nothing could be seen in them. 

“Not nearly,” Leksa admitted, like a cat playing with a field mouse. 

Despite the incessant heat, a chill ran down Stephan’s spine. He couldn’t explain if asked, but this feeling in his chest reminded him of Demyan. 

However, it didn’t stay to choke him. 

Instead of the way Demyan let his victims draw out until he decided it was enough, Leksa made you question your own sanity. 

He chuckled, honey-like and charming, as if it were a mirage. And, truly, too easy on the eyes. Stephan’s attention once again was brought back to that pretty face. Again, what the fuck.

Before Rador could continue this bastardized welcome, Stephan decided it was time to intervene. Lest he once again would get distracted. He urgently needed to find a nice girl.   

“High Warlord Leksa, I presume?” Stephan asked. 

When those black eyes once again landed on Stephan, they were earnest and humble.

“That would be me,” Leksa bowed his head in a greeting. “And you two are our welcoming party?” 

“Yes. I’m Stephan, Hundred Captain under Demyan. And, well, I see you know Rador already…” he dragged, unsure of how to continue after what he had witnessed. 

Leksa laughed, fixing his dreadlocks and looking more like a charming young lord rather than a hero of tavern wartime stories. 

“Oh, don’t mind him! Rador always saved his best vocabulary for me; that’s how he shows his love,” Leksa waved his hand dismissively, not at all bothered. 

Stephan, out of his depth, just awkwardly chuckled in acknowledgement. Rador was too exhausted to embark on another yelling fit; he now pretended he was an emotionless tree.

Leksa, not the least bit phased by the spiky reunion, clapped his hands. 

“Alright, it’s time for us to move!” he announced loud enough so the Knights behind him could hear. They evidently were smarter than Stephan himself — tactfully gave their High Warlord some privacy beforehand. “We can ford the river and get to the city if we just keep going southwest, right, Stephan?” Leksa asked.

Stephan hesitated.

“Yes, but how did you…”, he started; the reason they had to meet the Kingless Knights party in this barren steppe on the other bank was to escort them through a covert Southern River ford. The ford was never mentioned in any letters or much less made common knowledge. 

However, he didn’t get to finish his question. 

Leksa’s sand-colored warsteed almost soundlessly trotted past him, a breed so silent and agile that Stephan couldn’t place it among any of the ones he knew.   

“Keep up, Pouring Knights, I’m eager to see your hospitality,” Leksa winked at Stephan from behind his shoulder. “And, well, I have a wedding gift to collect.”

Somehow, the welcoming party ended up following their guest instead of leading him. Once again, if you were to ask Stephan how that happened, he wouldn’t be able to answer. 

As he watched the receding figure of the High Warlord, Stephan suddenly made full sense of the last phrase Leksa carelessly dropped. He abruptly stopped his horse, making Rador almost crash into him. 

“Wait.”

A wedding gift!?