The feast prepared for the Kingless Knights’ visit was a grand one.

Demyan wanted to impress; he wouldn’t hide it. It was petty of him, but he knew that boasting riches would make Leksa’s eye twitch, considering the sorry state the Kingless Knights were in. Matvyi’s campaign had exhausted their last resources, and Demyan knew it. No wonder mentioning thousands of horses in his letter had compelled Leksa to accept the invitation. He had to use the opportunity.

Idling on his throne, he observed the rows of dishes being mercilessly devoured by the knights. Roasted chickens, rabbits, pork, fish—he didn’t cheap out. The barrels of Medov beer made him especially excited; he loved that beer more than any wine. Except Waravian wine, maybe.

In the crowd, he could see Stephan drinking just that—cup after cup—while Cyryll fretted and patted him on the shoulder. On his other side, Kost broodingly bit into a chicken leg. Opposite them, Rador cheerfully laughed with one of the Kingless Knights who had come with Leksa. They were roughly the same age and must’ve been old acquaintances, if the familiar way they traded backslaps was anything to go by. However, he couldn’t see Leksa anywhere. Not that he was looking for him, of course.

“Warlord Demyan.”

Distracted from his overseeing duties, Demyan regarded the Kingless Knight who greeted him. The man, roughly in his thirties, stood a respectful distance away—though close enough to be heard over the racket. Where his left eye should have been was an ugly scar. It ran from his forehead down to his cheek, the aftermath of a vicious slash.

“My greetings,” Demyan replied with an easy smile.

Not too tall but muscular, the knight was undoubtedly the brawn Leksa had chosen for his party to Bishov. His stance, the way he rooted himself to the floor, the saber that was shorter but heavier—all pointed to martial prowess.

“My name is Pavlo,” the knight introduced himself. He had a light accent; Demyan couldn’t place it with certainty, but if he had to guess—northeast woodlands. Matir Province, perhaps. “You may not remember me, but we had a few joint raids years ago,” Pavlo added, unable to hide the hope in his voice.

Now that he mentioned it, Demyan took a closer look at his face. If not for the scar, he would be a rather handsome man; he had a strong chin and expressive eyebrows—someone easy to remember. 

However, Demyan still couldn’t find him in his memories from Chortov. Granted, back then, when he was a teenager blazing with purpose, only Leksa managed to annoy him enough to permanently lodge himself in Demyan’s mind. Fruitlessly, Demyan even dug through the faces he recalled from his short and inglorious visit to Matir Province, but alas.

“Ah, I drink so much I barely remember half of my own knights,” Demyan admitted, laughing. Pavlo’s expression fell, disappointed not to have left his mark in Demyan’s mind. “Pavlo, you say? Good name. Leksa must hold you in high regard.”

Surely, a nice compliment could smooth it over.

Pavlo’s left brow, slashed in half by a scar, twitched. The praise didn’t land all that well.

Interesting.

“The High Warlord is a smart man,” Pavlo replied vaguely.

Tilting his head in open curiosity, Demyan asked, “So, Pavlo, what is it? Since you knew me back then, I must shamelessly confess—I haven’t become more patient with age.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, Pavlo placed his hand on the handle of his saber and cleared his throat. Behind him, the feast grew louder—the Pouring Knights knew how to make a ruckus. Cups clinked and barks of loud laughter rang through the hall, blending with their talk into an indecipherable buzzing.

“I inspected the horses you prepared. They’re good steeds. A generous gift. May I ask how you got them?”

Though he tried, Pavlo did not possess a silver tongue. His sentences were short, chopped, to the point. Definitely the brawn, not the brains.

Narrowing his eyes, Demyan scrutinized the knight in front of him for a moment. Frankly, not because he needed to, but because answering right away made people believe they could ask a lot more questions than needed. Pavlo wanted to talk to Demyan, for whatever reason, so for a bit, Demyan could entertain him. If only to make up the dent left by his own shitty memory.

“Waravia,” Demyan stated simply. “The Golden Empire has been settling down in those lands. They’ve already established a few large stables and enslaved locals to work there.” Remembering he wasn’t talking to an astute strategist, Demyan added, “So they basically created a constant supply of war steeds to support their expansion northwest. I didn’t like that. But a good horse is a good horse, right?”

With a flash of understanding, Pavlo nodded.

“Yes. No need to waste good horses,” he agreed readily. “I figured they were of southern origin. But their coats are thicker—closer to the northern steeds that can withstand harsher winters. That’s why I wanted to ask,” Pavlo explained.

He was right to point it out.

Such convenience was one of the reasons Demyan had not hesitated to collect such a bothersome trophy in full. The Pouring Knights returned from Waravia with more than four thousand steeds. Three thousand of them were already grown and trained; others—too young, but no less valuable in the long run.

The bothersome part stemmed from the need to tend to those horses. Gold could be stored, but raising steeds was a job that required funds and people. Though Bishov was a welcoming city, it didn’t specialize in maintaining stables. Demyan had calculated he would have to get rid of at least one thousand horses to feed the other three.

Frowning, Pavlo seemed to catch another important bit of intelligence.

Somehow, though he was clearly a bit older than Demyan, his frank and simple attitude made Demyan want to cheer him on. Not from condescension, merely because such earnest people were a rarity. No wonder Leksa trusted him as his muscle despite some obviously complex feelings Pavlo bore for the High Warlord.

“Wait—” Pavlo’s frown deepened. “They’ve been settled in Waravia for so long? We knew the Empire wanted to invade the western kingdoms, but I didn’t expect them to be so well-prepared.”

Demyan motioned to an attendant by his side to bring him some beer; a wave in the general direction of the barrels was more than enough to relay his wish. 

Once he left, Demyan leaned in closer to his guest.

“They prepared for years,” he lowered his voice a bit. “When the Crown decided to start punishing the Kingless Knights for campaigning south, who do you think was responsible?”

A dark shadow crossed Pavlo’s face. He remembered those times—when the Kingless Knights were suddenly made outlaws, banned from trading with Crown-ruled cities or even setting foot in them.

“You mean they made a deal with the fucking Horde?” Pavlo spat under his breath, clutching his saber.

Shrugging, Demyan didn’t answer, letting the weight of what he implied land on its own.

“Who knows,” he relaxed back into his seat. “But wouldn’t it be really funny if they marched through Kresovia all the way west to Korvak without looting and murdering?” Demyan asked rhetorically. Then, spurred by that strange desire to coddle the man, he continued, “My advice: listen more carefully to what Leksa discusses with the Host Elders, even if you don’t like what you hear.”

With a solemn nod, Pavlo took that scrap of surface wisdom to heart.

The attendant returned, handing Demyan a large wooden tankard. Foaming over the rim, it teased his nostrils with a faint, sweet scent. Medov beer was a famous specialty of the Kamyan Province—mixed with local floral honey, it was a refreshing, slightly sweet drink.

Gratefully, Demyan accepted the tankard and gulped down almost half of it in one go.

“Ah, that hits the spot,” he sighed. “You should try some, Pavlo. It’s a joyous occasion tonight, after all. We shouldn’t discuss these things; there will be time for that later.”

Pavlo gave a curt nod. Still, his eyebrows were drawn together in deep thought.

“Thank you, Warlord.” The way he addressed Demyan didn’t have any underlying emotion; he spoke as if stating simple facts. “There’s something else I came up to tell you. Before I enjoy the feast and make friends with your men, may I?”

Demyan arched his brow, inviting Pavlo to continue.

Solemn intent burning in his sole eye, Pavlo met Demyan’s gaze.

“Your brother is a good man,” he stated, flat and simple. “I don’t blame you for crushing Levitskyi’s uprising.” Not waiting for an answer, he gave a curt, respectful nod and sharply turned around.

Not hiding his surprise, Demyan watched Pavlo’s receding figure. Those two sentences could hardly have any logical connection between them. How could he know Lucian? Demyan’s older brother was far removed from the military, staying in Ostburgh, buried in his books and scrolls. On top of that, it was even more ridiculous to assume Lucian would ever put in a good word for Demyan.

“He’s an interesting one, right?” a warm voice said by Demyan’s side.