With the sun warm on his skin and the wind roaring in his ears, Demyan raced his horse back home. The steed was fast—strong, a well-trained warhorse. Demyan, though, was still clumsy as a rider: too young, too greedy for that first taste of freedom. His palms were chafed, his thighs burned, his ponytail was in disarray. He laughed merrily as the wind whipped his hair, not feeling any pain at all.

Demyan’s father had gifted this magnificent black steed to him merely a fortnight ago, bartering it from a group of passing Kingless Knights. In exchange, Lord Petru had given up mink furs and rare-quality leather—goods he had initially prepared as gifts for Lord-Magnat Borys Palinowskyi’s visit.

Even with such a generous offer, fit for a lord, the Kingless Knights had been reluctant to part with a good warhorse.

“It will not be wasted on me!” Demyan protested. “I am joining the Kingless Knights when I’m of age.”

The men laughed, all rowdy and booming, making Demyan’s cheeks flush red.

“Oh, are you? Lord Petru, what do you say?”

Smiling, Lord Petru ruffled Demyan’s bangs. “He is a fiery one, is he not? My greying hair is his fault.”

With a huff, Demyan stepped away from his father’s show of affection and clenched his teeth.

“You’re just old. How is that my doing?” Demyan muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.

“See what I mean?” Lord Petru lamented.

The knights—most of whom also had silver at their temples or threaded through their beards—nodded with the sympathetic understanding old men, apparently, reserved for one another.

“But!” Lord Petru continued, rubbing his chin. Demyan perked up. “Rascal or no, the boy is restless, and I’d rather have him galloping on a horse than stirring up trouble. He used to run my messages back when I held a few steeds myself, so he won’t fall off a saddle. How about a race? If the brat wins, we barter.”

Biting his lip, Demyan tried to hide a smile. He would win. He surely would.

On the horizon, the sun was setting; a slight chill had crept into the air. If Demyan wanted to get his horse today, he needed to hurry. The knights were still murmuring among themselves, from time to time looking over the offered furs and leather.

Full of resolve, Demyan stepped forward. He was about to rush them, but he didn’t get a chance.

“Alright!” the knight leading the party announced. “Racing it is,” he said, sending Demyan a wide grin. “We do not bully children, so you won’t be racing one of us. There’s a boy around your age I look out for. He should be green enough to make it a fair deal.”

From then on, Demyan didn’t remember anything coherent—only hooves hitting ground, the sky burning red, a white steed on his left, and the tips of his fingers prickling while his heart thrummed.

Similar to now, with Chornovoron speeding up under him, carrying him over the green plains. Teeth bared in a feral grin, Demyan raced past the apple gardens, eager to get home.

***

“My lord, this is unbecoming.”

Solomia’s words carried through the dining hall, all the way to the end of it, where Lord Petru promptly choked on a piece of bread. He glanced up at his younger son. Demyan could admit it—he truly did look unbecoming: still dirty and disheveled.

Half-heartedly, he tried to straighten his robes to no visible effect.

“I was riding just now,” Demyan said with an easy shrug.

“My lord, this—”

“Oh, Solomia, dear, give him a rest. He can’t part with Chornovoron for a moment. How can I, his one and only father, compare?” Lord Petru sighed dramatically.

A light chuckle chimed through the hall. Solomia would never laugh at such a jest; the sound belonged to their honored guest—Elder Heronym of the Ostburgh Academy. For any other visitor, Demyan would have to be dragged in by force.

“Uncle Ronym!” Demyan smiled wide, took a quick step forward, and bowed deeply in greeting. “Father,” he added, belatedly.

While Lord Petru sputtered at the disrespect, Elder Heronym laughed, a web of wrinkles deepening around his eyes. His hair had turned completely white since their last meeting, yet the genuine kindness in his gaze was as permanent as his modest scholar’s robes.

“Demyan, my boy—come, come. Let me look at you!” the Elder beckoned.

The dining hall of the Stal estate was a relic of the family’s old fortune—long and grand, with stained-glass windows and heavy tapestries adorning the walls. The walk from the entrance to the table was lengthy enough; Demyan managed to retie his ponytail and brush his bangs away.

“What are you flashing your pretty face for? Shoo! If you wanted to impress your uncle that badly, you should’ve at least washed and dressed properly!” Lord Petru scolded.

Demyan’s ears flushed bright red.

After laughing so hard he had to hold his belly, Elder Heronym scarcely managed to collect himself and stagger out of his seat of honor.

“Oh, what a handsome little lord indeed!” the Elder exclaimed between giggles—then stopped abruptly. His eyes went up and down in quick succession. “And so tall already! I used to carry you around like a puppy, but now you’re just fifteen years of age, and I already have to look up!”

“You’ve just shrunk, old man,” Lord Petru noted—and quickly bit into a piece of meat. Demyan’s father had learned to keep his mouth occupied with food, lest his humor end another friendship.

“Father jests. Uncle Ronym is the same as I remember,” Demyan said, smiling.

“You’ve got some silver on your tongue now, too—ha!” Completely unbothered by the comment, Elder Heronym kept his full attention on poking and probing Demyan. “These muscles, boy—are you chopping wood for ten hours every day? But these eyes of yours…” His expression softened. “Lucian is the spitting image of his father, but you, my boy, are clearly your mother’s son. Look at you, Demyan. My dearest Oreana would be so proud!” The Elder smiled wistfully, eyes watering.

Seeing his uncle was about to cry, Demyan replied hastily:

“I know she would, Uncle Ronym.” He took Elder Heronym’s hands in his own and squeezed a bit. Demyan’s eyes sparked with mischief as he leaned in and whispered in faux secrecy, “Father is making fun of me so freely because he knows I have too much of her confidence and none of his shortcomings.” Demyan grinned wide enough to show his perfect, white, uncrooked smile.

By the table, Lord Petru stilled, the point of a table knife between his teeth as he tried to pry a piece of meat loose. His left fang glimmered silver—for as long as Demyan could remember, his father had a silver tooth in place of his canine.

Prying the blade away from his mouth, Lord Petru glared.

“Truly, my son is too vicious, just like his mother!” He exclaimed and pointed the knife at Demyan. “Go on, taunt me. With that temper of yours, sooner or later you will lose a tooth or two—mark my words!” He narrowed his eyes. “And when that happens, let us see if you would have a good, loving wife who’d be embarrassed enough by your terrible looks to buy you a new one!”

Arching an eyebrow, Demyan glanced at Lord Petru. “I accept your wager, Father. How many golden ducats if I win?”

“You brat! Go make yourself presentable before demanding money from me!”

The reunion continued after Demyan heeded his father’s scolding, washed up, and donned one of the robes Lucian had left behind. Solomia prepared a modest feast and a generous amount of honeyed beer, freshly delivered from the Stal-owned village of Medov. Eating and drinking, the older men united in teasing Demyan. He met each jab with his head held high—or, to his shame, with bright red ears. 

Whenever Elder Heronym asked too many questions, Demyan suspected his older brother was behind them. Those were the toughest ones to answer.

Time flew as beer flowed, and soon enough all three were laughing and drunkenly stumbling over their words. Demyan was not allowed to drink much, and Elder Heronym should drink even less, but Lord Petru had a frightening alcohol tolerance. His understanding of “not much” was rather twisted. Eventually, the lovely discussion trickled down to the dreaded topic—the current state of affairs in the Crown lands.

“You scholars don’t understand the spirit of Wildfields at all,” Lord Petru waved Elder Heronym’s previous argument off like an annoying fly. “From the poorest lads to the curious sons of nobility,” he added pointedly, looking at Demyan—who promptly choked on his beer—“they all go there for glory and funds, yes. On the surface.” Lord Petru put his cup down with a bang. “But Wildfields!”

The sudden motion put out a few candles. Demyan, recovering from his coughing fit, took on the task of rekindling them. Fire reflected in his vermilion eyes as he snuck a few expectant looks at his father.

Lord Petru, when tipsy, could talk for hours about the glory of Veliruth—old kings and queens, reverently retelling the stories of House Stal’s knighthood days. Then he would curse the shame of Veliruth’s collapse, blame all vassals large and small for the Long Ruin. Inevitably, he would come to Wildfields. Demyan calculated his father was tipsy enough tonight to forgo all the boring old empire talk.

“Wildfields is the last bastion of freedom and loyalty,” Lord Petru proclaimed. “Those Kingless Knights are kingless because their true king died when the old realm died. No other crown could hold them—you know it yourself, Ronym. Their loyalties are so ancient that…” He huffed a laugh. “I’ll be damned, but kings like that don’t exist anymore. And that’s what you don’t understand! Can some politically convenient alliance of greedy vassals really take charge of such a weapon?”

Elder Heronym eagerly put down his cup to retort. With beer foam bubbling in his beard, he raised his hand in disagreement.

“Dear brother-in-law, it’s you who doesn’t understand! The—the Kingless Knights Register, it’s…” Elder Heronym was drunker than his opponent, so his points came out disjointed. “It’s going to be a gr… great success! Times have changed, yes, but for the better! We don’t need the strength of Severyi the Bloodless or… or Olhena the Wrathful to hold down warriors anymore.” Uncle Ronym clumsily bowed his head to the north in respect of their names. “We have a government for that now. Written law and—and courts to enforce it,” the Elder hiccuped, refusing to give up. “Registering Kingless Knights is the only way to include them in the new realm. They will get lands and yearly stipends. His Majesty the King truly listened to us with this! He’s a good king!”

Demyan poured his father more beer and listened attentively.

“He’s good—I won’t argue,” Lord Petru agreed, surprisingly, without a fight. “But he has a bunch of wealthy nobles breathing down his neck, asking this or that. Your Lord-Magnat refused the crown exactly because of this, did he not?”

Elder Heronym nodded. Disheartened, he gulped down the last of his beer.

“Ah, indeed. My lord is too… Crownless King suits him better than—than a king with a crown in name only. But the Register, Petru. Don’t you see the potential?”

Caught red-handed in his attempt to change topics, Lord Petru sighed and thoughtfully chewed on a piece of dried apple.

“Haaah… I don’t know,” he finally replied. “Ronym, it sounds good on paper, but do you truly believe they will just orderly register like cattle, with no real overlord to pledge to? After running free for so long?”

“Not all of th-them, of course. But it’s better than having thousands of uncontrolled, war-hungry men running around Wildfields. B-brother,” the Elder hiccuped, “a knight without a king is a weapon without a sheath. It can stab anyone.”

Deep in contemplation, Lord Petru didn’t reply.

“Any weapon can stab anyone,” Demyan interjected. Three cups of beer and years of family bickering prompted him to bluntly involve himself. “It’s not about a sheath. It’s about who wields it.”

“Huh.” Elder Heronym stopped mid-drink. “Interesting words, my bright nephew. Are you sure you don’t want to go back with me to Ostburgh? Lucian misses you a lot.”

“Don’t tease, Uncle. I’m serious,” Demyan insisted.

“Oh-ho-ho, the lad is all grown up?” Uncle Ronym giggled. “Then let us be serious, nephew.” He shook his head as if to sober up. “So, here’s a riddle for you: if left open, a blade cuts even its owner. When idle, it rusts into uselessness. Left masterless, a good weapon will soon be picked up by another. And when there’s no one to wield it? The weapon fades into oblivion. Nothing wants to disappear, so it will inevitably cling to its existence—finding ways to quench its thirst. So, nephew, what should be done?”

Demyan drew his brows together, thinking. He wasn’t a scholar to debate grand things, so he mused by putting himself in the weapon’s place.

“Okay, then. A weapon needs not just any master, but a good one—one who will sheath it and wield it wisely. But why must only a king be such a master?”