Less than a heartbeat later, Vilon was already on his feet, his sword clear of its scabbard and leveled toward the shifting shadows where the sound had broken the night.

The fire crackled and spat behind him, its orange flames throwing long, dancing spears of light against the ever-encompassing darkness. Vilon swallowed hard,he found his throat dry.

He hated the dark; he hated the way it swallowed the perimeter of his vision, leaving him entirely blind to whatever might be creeping through the brush. For all he knew, a dozen faceless assailants could be silently circling his small patch of grass, waiting for his back to turn.

"Show yourself, or I’ll cut you down!" he called out. He tried to force a roaring fire into his voice, but it came out flat, sounding more like a flickering candle drowning in a draft.

Were they bandits? Every merchant and traveler he had passed along the Magna Strata had sung praises of how incredibly safe the grand highway was. Fool! Vilon scolded himself bitterly. Every land has bandits. Why in the five hells would Yarzat be any different?

"I warn you, I am armed, and I know how to handle iron!" he shouted deeper into the black thicket, his knuckles tightening on the grip. "If you are looking for an easy purse, you’d best look elsewhere!"

A shrill, piercing shriek suddenly rose into the night air. Having spent the better part of his life sleeping on the hard road, often tucked right against the treelines, Vilon recognized the sound immediately. It was an owl. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given the bird a single thought, but tonight, his nerves were stretched as taut as a bowstring.

I am a man grown, he fiercely reminded himself, trying to stop the trembling in his knees. I am a knight. I am not to show fear.

The owl shrieked a second time, that made Vilon flinch despite his inner scolding. For a long, agonizing stretch, the night went utterly still again, save for the bitter winter wind howling through the willow branches.

Monsters, Vilon thought, a sudden, childish dread creeping into his chest. There could be very well monsters there and I’d never see them.

Driven by a sudden surge of bravery that tasted entirely of desperation and recklessness, he took a heavy step forward into the gloom. He held his sword at hand, yet he had never felt so utterly defenseless as he did at that moment.

"If you are merely a traveler searching for a hearth, step forward and make yourself known!" Vilon commanded, his voice shaking slightly from the encroaching frost. "We shall share the wood, for the night is bitterly cold. But if you keep to your silence, I will regard you as a foe and treat you as such!"

At long last, the thick dark stirred. The heavy rustle of dry ferns echoed from the path, and a voice heralded from the blackness.

"Ser Vilon?"

Vilon froze, his sword lowering an inch in sheer confusion. He blinked hard, wondering if the isolation was finally playing tricks on his mind. The voice was young, breathless, and entirely familiar.

"Owen?"

"Ser!"

The boy burst through the treeline like a ghost materialized from the shadows. He had been a full week’s ride away from his family’s hearth, yet here he stood. Before Vilon could even process the impossibility of it, the boy dropped into a run, his scalp-long hair catching the bright glare of the firelight as he lunged forward. Two massive, thick-muscled arms wrapped around the knight’s torso in a desperate, bone-crushing embrace.

He was made of solid flesh and bone, all right.

"Ser!" Owen choked out again, burying his face into the worn wool of Vilon’s cloak.

"This... this ser’s spine is about to snap cleanly in half, Owen," Vilon wheezed out, his lungs entirely compressed by the boy’s surprising strength. Only the slightest whisper of air managed to pass through his throat.

Realizing his own strength, Owen hastily released him, stepping back with his head down as Vilon stumbled slightly, taking a series of deep, grateful breaths to clear his head. He had honestly expected never to see the lad again, certainly not in this life, and yet, against all logical sense, here he was.

"What in the name of the gods are you doing out here, Owen?" Vilon asked, his voice a mix of awe and lingering shock. "You are half a kingdom away from your home!"

Owen wiped a streak of dirt and sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving as he looked at the spitting fire. "My mama told me what happened after you rode off," the boy began. "She tried to tell me that you simply had a sudden change of heart. She lied to my face, Ser. She said you grew cowardly in the night, packed your things, and ran away because you didn’t want the burden of a clumsy village boy trailing behind your fine stallion."

Owen’s jaw tightened "But I knew the truth. I knew you wouldn’t just abandon me like a stray hound without a word. I went out to the stables the moment the sun broke, and I saw the deep hooves of New Chestnut leading directly toward the Stone Road. My uncle tried to bar my way, told me I was a fool to chase a vagrant knight who wanted nothing to do with us, but I wouldn’t listen. I packed whatever stale crusts of bread and fruits I could stuff into my sack, and I walked."

The boy took a step closer to the fire, his hands trembling slightly from the deep chill. "I didn’t stop, Ser Vilon. I rode through the early dawn, through the midday heat, and when the legs threatened to give out, I pinched them and walked in the dark. I didn’t know if I had lost your trail on the stones. Every time the road split, I prayed to the All-Knower to guide my boots. I thought... I thought if I didn’t find you before , the frost would take you, or the highwaymen would find you sleeping alone. I’ve been tracking the ash of old fires for seven days, just hoping one of them belonged to you.Asked the taverns along the way but said none had seen you.That was until at last an old man confided he had seen a knight with a roast on a shield travelling down.I saw hooves on the mud leading away from the road and I followed!And here you are!The gods must have blessed my misssion for I am here!"

A sharp, agonizing pang of guilt and profound warmth made its way into Vilon’s heart. The boy had traveled for a grueling week, navigating a dangerous, unfamiliar highway day and night, with absolutely no guarantee that he was even moving in the right direction. Had Vilon been in the boy’s boots, he knew he wouldn’t have possessed half the courage to dare such a journey, especially since Owen had a warm, loving family waiting for him back in the safety of the valley.

He did not deserve such a squire.

What had he that spurred the boy to leave his home?

He made this entire perilous journey just for me, Vilon realized, a sudden tightness gripping his throat as hot tears wellled in his eyes.

He turned his face away for a brief second, aggressively wiping his sleeve across his eyes before the boy could notice his weakness. He took a stabilizing breath, cleared his throat, and looked back at his thick-headed, wonderfully loyal squire.

"Well," Vilon managed a small, rough smile, his voice thick. "The trout is just about done sizzling, Owen. It seems the gods knew I’d be sharing my rations after all. Pull up a log and warm your hands. Unfortunately, I only managed to catch the one, so we will have to split the hard salt beef afterward to keep our ribs from rattling."

"It’s been a bit since I last tasted fresh fish," Owen admitted, his eyes wide and reflecting the embers as he stepped closer to the hearth. "It’ll be a grand treat, Ser. But you can keep your salt beef in the pack where it belongs. I brought along some hard bread, a good pouch of smoked venison jerky, and a fair amount of fruit. When Mama realized I wasn’t going to be stopped by her or anyone else, she wept, cursed my thick skull, and shoved it all into my sack."

"She is a good mother, Owen.Don’t think ill of her"

"Why would I? She is the absolute best," the boy said, nodding fiercely as he claimed a spot on the rotting log.

They shared the trout right off the ash-wood stick, and the meat was as soft, sweet, and flaky as anything they had ever tasted on the road. Vilon would have confidently called it the finest dinner of his life, but his memory held a stubborn, sacred rival: the grand celebration feast marking the end of the war. His mouth still watered like a flowing river just thinking about the staggering mounds of roasted meats, seasoned sausages, thick slabs of crackling bacon, and eggs he had gorged on that glorious day.

Once the trout was picked clean to the bone, Owen dug into his sack, pulling out a wedge of sharp goat’s cheese and a handful of bright, sweet oranges. They had been given to him by some of the other villagers who had stepped out of their huts when they realized the lad was truly leaving the valley. As Owen peeled the fruit, the bright, citrus scent cutting through the smoke, a small, sorrowful expression bloomed across his broad face.

It probably smellled of home.

It pained Vilon to see the boy’s spirits flag. Luckily, he knew exactly how to fan a dying spark.

"Owen," he called out softly over the crackle of the oak bark.

"Yes, Ser?" the boy asked, looking up from his orange peels.

"Are you deeply sad to have left your family behind?"

Owen offered a slow, heavy nod, his shoulders slumping. "I’m not a bit sorry to have followed you, Ser Vilon. I’d do it all over again. But... I know I’m going to miss them before the winter is out."

"Well, there is absolutely nothing saying we won’t ride back through this valley one day, you know," Vilon said, his voice dropping into a warm, confident register.

Owen’s eyes flickered with a sudden, fragile hope. "Will we, truly?"

"Of course we will!" Vilon barked a bright laugh, leaning forward to clap a heavy hand against the boy’s sturdy shoulder. "As soon as we make ourselves a decent mountain of coin, I am going to buy you a proper, heavy-set warhorse and a suit of polished iron! I’ll have you strutting and parading through the center of that whole village like a proper lordling, making every single one of your cousins green with envy."

Owen chuckled, the gloom instantly lifting from his face, though a practical frown soon followed. "And where exactly are we going to find a mountain of coin on a stone road, Ser? We’re a pair of vagrants with one good horse between us."

Vilon’s smile widened,thrilling glint illuminating his eyes as he poked the embers with a stick, sending a magnificent shower of gold sparks up into the dark night.

"A knight’s first tournament is a thing he never forgets, Owen," Vilon whispered, the excitement bleeding into his tone. "And that is exactly where this road is taking us next. There are grand lords down the line with entirely too much silver in their purses and entirely too little wit in their skulls. We’re going to go take it from them.

They’ll sing songs of Vilon and Owen when we are done."

’’Really?’’

’’Yes and a great merry song that will be. A summer’s song and a winter song, a song of all seasons!’’