Sir Rolan Coytak steadily rode through the hamlet, his pale-brown rouncy, Lyra, trodding along a dirt path, ignoring all the eyes upon him. People gathered in hushed awe at the old knight, his black and grey striped cloak swirling in the wind, his silvery-plated armour glittering in the afternoon sunlight.

Rolan was a tall figure who loomed over many, with an elegant frame under a fortress of armour. His face was always serious, worn with wrinkles of time, and his hair was greying. Yet he wasn’t sure if that was because of his age or the stress of his duties.

‘A paladin of the holy order,’ a commoner whispered.

‘Witches must be about, I told you,’ said another.

On a slow-paced grey mule trailing behind him was his squire, Lucan Malrin. A youth of thirteen, the boy was as lean as a thin tree, had arms like branches, and almost always wore a dopey smile.

Rolan studied their surroundings, seeing a tall building on the opposite side of the crowd—an inn. We’ll rest there, he thought.

‘Find us a room,’ Rolan Coytak said—Grizzly from his aeons as a paladin.

‘Yes sir,’ Lucan rode to the left, feigning seriousness and determination. As he went further out, Rolan saw the cluelessness dawn on the boy’s face. ‘Where might I find one?’

‘The inn is often the place most start,’ Rolan told the boy sternly, motioning to the building. Lucan’s grey-cloudy eyes widened with embarrassment, and he nodded, steered his mule around, and plodded through the watchful crowd, parting as he went. 

Rolan steered the reins toward the holy monument at the hamlet's centre, where a priest knelt with his dagger. In front of him, amongst a stony foundation, was the hand of Farkiesh, the father of all sons and daughters. Rolan’s mount drifted closer to it, and he saw the litany of scratches along the palm, where people marked their presence to the great father.

‘May our duties compel us never to forget your lessons,’ the middle-aged priest prayerfully murmured. He rose, his thin lips bearing a surprising smile at the older knight. ‘Good sir, it is a pleasure to see you here. I am Alaxander, the preist of this little village. Tell me what brings you to these distant lands?’ he asked kindly, pulling away his hood to unveil a fuzzy head like a peach.

Rolan climbed down his rouncy, holding the reins as he warmly looked on at the priest. It had been weeks since they stopped at a village. The sight of the priest, adorned in the grey robes that secluded his thin frame, brought familiar memories of a simpler time when he grew up in the monastery.

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‘Duty,’ he replied, looking to his right, seeing worshippers approaching with anxious grace. Rolan took his gauntlet off, revealing his harsh pale hands, with the signet of Paladins on the index finger. He lowered it to the people, who, one by one, came to kiss the ring and say a word of grace to the knight.

‘What duty might that be? Sir?’ 

‘Rolan Coytak. We received word of blood magic across the amber river,' the knight said, casually making the idea of "Blood Magic" seem unimportant. It wasn’t that the old knight believed it wasn’t a threat; the realms of men were a library of false rumours and fairy tales.

 The priest grimaced at the words. ‘Dark rumours, yet I do not know if they will bear you fruit.’

‘I pray they won’t.’ The paladin looked to the last of the worshippers, who gently kissed the signet and then left.   

Rolan approached the monument, seeing the many carvings along it from the commoners, priests, and perhaps even lords who came to mark their notice to the father. He Unsheathed his luxurious longsword. The blade’s gilded patterns gleaned under the light, marking his presence on the index finger, where all paladins mark, with a single stroke of his blade. He sheathed his sword and noted how lonely his mark looked.

‘May this mark grant me the strength and wisdom to carry out my duties and to protect me from the seductive nature of the dark arts,’ Rolan murmured in solemn prayer. He turned to the clattering of pots and pans. Seeing the source of the noise, unphased by it.

‘Sir, I’ve done what you’ve asked!’ Lucan shouted, holding desperately at the straps of his bag, which hung low on his back. 

‘Where’s your sword?’ the paladin asked, stern but not unkindly, shooting a look at the boy’s empty scabbard. The priest laughed slightly. With embarrassment, Lucan’s face turned a cherry pink, and he started stammering various words. Sighing, Rolan said: ‘Get it. Wait for me at the inn. I’ll be there shortly.’ 

‘The order’s newest and brightest?’ The priest asked Rolan as Lucan ran off, clattering all the way.

‘Certainly the newest. He’s a nice lad, and I know he means well. I hope he learns to grow up a little on this journey, especially if these rumours bear fruit.’ The knight held the pommel of his sheathed sword. 

Curiously, the priest turned, stroking his fork-shaped black beard. ‘If I may be bold to ask, where does this journey take you next?’ 

‘We’re to travel to the Amberfor for an audience with the baron.’ Rolan saw the priest’s face turning subtly sour.

‘Ah yes, such a tragic young lord. A brother and a father dying with such little time between. Truly, the father’s judgement is a strange thing,’ the priest said, underlined with mockery. 

That took Rolan aback, yet he didn’t enquire further. He was tired and weary and wished to finish this duty. He was also bound by the laws of the order never to involve himself in the politics of man. 

‘Well, I’ll bid you farewell, good sir; I pray you safe travels,’ the priest said.

Rolan gave a graceful bow, then retired to the inn, wondering what trouble his squire would have gotten himself into.