Rolan watched his squire as he tended to the horse and mule by the stream, checking their hoofs for stones and tightening their saddle straps to ensure nothing came loose. They were amongst tall redwood trees that closed around them, their leaves an autumn gold, and the amber river distantly rushing south.

Seated on a log with a long stick, he flipped the bacon, sizzling and spitting on a pan atop a fire they had made moments ago. Rolan knew Lucan would be thankful for it, as his stomach had complained all morning since they left the hamlet.

Lucan sniffed the air harshly and moaned: ‘How much longer?’

Rolan flipped it one more time, seeing that it was ready. ‘Finish what you’re doing first, then grab the bread.’

Lucan did so swiftly, the fastest the old knight had seen him move thus far. Double-checking everything, he took the bread out of the saddlebag and approached eagerly, sitting on the log beside Rolan, handing the bread to him.

As they began breaking their fast, chewing away at the bacon that crunched and cracked between their teeth, Rolan saw the tired look on his young squire's face.

‘Those stables must’ve been comfortable last night,’ the knight murmured, chewing between words.

Lucan scoffed. ‘Oh yes, Exactly what I dreamt a squire’s life would be like.’

‘Could’ve been worse, could’ve been sleeping in the kennels,’ Rolan japed, chuckling to himself.

Lusan tried to hide his annoyance, yet his face betrayed him. ‘Are we going to find a witch out here?’ He asked, trying to switch the conversation.

‘Witch, wizard. We’d be more likely to find fairies and goblins. I cannot say for certain what is true and what is mere fantasy,’ the paladin stirred on the log and sighed. ‘A commoner will see a shadow on a sunless day and declare the dark prince is amidst them. The lords don’t help by sparking more rumours about those who oppose them. That’s how the world works. It’s our role to determine what is just rumour and false claims, and what is real and a threat.’

Lusan chewed, thought for a moment, looked curiously at the paladin, and said, ‘Have you seen a witch? A wizard, goblin, fairy, or what-not?’

Rolan didn’t react to the question, and memories came flooding in of a time long since past. ‘I have. That is a story for another time, however. Go on, finish your food. We must make haste to meet the baron before dawn.’

His squire wasn’t all too happy about that prospect. Perhaps he was hoping he would rest a bit longer.

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They gathered their supplies and remounted, embarking along the river southwards towards Amberfor. They travelled on for hours along the dirt road, flattened by use, the hoofs of their mounts throwing up dirt and leaves. They passed by wanderers that trailed the path, either heading toward or away from Amberfor. Merchant caravans passed by on horse-drawn wagons, and farmers carried large sacks of grain to sell.

To their left was the open plains of Ragon, where holdfasts dotted the landscape, with mills here and there and prairies scattered throughout. To their right, across the river, sat the redwoods—monoliths of wood standing as tall as mountains stretching on for miles. Near the banks of the rivers were hunting lodges, some with hunters outside tying deer up to bleed, with the scent of death blowing across and up the paladin’s nose. Occasionally, rowboats passed them, fishermen with nets full of fresh-water salmon, red and scaly.

Riding up a little hill, side by side, the paladin and his squire looked outwards toward Amberfor—situated near the river, atop a steep embankment, ringed by a wooded palisade with towers dotted here and there, men patrolling the walls, peaking through the crenelations, and a small gatehouse, protected by a single drawbridge that spanned the length of the ditch around the base of the hill, following the steep curvature of the low hill. Across from it, nearing the river, was the town of Ambercole, which was lightly defended and had one stone building amongst it, a church, which towered over the smaller houses.

Going through the town and heading towards the keep’s outer gates, the town’s liveliness greeted them, common folk going through the streets, talking to one another, wearing their tunics dyed in an array of colours: green, blue, with some wearing a light red, and most brown and dull. Some people stopped and gawked, others went to their knees, and most didn’t understand what to do. They trodded up a curvy hill into the inner town, and as they did, Rolan smelt bread freshly baked with other scents of lavender and rosemary. Though that only veiled the smell of shit and sweat that was lingering like a deathly poison in the air.

They passed under the portcullis into the outer bailey after crossing the drawbridge. Surrounding them were chaotic wooded structures: Stables, workshops, a foundry, barracks, and a small hall situated to the westernmost part of the outer bailey, with no sense of where the buildings were put.

Here, the heat began to come into its own, and the knight felt himself strain under his steel-plated armour and his skin sweltering. Rolan kept on it without a word whilst Lucan huffed and puffed the whole way through.

As they neared the keep at the far end of the town, where a closed gatehouse waited, a guard was standing atop the battlements, looking down amongst two crenelations, with two banners baring house Greycrow’s sigil - a grey crow carrying a red arrow on a field of amber.

‘Halt!’ the guard shouted, looking through thin slits on a rounded helm. ‘State your name and business!’

Rolan took his gauntlet off and made a fist, showing the guard the ring of Paladins. ‘I come on orders of the Holy Order of Farikesh. I seek an audience with the baron about dark rumours in the barony!’

The man was silent momentarily, disappeared behind the crenellations, and reappeared with two others at his side. Rolan could hear them whispering, but not what they were saying because of the blacksmith’s hammer ringing the air around them.

‘Am I welcomed?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Of course, sir,’ the man in the middle said. ‘Raise the gate!’