Rickard clasped the crimson cloth Sir Theon had given him, feeling its soft texture against his palm. Inside The Black Bull tavern on the corner of Gravenberch Street, he sat and reminisced about The Silver Knight’s glistening hair and his striking black armour. Rickard pictured himself wearing it one day. The moment that cloth touched his hand, he’d forgotten he was just a boy on the streets of the capital, the type you could find anywhere else in the world.

The Black Bull was and always would be, a grimy cauldron of noise and motion. A heavy scent of roasted meat and spilled ale filled the air, mingling with the sweat of dozens of patrons packed tightly together, all of them coming from Gods’ knew where for the king’s peace tournament. The walls were adorned with faded tapestries depicting old battles long forgotten, and the wooden beams overhead were blackened with years of smoke from the hearth.

The din of conversations, laughter, and occasional outbursts of song made Rickard smile, but as he moved, his whole body ached from the beating he’d received from the guards. They hadn’t kept their promise to Sir Theon, leaving Rickard on the street for his friends to find him. The beating didn’t matter. He’d take a thousand if he could see Sir Theon fight again.

'You know, he absolutely destroyed him,' Rickard said to his friends before taking a sip of his pint.

Both Bolt and Kevan groaned.

'We know, mate, you saw Sir Theon fight,' Kevan said, 'Can you talk about literally anything else?'

A smirk formed on Rickard’s face. 'I’m just trying to tell you how much of an honour it was to see such a knight’s craft, that’s all. Honestly, his technique was flawless. He gave Sir Mandon no chance!'

'Did you see anyone else fight?' Bolt inquired, 'Prince Rickard maybe?'

The gleaming smile of the prince flashed through Rickard’s mind. He’d defeated the other prince, the Eastamerean one that moved like a feather in the wind, and the crowd, especially the girls, had gone wild for him. 'The prince? Erm… yeah I saw him… he was alright.'

Bolt smirked. 'Your mother named you after him, didn’t she?'

'She named me after the king,' Rickard snapped, anger stabbing at him, 'Not the prince.'

'They have the same name, you dumb arse!'

Rickard glared at his friend. He’d only ever asked his mother about his name once before she died. ‘You were named after the king, dear,’ she’d said, and Rickard supposed it must have been true. Yet as he recalled his mother’s words, Rickard realised she’d sounded uncertain when she’d said them, as if she were lying to him.

'Doesn’t matter,' Rickard said, 'When I’m a knight, I’m going to be amongst all of them, the king, the prince, Sir Theon, all of them. You’ll see.'

Both Bolt and Kevan exchanged a sceptical glance before erupting into uncontrollable laughter.

'You still think you’re gonna be a knight?' Kevan said, 'Come off it. People like us can’t be knights.'

'May I remind you Sir Theon Balogun came from nothing? He was a squire for Lord Axyl Hinley of Poppletown, and it was only when he enlisted into King Jacob’s army did he show his skills in swordsmanship. He broke the record for the most individual kills during a war, a record that hasn’t been broken since, and he performed so well during King Rickard’s rebellion that when the king won the throne, he pardoned him and named him the captain of his royal guard. So yes, I think if he can do it, I can do it.'

'Wow,' Kevan said, shaking his head in awe, 'I have never seen anyone so obsessed.'

'Sir Theon would clear out every single person in this tavern, especially them.'

Rickard nodded towards a booth to his left, where a quartet of beefy men sat, their clothes clinging to their muscly bodies like an extra layer of skin. When he, Bolt and Kevan arrived at the tavern, Rickard noticed them getting out of a huge carriage, and the whole thing wobbled as they got out of it one by one. They’d no doubt come for the king’s peace tournament as well, but there was nothing peaceful in their eyes.

One of the men thrashed his body around, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor as his bloodshot eyes locked onto Rickard’s table.

'Oi!' the man roared, his voice a thick growl smashing through the chatter like a club. Instantly, the room fell into a tense silence. 'You think you can talk about us, and we won’t do nothing just 'cause you’re little boys?'

The cold stab of fear slid down Rickard’s spine. Every instinct he had screamed for him to run, his legs itching to bolt for the door, to get out before it was too late. These weren’t just dogs looking to bark. These men were serious, their gazes filled with the promise of violence and blood.

Rickard swallowed hard, forcing the lump in his throat down. What would Sir Theon do? he asked himself. The Silver Knight wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t flinch in the face of danger. Sir Theon would meet their challenge head-on, unshaken, standing tall against the odds.

Nodding at them, Rickard said, 'yeah,' and matched their stern glares.

Bolt’s face turned pale. 'Rickard, what are you doing, mate? It’s not worth it.'

'Don’t worry, boys. I’ve got this.'

The four men rose from their seats in unison, their massive forms blocking out the dim light of the tavern. They stood like stone giants, the very air around them seeming to vibrate. As they closed in on Rickard's table, their hulking shadows loomed over him and his friends. The dull thud of their boots echoed in Rickard’s ears, the weight of each step making his pulse quicken.

Rickard craned his neck, looking up at the leader of their group. The man’s face was stone, unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were wild, burning with anger. Murderous. 'I think you three have outstayed your welcome. Leave. Now.'

'Aren’t you the one with the massive carriage outside?' Rickard said.

The man’s face didn’t move. He just glared at Rickard. 'Leave. Now.'

For a moment, Rickard’s mind blanked. His gaze darted from the brute’s face to his friends, who sat frozen, terrified. He thought about Sir Theon again, about how easily the knight could’ve turned this into a tale of triumph, cutting through these men like butter with his blade. But that wasn’t Rickard’s story. He wasn’t the hero here. He was just a boy, clutching at scraps of courage, trying to hold himself together.

I’ve got more will than wits, he thought, feeling the sweat bead along his brow. His mouth was dry, his stomach twisting with regret for having spoken up in the first place.

'Alright, alright,' he said quickly, forcing a smile that couldn’t quite reach his eyes. His hand moved fast, snagging the halfwit’s knife from the table and slipping it into his back pocket before the brute could notice. His pulse spiked—the danger giving him a rush. 'We’ll leave.'

Rickard fought the smirk forming on his face as he slowly got to his feet, motioning for Bolt and Kevan to follow. Their chairs scraped loudly against the wooden floor as they stood, all too aware of the eyes burning into them. The tavern had gone deathly quiet, the usual clamour of voices and laughter replaced with the suffocating tension of unspoken threats.

As they neared the exit, Rickard couldn’t resist one last glance at the fools. Idiots, he thought, feeling the knife’s reassuring weight in his hand. They probably hadn’t even noticed. He doubted they could spell their own names, let alone keep track of their belongings.

Rickard closed the door behind him, the tavern's muffled clamour fading into the background, swallowed by the cool night air. Only the loud, jarring caws of a crow echoed from the rooftops above, its dark shape barely visible in the dim light. The world outside felt quieter, but somehow heavier, as though the shadows held their breath, waiting, watching.

Rickard stepped away from the door, his fingers trembling as they closed around the small blade he’d stolen. He brought it into the pale moonlight, turning it over in his hand. It was small, barely enough to do any real damage in a proper fight, but the edge was sharp, and glinting with menace. It wasn’t a knight’s sword, but it was something—a worthy weapon of the streets. Still, as his fingers traced the cold metal, he couldn’t help the pang of disappointment.

Rickard tilted his head back, staring up at the sky, the stars barely visible through the thick haze hanging over the city. This isn’t who I am, he thought bitterly.

In his mind, the grimy streets disappeared, replaced by the grandeur of a royal hall. He saw himself donning the heavy black armour of the royal guard; the metal gleaming with power. It fit him perfectly, snug across his shoulders, his arms strong beneath the polished plates. His sword—a real sword—rested easily in his hand, its weight a natural extension of his arm. He imagined towering over his enemies, his presence alone enough to make them hesitate. They stood before him, swords drawn, eyes filled with fear. Behind him, the king watched from his throne, desperate and trembling, his hope pinned solely on Rickard.

The enemies lunged at him all at once, blades flashing. Rickard would move effortlessly—every strike blocked, every attack deflected with precision and grace. He danced across the stone floor, the sword in his hand a blur of silver, each slash a perfect stroke in the deadly painting he created. Blood sprayed from his enemies, splattering the walls and floor in thick streaks of red. One fell, then another, their bodies crumpling under his might. His sword sliced through them like a butcher’s cleaver through meat, severing heads, carving them down with each fluid motion. The battle was over in moments, and he stood alone, unscathed, the last warrior standing. Victorious.

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He blinked, and he returned to being no one.

Rickard eyed up the carriage standing in an alleyway by the tavern. The structure eclipsed the windows, and at least six horses lined up at the front of it, all of them black and bulky. He looked down at his knife, a smile creeping on his face.

'Those men looked a bit fat, didn’t they boys?' Rickard said, 'Perhaps we should encourage them to do some more exercise.'

Both Bolt and Kevan looked over at the carriage with open mouths. 'No,' Bolt said, 'There’s no way-'

'Look, the way I see it, it’s justice. They were dickheads to us, so we’re gonna be dickheads back, yeah?'

A grin sprung to Kevan’s face. 'Let’s do it.'

The carriage stood patiently by the tavern, its horses neighing softly. Rickard hid alongside Bolt and Kevan behind a large wooden barrel, watching the door as the moment was surely drawing near. He saw it in his mind over and over, of the carriage wheel collapsing, the owners grumbling to themselves as they tried to figure out with their dumb brains how exactly this had happened. It was going to be brilliant.

'Gods, their faces are going to be so good,' Kevan whispered, barely able to get the words out between stifled snickers. He hugged his knees tight to his chest, as though it would somehow keep the laughter from bursting free.

A laugh rose inside Rickard’s throat, and his lips curled into a grin. He was just about to nudge Kevan and whisper ‘I know,’ when the heavy tavern door creaked open, and the sound of boots scuffing against mud made his blood run cold. His laughter died instantly.

Four looming figures stepped into the night, sending long, menacing shadows to creep toward the boys' hiding spot. The heavy footsteps and low murmur of voices filled the chilly air, sending a shiver down Rickard’s spine. He swallowed hard and shot a hand out to shush Kevan and Bolt, who froze beside him, eyes shining with anticipation.

Rickard’s heart pounded in his chest as he peeked out from behind the barrel. The lead man, burly and broad-shouldered, exhaled a puff of smoke from a pipe clenched between his teeth, the grey cloud curling lazily into the starry sky. His narrow eyes scanned the abyss, Rickard’s nerves shooting when they hovered over their hiding spot, and he ducked to avoid them.

'I hope your stay here was satisfactory,' a thin, nervous voice squeaked from the doorway of the tavern, making cloaks rustle as the burly men drew their attention away from Rickard’s hiding spot.

Rickard poked his head over the barrel to see a boy, no older than himself, stepping into the light. His simple apron and dirt-streaked face marked him as one of the tavern workers, maybe the innkeeper’s son. He fidgeted under the gaze of the men, his voice faltering, as if he could sense the danger radiating from them. The men paid the boy no mind, their gruff laughter and gravelly voices growing louder as they closed the gap to the carriage.

Rickard’s fingers tightened around the edge of the barrel. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat now, drumming like a war drum. They were getting closer. Closer to the carriage. Closer to utter humiliation. Sweat trickled down his temple, cold as ice, despite the excitement and fear boiling inside him.

The biggest of the men—a hulking brute with arms like tree trunks—grunted something to the others and stepped forward, clambering up onto the front of the carriage. The wooden planks groaned under his weight as he settled onto the driver's bench, the wheel yet to give way. With a rough tug, he grabbed the reins. The other three men were still talking, their voices low and full of dark amusement.

'Have a pleasant journey, gentlemen,' the boy said with giddy optimism, 'We hope to see you soon.'

'Piss off,' the big man groaned, his voice thick with disdain. With a flick of his wrist, he lashed the reins.

The horses lurched forward, and a loud, splintering crack tore through the night as the carriage wheel gave way with a violent snap. The entire structure tipped to the side before collapsing into the mud with a heavy crash, sending a spray of filthy water and muck into the air. Horses neighed in confusion, their harnesses straining against the weight of the tilted carriage.

Bolt and Kevan barely suppressed their excitement, their faces flushed and eyes wide as they squealed and nudged each other. Rickard watched, a satisfied smile curling his lips, as the four brutes took a few disoriented moments to get their bearings and scramble out to inspect the damage.

The confusion on their faces was everything Rickard had hoped for—every bit as amusing as he’d imagined.

The biggest one suddenly thrashed his massive body around. His gaze locked onto the tavern boy, who still stood nervously by the door, and his face twisted with a fury so raw it made Rickard’s stomach drop. Laughter died in Rickard’s throat, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.

The brute stormed towards the boy with terrifying speed, mud splashing up his legs as his boots pounded through the muck. His massive hand shot out like a claw, grabbing the boy by the front of his shirt. The boy let out a startled yelp as he dangled helplessly in the air, his legs kicking.

'You ruined our carriage!' the man bellowed, his voice booming with rage. Spit flew from his mouth as he shook the boy like a rag doll, his eyes shot with fury.

'I…' The boy must have had so many thoughts running through his mind, but all that could escape his mouth was trembling gibberish.

The brute didn’t care. His face twisted into an ugly snarl, and before the boy could say anything more, the man’s fist shot forward with a sickening crack. His knuckles collided with the boy’s jaw, and the sound echoed through the street like a hammer striking stone. The boy’s head snapped to the side, and for a brief, agonising moment, everything seemed to freeze.

The boy crumpled to the ground, collapsing into the mud like a discarded puppet. He lay there, motionless, face down in the filthy street. Rickard’s heart pounded wildly in his chest, his breath caught in his throat. His jaw dropped open as he watched, horror dawning like ice spreading through his veins.

What have I done?

For a moment, Rickard thought the boy was dead, but screams of agony pierced the night, a sound so raw it made Rickard’s stomach writhe.

I have to stop this.

The realisation hit him like a punch to the gut. His vision blurred, and his mind raced. The terror of the moment sharpened into something unbearable, something he couldn’t ignore. That boy was suffering because of him. Because of me.

Bolt’s tight grip wrapped around Rickard’s shoulder. 'Rickard, let’s get out of here.'

Another scream lashed against his eardrums, sharp and desperate. The sound twisted inside him, making his stomach wriggle as though it were full of live serpents. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. His hand, slick with cold sweat, clenched the knife in his pocket—his knuckles turning white as he gripped the hilt.

That boy wouldn’t be going through any of this if it weren’t for me.

The thought stabbed at him, cutting deeper than any blade. His heart hammered against his ribs as he glanced down at the piece of crimson cloak stuffed into his tunic—a trophy from his meeting with his hero, a symbol of what he could be. He stared at it, guilt gnawing at him like a hungry beast. Would Sir Theon ever do something like this? Would any knight?

Another scream tore through the night, louder this time—broken and jagged, like the boy was gasping for air between sobs. Rickard’s blood ran cold, and the sound shattered whatever was left of his resolve.

No.

He couldn’t just stand by and let this happen. He couldn’t watch another second. His breath came faster, shallower, as panic gripped him. The air around him felt too thick, too heavy, like it was suffocating him.

Rickard gripped the knife tighter, feeling the weight of the cold metal against his palm. The reality of what he was about to do flooded his mind, but he couldn’t turn back. He wouldn’t. The weight of his guilt and responsibility crushed him. He couldn’t let that boy die—not when it was his own reckless actions that had put him there.

'Rickard, what are you—' Bolt’s voice disappeared amidst another agonising cry. The sound of life slowly being beaten out of someone too young, too innocent. Rickard’s gut twisted into a knot so tight he could barely breathe. He had to act. Now. Before it was too late.

With a sharp intake of breath, Rickard shoved himself forward. His feet moved before his mind could catch up, propelling him out from behind the safety of the barrel and into the street. His heart thundered in his chest, each beat loud and frantic in his ears as he broke into a sprint. His vision tunnelled, focusing solely on the boy—bloodied and broken in the mud—and the brutes surrounding him, their laughter cruel and merciless.

'Stop it,' Rickard said, faintly at first, his heart racing, 'STOP IT! LEAVE HIM ALONE!'

The blood roared in his ears, every beat of his heart a countdown to disaster. The brutish men were too engrossed in their cruel work, their fists rising and falling as they pummelled the boy into the mud. They didn’t even see Rickard coming.

The blade found flesh with a sickening squelch, a sharp resistance that sent a jolt of horror coursing through Rickard’s veins.

And then everything stopped.

The men froze, their fists hovering midair. The boy’s broken cries fell silent, the night air heavy with sudden, suffocating stillness. Rickard’s eyes fluttered open, his breath catching in his throat as he realised what he had done.

The knife—his stolen knife—had buried itself deep in the chest of the biggest man. The man’s massive frame stood rigid, like a felled tree caught in the moment before it crashes to the ground. His hands twitched uselessly at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling as if trying to grasp the reality of what had just happened. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, looked down at the knife lodged between his ribs. Blood seeped from the wound, dark and slow, staining his tunic.

For a moment, the man’s eyes met Rickard’s, and Rickard saw something there—something fleeting and human, a flicker of fear, of shock. But then his eyes rolled back, his body sagging like a puppet with its strings cut. The hulking brute collapsed to the ground with a dull, lifeless thud, his head landing near Rickard’s feet, the blood pooling around him.

Rickard stood paralysed, his entire body trembling as he stared down at the man he’d just killed. I’ve killed him. The thought echoed in his mind, hollow and disbelieving. His hands, still held out in front of him, shook uncontrollably. The knife—the blade he’d imagined wielding like a hero, like a true knight—now stood lodged in a dead man’s chest. There was no glory here, no victory. Only cold, brutal reality.

I’ve just killed a man.

All his life, he had dreamed of holding a sword, defending the innocent, serving with honour. And now, here he was, staring down at the corpse of a man he had just murdered.

The boy lay in the mud, staring up at Rickard with wide, fearful eyes, his lip split and bleeding. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. Rickard wanted to say something, to ask if the boy was alright, to tell him he didn’t mean for this to happen, but the words shied away. His throat was tight, his mind spinning.

A flash of white light exploded in his vision, and pain bloomed across his face like fire. The ground rushed up to meet him, the world tilting as his head slammed into the mud with a wet smack. His cheek stung from the blow, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. His ears rang, the sharp, dizzying pain making it hard to think, to breathe.

Rickard blinked rapidly, his vision swimming as he tried to push himself up, but a heavy boot pressed down on his chest, pinning him to the ground. The mud squelched beneath him, cold and filthy, as the world around him blurred into shadowy shapes.

'You dirty little murderer,' one of the men spat, his voice a low growl filled with hatred. Rickard could barely make out his face, but he could feel the venom in his words, the fury in his posture.

The other two men loomed above him like giants, their fists clenched, their eyes burning with rage. Rickard’s head throbbed, the pain radiating through his skull as he tried to focus, but the fear was too strong, too overwhelming. His body ached, his muscles stiff with terror. He knew what was coming next.

Their fists curled tighter, knuckles cracking as they readied themselves to beat him senseless. This is it, Rickard thought, his heart sinking as the reality hit him. He was going to die here, in the capital, face down in the mud, a street urchin who had flown too close to the sun. His dreams of knighthood, of valour and glory—they were as good as gone, snuffed out in an instant. He could feel it slipping away, every second bringing him closer to the end. This is where it all ends.

'Gentlemen,' a voice sliced through the air like a knife, smooth and chilling.

The three men turned towards the source of the voice, their fists still raised but their movements halting. Rickard blinked through the haze, trying to make sense of what was happening.

A figure stepped forward from the shadows, moving with slow, deliberate grace, the soft squelch of boots in the mud echoing ominously as the newcomer approached. A crimson cloak billowed gently behind him, its deep red hue catching the faint light of the lanterns above.

A hand took Rickard’s forearm and rolled him onto his back. Sharp brown eyes bore down on him, eyes like a hawk.

'I’ll take the boy from here.'