The squire’s grip tightened on his sword hilt as he blocked the knight’s strike with his shield. With a swift upward move, he threw the knight off balance. He’d practiced this counter a thousand times, and now, instinct alone carried him through. Victory was on the horizon, certain as the sunrise. Zander became a force, a meladonite battering ram crashing through a straw gate. His shield slammed into the knight, sending him sliding through the mud.

Zander finished strong, pressing the blunt tip of his sword into his opponent’s neck before the knight could recover.

“Well done, Zander,” came the booming voice of Sir Edward Bladestorm, master of the Bear’s Crossing squires.

Zander laid down his blade and extended a hand to his sparring victim. “Well fought, Sir Gaiton.”

Gaiton accepted the hand with a nod, dusting himself off. “Well fought indeed! I almost pity the Sapphires who’ll face your blade.”

A grin spread across Zander’s chiseled face. His eyes went off into the distance as his thoughts drifted into dreams. Someday, he would be a great warrior renowned across both Leverian Kingdoms. His name would evoke as much adoration as Linus the Peacemaker and conjure as much fear as Sir Garrond the Dust. The sound of his name, Zander of Mirrevar, would be enough to send Sapphire children running for their mother’s skirts while comely Ruby maids leapt out of theirs to greet him.

Gaiton said something that failed to penetrate Zander’s daydreams and took his leave. Zander’s attention drifted through the training grounds where dozens of squires and a score of knights sparred under Sir Edward’s watchful eye. Children gathered at the field’s edge, eager to one day train under the renowned Bladestorm, a hero of the Peacewatch.

Zander followed Sir Edward, silently mouthing the blademaster’s critiques and affirmations. One day, he too would train squires and hoped to be half as capable as his mentor.

A familiar voice cut through his focus. “Swingin’ at me all limp, like I’m yer life’s mate and ye can’t git yer blood flowin’.” Kenneth dodged Alfread’s next blow, flapped his arms like a rooster, and crowed, “Cuckle-doodle-doo!”

The usually gentle Alfread charged as if Divine Seraxa held a flaming torch to his seat keeper, battering the stocky squire’s defenses. Kenneth remained steady—blocking, sidestepping, taunting about how he would cuckold his much more handsome opponent were he man enough to bed a woman. Zander saw where this was headed. Alfread would burn himself out and Kenneth would lash out like a lightning bolt at the pivotal moment.

But battle rarely went as expected. Alfread’s onslaught forced Kenneth into a divot, causing him to stumble. Alfread seized the advantage, swinging wildly at Kenneth’s head. Kenneth barely managed to block, but his misstep threw him off balance. He staggered back, struggling to stay on his feet.

With a kick to the chest, Alfread sent Kenneth sprawling into the mud. Alfread grinned, tasting victory like a boy about to feel a woman for the first time. Alas, as in many bawdy ballads, Alfread became overexcited and finished too soon. “Who lost the duel? Could it be the fool?”

Before Alfread could land his final blow, Kenneth rolled and swept Alfread’s legs out from under him. Zander laughed as Alfread’s expression shifted from triumph to shock.

Kenneth finished strong, pouncing atop his prey, pressing his training dagger to Alfread’s throat. Alfread struggled against his fate, his larger frame throwing Kenneth off, even as the tip of the blunted knife scraped against his throat.

Kenneth jumped to his feet with a grin. “Ye almos’ had me, Al. Instead, ye owe me a flagon o’ ale!”

“I had you downed!”

Zander raised his voice. “The Sapphires won’t wait patiently for you to kill them if they lose their footing. You must finish strong!”

“Well spoken, Zander.”

Zander turned to see Sir Edward behind him. The other sparring matches had ended, and now the whole group was watching.

Sir Edward’s voice was firm but kind. “In the Gemstone War, the battle ends only when one of you is dead.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Only the dead give their opponent a second chance. Are any of you dead?”

The squires shouted their denial. Kenneth pranced around Alfread like a Halamsul soulless, wobbling his arms and drawing laughter, much to Alfread’s annoyance. Sir Edward’s stern, fatherly glare cut Kenneth’s act short, forcing him to stand at exaggerated attention—the shite-eating grin plastered on his face.

Zander stood beside Alfread, frowning at Kenneth’s antics. They both towered over the others, but where Alfread was tall and lean, Zander was a giant. Four years ago, Zander had been the tallest person in Bear’s Crossing. Now, at seventeen, he was a redwood among saplings

Sir Edward looked over the group—a motley congregation of peasantry and gentry. Yet, Sir Edward treated them all with the same respect.

“When your eighteenth year dawns, you’ll serve in Archlord Bearbreaker's Peacewatch. If you’re lucky, you’ll spend more time tending horses than charging into battle. Tomorrow, we’ll practice caring for our mounts.”

The squires groaned. No one dreamed of winning glory by brushing a horse’s arse. Kenneth, as usual, made the loudest objection, japing that he preferred to care for his mounts on a feather mattress after several flagons of ale. Alfread shot back that the only living creature who’d share a bed free of charge with Kenneth was a horse and Kenneth would be the one doing the mounting. Laughter rippled through the training grounds.

Zander’s thoughts drifted away from Kenneth’s lude rebuttal. He imagined winning the joust and the melee at a grand tourney, being offered an archlord’s daughter’s hand in marriage—and, of course, politely declining. His heart belonged to someone else, his mind wandering to the locket tucked beneath his tunic. A few more tributes, he hoped, and then Leverith would answer his prayers with his Sunrise. Zander would hold her close, whispering that he loved her.

Sir Edward’s shout snapped him back to reality. “Those who demonstrate proficiency in husbandry will practice the basics of mounted combat.” That brought cheers, Zander clapping the loudest. Sir Edward smiled faintly. “You are dismissed.”

Zander was ready for food, drink, and, at the least, foreplay. As they left the training grounds, he turned to Alfread. “The Bald Bear or Old Iron?”

Alfread sighed, but before he could answer, Sir Edward touched Zander’s arm. “I need a word with you.”

The Bladestorm’s tone was serious, almost somber like one delivering news of bereavement. Zander clenched his jaw, reminding himself that there was no family left to lose.

“See you at the Old Iron,” Alfread said, shaking his head. “I owe Kenneth a flagon for flopping around like a pig in the mud.”

Zander nodded and walked with Sir Edward through the now-empty grounds. The blademaster was stocky and battle-scarred. His graying hair, streaked with brown, reminded Zander of a squirrel.

“Do you understand what it means to be a knight?” Sir Edward asked.

Zander stiffened. He had spent the last seven years training harder than anyone in Bear’s Crossing, perfecting his technique, strengthening his body. He had memorized the vows. Sir Edward knew how devoted he was. The question felt absurd. “A knight pledges his faith, life, and honor to Meladon and his Divine Scions. He fights against Zamael so that evil never triumphs. A knight is loyal to his king and archlord, protects the innocent, and brings justice to the evil.”

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Sir Edward frowned, his scarred face creasing.

Frustrated, Zander continued. “A Peacewatch knight embodies justice, peace, and love. He serves the Divine Thirteen, King Ruby, and Archlord Bearbreaker.”

The blademaster’s expression didn’t change.

Zander mentally reviewed the vows again, unable to find what he was missing. “What am I not saying?” he snapped.

Sir Edward grinned slightly, his gray eyes steady. “Being a knight is more than rehearsed vows. You say a knight protects the innocent and brings justice to the evil. But do you know who the innocent are? Or what is truly evil? What if your archlord disagrees with your king? What if your archlord commands you to harm the innocent?”

Zander’s daydreams had never involved such dilemmas. He imagined clear lines—good and evil, hero and villain.

“When I was your age, I had the same dreams about knighthood,” Sir Edward said. “But reality shattered that innocence. My vows pulled me apart when they should have held me together.”

Zander hesitated, unsure how to respond. He wished he had Alfread’s quick wit.

“You want to be a great warrior. You believe knighthood is your path to glory.” Sir Edward sighed. “You have the makings of a great knight, Zander. You’re strong, swift, determined. Your swordsmanship is among the best I’ve seen. You have the heart to protect and the courage to stand up to those who exploit others.”

Zander smiled at the praise, his earlier frustrations washing away like refuge down the Bear River.

“But,” Sir Edward continued, his tone more doubtful, “do you have the wisdom to know what to do when the code demands that you must do something that you cannot?”

Zander’s anger surged against its restraints. He wasn’t some child who couldn’t distinguish good from evil. He tried to keep his tone subdued, but his words were edged with fury. “Sir, I know the difference between good and evil.”

Sir Edward raised an eyebrow, giving him the kind of look reserved for children with their head stuck in staircase railings. “Are the Sapphires evil? What about a cruel archlord? A trader who sells faulty armor? A farmer who fails to meet his quota five consecutive harvests?”

Zander responded confidently. “The Sapphires plunder and ravage. They’re Zamael’s servants. A cruel archlord harms the innocent and carries Zamael’s evil within him. The trader who sells defective armor is corrupt, caring only for coin and not the lives he endangers. That is Zamael’s work.”

Zander hesitated over the farmer, then concluded, “A lazy farmer dishonors his archlord and is a disgrace to Divine Celegana and Divine Ovidon. While he may not be evil in his heart, he allows Zamael’s influence to weaken him.”

Zander stood tall, sure he had proven his point.

Sir Edward groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Zander. Good and evil aren’t that simple. The farmer might fail because of situations beyond his control. He may have been summoned to go to war, his family suffering from illness, Dalis may not have blessed the fields with her rains, Seraxa might have been spitefully hot or Qoryxa unrelentingly cold.”

Zander felt the sharp prick of doubt, nausea hitting him like a hangover. The feeling unfamiliar and unwelcome.

“Sir Evan failed to meet his quota five harvests in a row,” Sir Edward continued. “Does that make him evil? This man who took you in after—”

“You can say it,” Zander said softly. “I’m a man now, not a child. It’s been seven years.”

Sir Edward placed a hand on Zander’s back. “You have a man’s body and a man’s appetites, but being a man doesn’t mean feeling no pain. Time doesn’t heal all wounds.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I promise you that.”

Zander instinctively touched the silver locket around his neck, feeling shame wash over him. Sir Evan, Alfread’s father, was a good man. How could he have been so blind? The priestesses taught that indolence was Zamael lulling people away from the labors of Ovidon, but bad things happened to good people—hadn’t his mother’s death taught him that?

Sir Edward straightened, his voice firm again. “The merchant who sold faulty armor isn’t necessarily evil. Men are imperfect. We make mistakes.”

“A careless mistake that costs lives while lining your pockets is the work of Zamael,” Zander challenged.

Edward shook his head. “I bought a helmet before my second conscription. I nearly died because the visor was brittle.” He traced the scar on his forehead. “When I returned to confront the merchant, I found his shop abandoned. I hammered on the door of his hovel, thirsting for vengeance.”

Sir Edward’s voice softened. “When his daughter opened the door and told me both the merchant and his wife died of disease, when I saw that she was barely surviving, I realized that my coin had kept her alive through the winter. What was my scar compared to her pain?” Edward’s eyes teared and he swallowed. “Even though she is gone now, her children are still my wards. That merchant’s grandson is one of your best friends.”

“Kenneth?” Zander asked, shocked.

Sir Edward nodded.

They reached a hill overlooking the Bear River. After a moment of reflection, Zander spoke again. “The cruel archlord—he must be evil. How could abusing power ever be justified?”

Sir Edward allowed himself a brief smile at Zander’s hesitation. “Cruelty can be Zamael’s scythe, but it can also be Meladon’s hammer. I’ve known archlords of both kinds. Bennett Bearbreaker was the cruelest man I ever served. He spent his time enacting the Right of First Night, taking brides as concubines if they pleased him. When couples tried to wed in secret, Bennett paid informants to betray them, then forced husbands to watch as he raped and murdered their wives. Afterward, he fed the husbands to his bears. The things he did to the priestesses that performed the secret bondings…”

Zander’s hatred flared. The Right of First Night disgusted him—one of the vilest sacrileges against Leverith ever devised. “Do not tell me this man wasn’t evil. I would’ve killed him.”

“And I and every other knight in the Peacewatch followed every order that monster gave, regretting too many of them. Meladon smiled the day Bennett’s lady plunged a dagger into his throat while he slept. Even then, the brute broke her neck before he choked on his life’s blood.”

“She shouldn’t have been the one to deliver justice to the evil,” Zander said, glaring at Edward. “Why do you try to find fault with me when you failed to follow your vows?”

“Why would I want better men to follow me?” Sir Edward laughed, bitterly. “I tell you this because you can succeed where I failed.”

“Then tell me how cruelty can ever be just?”

Sir Edward’s tone grew measured. “Bennett’s heir, Urson Bearbreaker, tried to make amends for his father’s ruthlessness. He reduced Peacewatch conscriptions, lowered taxes, and ruled gently. But weakness breeds chaos. Bandits terrorized the countryside, charlatans thrived in Urzport, and bards sang songs about Urson’s weakness in every tavern.”

“He didn’t harm the innocent, but he couldn’t protect them either,” Zander said, nodding.

“Aye. When his uncle tried to kill him, Urson fought back, feeding him to the bears. After that, he raised taxes, increased conscriptions, and his bears feasted upon bandits and conmen. His cruelty brought order.”

“He became strong, and his cruelty was justice,” Zander agreed.

Zander turned east toward the Sapphire Kingdom, thinking of the stories regaled daily in the taverns and preached in the temple—tales of rape, murder, and pillaging by Zamael-worshipping Sapphires. But his mother had always tried to teach him something else, something he had forgotten. He clutched at the Leveria-shaped locket and tried to remember her lessons. “Sapphires are no more evil than Rubies. We are all Leverith’s children, separated only by lines on a map.”

Sir Edward’s voice became distant. “I raided Mirrevar as a young knight, ready to avenge the deaths of my father and his father before him. On Bennett Bearbreaker’s orders, we put all the Sapphire settlers to the sword. Hopelessly outnumbered, their soldiers fought to protect them, down to the last slain child.”

Zander took a step back, horrified. This man, who had taught him so much, had once stood over the bodies of children, their innocent blood dripping from his blade?

Edward’s anguish poured out as if a flood long contained by a levy. “I still try to tell myself those soldiers deserved to die, that there was nothing I could do to stop what we did, but…”

Edward’s words trailed off, leaving Zander to consolidate his actions with his memories of a man who had done his best to train him, who cared for orphaned wards, who treated commoners no different from nobility. “You were bound by your oath to Archlord Bearbreaker, just as the Sapphire were bound by their oaths. Neither of you were evil.”

Edward’s voice broke. “But I have done evil.”

Zander nodded solemnly, praying to the Divine Thirteen that he might succeed where Edward failed. “I’ll carry these lessons with me.”

Sir Edward wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, restoring his usual stoic demeanor. “Then it is time you begin your journey. I’ve received orders from Urzport to eliminate a wolf pack ravaging farmlands north of Bear’s Crossing. Gather your companions, make use of my stables, and vanquish them.”

Zander accepted the quest with eagerness. “I won’t disappoint you, Sir!” He looked forward and witnessed the glory awaiting him. His days of being a mere squire were coming to a close.