"A knight lives to serve, to protect, to sacrifice." The words were tacked on the tavern sign post. A message that sent a thrill through many young men and a shiver through the mothers. Edmund wrestled with the urge to enter the tavern and enlist. His friends had all joined king Illian's force moments after the tavern advertised the scouts were inside. With the kingdom under stress since the neighbouring kingdom had sent vivid messages forewarning invasion. King Illian had called all able men to respond to the need of the land.

Edmund pushing the high thoughts away and trudged down the village street. he couldn't leave his wife alone with their young son, could he? He had made her a promise--to remain in his duty, to be the father he needed to be. They wouldn't survive if he left, worse still if he died. He was serving the kingdom by staying? He was protecting his son...his family.

Against his better judgement Edmund hesitantly turns around. The short walk back is difficult and he cannot fully drown his thoughts as pushes past the tavern doors and heads inside.

The process is lengthy and his morals battle amongst themselves in his head, the tension could be cut with a dagger, or well, in his case a sword. "Welcome Soldier! Your training begins next day cycle!"

The man's voice is too cheery for Edmund, he just signed his life away, how can this man be so happy. Even now his family still finds their way into his mind. He is not abandoning him, not necessarily. Although their lives will not be easy here on out, it will be impossible if they lose this war.

As a kid Edmund would fantasize about being a heroic knight, known by all, cheered for, but he knows now it can never be that simple, yet he still holds on to that sliver of hope. Maybe he can save his family and be the hero they need.

Edmund had imagined his first day as a knight would begin with trumpets.

In his mind, they would sound bright and clean from the castle walls, ringing across the courtyard as he mounted a tall horse that stamped proudly and tossed its mane. The older knights would clap him on the shoulder. Someone would laugh and say, You’ll do fine. Then he would ride out beneath a blue sky toward something noble and simple, like escorting a caravan or chasing off a handful of foolish bandits.

Instead, his first day began before dawn, in the cold.

The armour that had looked so magnificent on its stand was heavy in a way Edmund had not understood. It pressed down on his shoulders and chest, pinched at the back of his knees, and made every step deliberate and loud. His breath fogged inside his helmet. No one clapped. No one laughed. The courtyard was quiet except for the clink of metal and the low murmur of voices that sounded tired rather than excited.

Sir Aldric, who had trained him, handed Edmund a spear.

“Don’t drop it,” he said. That was the entirety of his advice.

They rode out not toward a sunlit road, but toward smoke.

A village lay a few miles beyond the castle lands. Edmund had passed it dozens of times before, waving to farmers and children who ran alongside the road. Today, no one ran. The fields were trampled, fences broken. A barn smouldered, its blackened beams leaning inward like tired bones.

Edmund’s heart began to pound.

They dismounted at the edge of the village. A woman sat in the dirt, rocking back and forth, clutching a blanket. She did not look up when the knights approached. Edmund realized, with a sudden and sickening clarity, that the blanket was too still.

“Stay behind the line,” Sir Aldric said, already moving forward.

Then the shouting started.

The raiders—men, not monsters—burst from between the houses. They were emaciated and desperate-looking, armed with whatever they could hold. Edmund had imagined enemies as clear shapes: villains, easily recognized. These looked like anyone. One of them couldn’t have been much older than Edmund himself.

Someone screamed. A horse reared. Steel rang against steel, loud and wrong and nothing like the clean sounds of the practice yard.

Edmund tried to remember his training. He tried to remember his stance, his breathing, the way Sir Aldric’s voice sounded when correcting him. But his hands were shaking. His spear felt unwieldy, its tip wavering as a man rushed toward him.

The man slipped on the mud.

That was the only reason Edmund survived.

He thrust forward without thinking. There was resistance—far more than he expected—and a sound he would never forget. Edmund staggered back, letting go of the spear as if it had burned him. The man did not move again.

For a moment, everything went distant and unreal, like Edmund was watching someone else’s life through a narrow window.

Sir Aldric grabbed him by the shoulder. “Breathe,” he said, sharply. “You’re alive. Stay that way.”

The fight ended quickly after that. The raiders fled or fell. The noise faded, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than the armor.

Edmund stood among broken carts and scattered tools, staring at his hands. They were smeared with dirt and something darker. He could not tell when it had gotten there.

Later, as the knights helped the villagers and put out the last of the fires, Edmund sat on a low stone wall. No one spoke to him. Not unkindly—there just seemed to be an understanding that words were useless right now.

The sun finally rose high enough to warm the village, lighting everything clearly. Too clearly. Edmund saw the damage, the fear in people’s eyes, the way a child clung silently to a knight’s leg.

This, he realized, was what knighthood meant.

Not glory. Not songs. Not clean victories.

When they rode back to the castle that evening, there were no trumpets then either.

Edmund’s armour felt heavier than it had in the morning. But when Sir Aldric asked if he could ride, Edmund nodded and did so anyway.

He did not feel like a hero.

But he understood, at last, what the oath truly asked of him—and he did not turn away.