Chadwick Rye

Dawn breaks over Ironheart Keep in a symphony of amber and gold, light spilling across ancient battlements like molten metal fresh from the forge. I stand atop the western guard tower, palms pressed against cool stone worn smooth by generations of hands before mine. Below, the training yard awakens—squires and pages scurrying like industrious ants, knights barking orders that echo against granite walls, the rhythmic percussion of steel against training dummies punctuating the morning air.

This view, this moment—I’ve committed it to memory hundreds of times. One day, tales of Ser Aldric Nighthaven will be spoken in these very courtyards, perhaps by fresh-faced squires who dream as I do now.

The thought sends a pleasant shiver across my shoulders despite the autumn chill.

“Nighthaven! Stop mooning over the sunrise and get down here!” Master Thorne’s voice carries effortlessly across the yard, decades of battlefield commands having trained his lungs to project with authority that brooks no hesitation. “Lord Commander Valerian has summoned the candidates!”

My heart stutters then accelerates. The Lord Commander never addresses third-year squires directly unless something exceptional has occurred. I descend the tower steps two at a time, boots skidding against worn stone, steadying myself against the curved wall to avoid tumbling headlong into disgrace before my career has properly begun.

The training yard smells of sweat-dampened leather, lamp oil, and the particular metallic tang that accompanies freshly polished armor. Twenty-three fellow squires have already assembled in perfect rows, their postures betraying varying degrees of nervousness despite attempts at martial stoicism. I slip into position beside Elowen, my training partner since we were both scrawny children swinging wooden swords too heavy for our underdeveloped arms.

“Late as always,” she murmurs from the corner of her mouth, eyes fixed forward. “One day your dramatic posing will cost you everything you’ve worked for.”

“It’s called visualization,” I whisper back. “Visualizing the future you want. Ser Hammett lectured about it last—”

“Silence in the ranks!” Master Thorne’s command slices through our forbidden exchange. His weathered face—a tapestry of scars earned across three decades of service to the Crown—contorts into an expression of practiced disapproval.

The great doors of the inner keep groan open, ancient hinges protesting as they have for centuries. Lord Commander Valerian emerges flanked by the Knight-Captains of each Order—six towering figures in gleaming armor that reflects the morning light with almost painful brilliance. Each Captain’s cloak bears the distinctive color and insignia of their respective Order: crimson for the Crimson Blades, midnight blue for the Azure Sentinels, forest green for the Verdant Wardens, silver-gray for the Ashen Guardians, gold for the Sunfire Legion, and pure white for the Oathbound Paladins.

My gaze lingers on the white cloak, its pristine surface embroidered with the silver starburst that has adorned my dreams since childhood.

Lord Commander Valerian—a giant of a man whose reputation extends beyond Lumenvale’s borders—steps forward. His voice, unlike Master Thorne’s battlefield bark, carries with quiet intensity that somehow demands greater attention.

“The Midsummer Tournament approaches,” he begins without preamble. “As tradition dictates, each Order will sponsor three squires to compete in the Tournament of Ascension. Those who distinguish themselves will be considered for knighthood before the traditional seven-year apprenticeship concludes.”

A ripple of excitement passes through our formation, quickly suppressed but palpable nonetheless. The Tournament of Ascension occurs only once every three years—a rare opportunity for exceptional squires to bypass years of conventional progression. Most of my cohort won’t be eligible for full knighthood for another four years at minimum.

“Knight-Captains will announce their selections by week’s end,” Valerian continues. “Chosen candidates will receive specialized training until the tournament. Prepare yourselves accordingly.”

With that cryptic instruction, he turns in a swirl of immaculate cloak and retreats into the keep, Knight-Captains following in perfect formation. Only once the doors close does Master Thorne dismiss us, his expression unreadable as we scatter to our daily duties.

Elowen falls into step beside me as we head toward the armory. “You’re thinking about the Paladins again,” she says, not a question but an observation born from years of friendship.

“I’m always thinking about the Paladins,” I admit. There’s no point denying what she already knows. “The Tournament changes everything.”

“It changes timing, not fundamentals,” she corrects pragmatically. “You still need sponsorship from a current Paladin, regardless of tournament performance.”

Her reminder lands like a stone in still water, rippling through my momentary elation. The Oathbound Paladins accept fewer initiates than any other Order—perhaps one new knight every few years, compared to the half-dozen that regularly join the Crimson Blades or Azure Sentinels. Their requirements extend beyond martial prowess to a spiritual calling that cannot be falsified or manufactured through ambition alone.

“I have a plan,” I insist as we collect training swords from the armory racks. The weapons—blunted steel weighted to mimic true battle blades—feel like extensions of my arms after countless hours of practice.

Elowen raises an eyebrow, her skepticism obvious as we claim an empty corner of the practice yard. “You always have a plan, Aldric. They rarely survive contact with reality.”

“You wound me,” I declare with mock offense, moving through opening stance positions. Our bodies mirror each other in the familiar dance of morning warm-ups, muscles remembering patterns ingrained through thousands of repetitions.

“Enlighten me then,” she challenges, lunging forward in a textbook opening attack that I parry automatically. “What’s the grand strategy this time?”

The rhythm of our practice bout establishes itself—advance, retreat, feint, parry—our bodies having long ago memorized each other’s tendencies. I wait through three exchanges before answering, partly to gather my thoughts and partly because I know the delay irritates her.

“First, the Tournament,” I begin, shifting into a more aggressive stance. “I need selection, obviously. My best chance is with Captain Merrick of the Azure Sentinels—I’ve scored consistently in the upper quartile for Shield Wall techniques, and he favors defensive specialists.”

Our blades meet with a satisfying clang, reverberations traveling up my arm as Elowen counters with unexpected force. “Logical,” she concedes. “Continue.”

“Tournament performance must be exceptional but specific,” I explain, dancing backward to avoid her follow-up thrust. “Not just victory, but victory achieved through the Paladin virtues: precision over brute force, protection of the vulnerable, humility in triumph.”

Elowen snorts, nearly creating an opening I might have exploited had we been truly competing rather than conversing. “Humility has never been your strong suit.”

“Hence why it must be demonstrated conspicuously,” I acknowledge, transitioning to a defensive stance Master Karsten taught last week. “The Paladins value genuine character over natural talent.”

Our practice continues as I outline each step of my carefully constructed path: Tournament selection leading to exceptional performance; performance leading to recognition from the Paladin Captain Ser Darian Lightbringer; recognition leading to provisional mentorship; mentorship leading to the Trials of Virtue; successful trials leading to full initiation into the Oathbound Paladins.

“From there,” I continue, breathing slightly harder as our pace intensifies, “distinguished service in border conflicts will build reputation. The eastern provinces have reported increased wyvern activity—perfect opportunity for notable accomplishments against prestigious opponents.”

“Assuming you’re not eaten,” Elowen interjects dryly.

“Wyverns rarely consume their kills,” I correct pedantically, knowing it will annoy her. “They hunt from territorial instinct rather than—”

Her blade slips past my guard in a lightning move I never saw coming, stopping a hair’s breadth from my throat. Her eyes sparkle with triumph. “You were saying? About plans surviving contact with reality?”

I concede the point with a reluctant nod, and she withdraws her blade. We reset positions and continue our practice, but her interruption has punctured my confident recitation. The truth—which Elowen knows better than anyone—is that my fixation on the Paladins stems from something deeper than career ambition.

As if reading my thoughts, her expression softens slightly. “You still haven’t told me why it must be the Paladins,” she says during a natural pause in our exchange. “The Crimson Blades offer faster advancement. The Verdant Wardens would value your tracking skills. Even the Ashen Guardians would—”

“It has to be the Paladins,” I interrupt, lowering my blade entirely. The morning sun has risen fully now, bathing the practice yard in light that makes chain mail gleam like scattered diamonds across the busy courtyard.

Elowen studies me with the penetrating gaze that makes her formidable both in combat and conversation. After a moment’s consideration, she drives her practice sword into the packed earth and gestures toward the water barrels at the yard’s edge. By unspoken agreement, we declare a temporary truce in our training.

We drink deeply from wooden ladles, the cool water washing away the dust of exertion. Around us, the keep continues its daily rhythm—senior knights drilling formations in the main yard, servants carrying linens across the cobblestone paths, stable hands leading magnificent warhorses to the paddocks for exercise. The machine of knighthood, vast and intricate, continues its perpetual motion.

“It’s because of your father,” Elowen says finally, her voice gentler than her usual sardonic tone.

The statement isn’t a question, nor is it meant to wound. Few at Ironheart know the truth of my lineage—that Ser William Nighthaven, once the most promising young Paladin of his generation, broke his oaths and fled rather than face judgment for an affair with a merchant’s daughter. That his disgrace lives on in whispered stories and sideways glances from the oldest knights whenever my surname is spoken.

That I exist because of broken oaths, conceived in the shadow of dishonor.

“Partly,” I admit, the single word containing multitudes of unspoken history. “But not in the way people assume. I don’t seek redemption for his name—he made his choices.”

“Then why?” Her question contains no judgment, only genuine curiosity.

I stare across the courtyard to where the Paladin initiates practice their distinctive sword forms—flowing movements that appear almost dance-like until one recognizes the lethal precision underlying each stance. Their white tabards ripple like fresh snow in morning light.

“Because the oath itself matters,” I say finally. “Not because my father broke it, but because I need to understand what he couldn’t uphold. What could be worth abandoning both duty and reputation—worth becoming a cautionary tale whispered to generations of squires.”

Understanding dawns in Elowen’s expression. “You think becoming a Paladin will answer that question.”

“I think understanding the weight of those oaths is the only way I’ll ever understand him. Or myself.” The admission costs me something to voice aloud, even to my oldest friend. “And perhaps… perhaps there’s value in an oath keeper who intimately understands the temptation to break.”

Around us, Ironheart Keep continues its eternal rhythms—the forge hammers pounding in steady percussion, training swords clashing in choreographed combat, orders being given and received across the sprawling complex. Generations of knights have walked these stone paths before me, each carrying private burdens beneath polished armor and practiced oaths.

Elowen considers my words carefully before responding. “A noble sentiment,” she acknowledges. “Though the Knight-Captain might question building a career on such personal foundations.”

“Then he need never know my true motivations,” I reply with the hint of a smile. “Another reason to practice that humility you claim I lack.”

She laughs then, the sound bright against the martial backdrop of our surroundings. “Very well, future Paladin Nighthaven. Let’s return to training—you’ll need every advantage if your grand plan is to survive first contact with the tournament.”

We retrieve our practice swords and resume our positions. This time, I initiate the exchange with a sequence taught by Ser Darian himself during a rare instruction session months ago. Each movement feels like both question and answer—blade extending in perfect alignment, feet positioned for optimal balance, body angled to present minimal target while maintaining maximum striking potential.

The future stretches before me like an unwritten chronicle—Tournament selection, exceptional performance, recognition, mentorship, trials, initiation, distinguished service, legendary status. Each step mapped with the precision of a military campaign. Yet beneath this carefully constructed path lies the deeper current of understanding I seek—the weight of oaths and the cost of keeping them, the nature of honor and the strength required to choose duty when desire points elsewhere.

If my father found love worth more than sacred vows, I need to understand what those vows truly demand. Not to judge him, but to know myself.

The morning sun climbs higher, casting shorter shadows across ancient stones that have witnessed countless ambitious young men and women training toward dreams of glory. Some achieved their ambitions; many more found different paths than those they’d imagined. All contributed their thread to the tapestry of Ironheart’s legacy.

My blade meets Elowen’s in perfect synchronicity, steel kissing steel in the ancient language of warriors. Whatever awaits beyond this moment—selection or rejection, triumph or failure, oaths fulfilled or broken—this much remains certain: I will face it with eyes open to both the glory and the cost of the path I’ve chosen.

For now, that awareness itself feels like the beginning of wisdom. Perhaps even the beginning of knighthood.