Two hours had passed since Tiber had left the battlefield behind. Pebbles trotted at a steady pace beneath him, her hooves thudding dully on the dirt road winding through the hills of the Vale. The sun was low now, casting orange light across the horizon. Tiber's head lolled forward from exhaustion, and every jolt from the saddle sent waves of agony through his leg.
The pain was constant—sharp and deep and pulsing like a war drum. His leg was a ruin, the flesh around the cauterized wound swollen and blackening. Each movement was a test of will. Blood still seeped through the cloth he'd hastily tied around it.
He needed rest. He needed warmth. He needed sleep.
Then he saw it.
Nestled between the trees off the side of the road—a squat timber building with smoke curling from a chimney and a flickering lantern hung outside. An inn. The Seven be praised.
Tiber slid off Pebbles, landing awkwardly on his injured leg. He groaned, nearly falling, but steadied himself against her. He stroked her mane, whispering to her softly.
"You did good, girl. Get some rest now."
He tied her near a trough and limped inside.
The inn's interior was lit by hearthfire and flickering torches. The scent of roasted meat and stale ale hung heavy in the air. Men sat at long tables, hunched over mugs and tankards, their laughter dying as they turned to stare at the man who had just walked in.
Tiber was covered in blood. Dried and caked across his armor, his hands, his jaw. The blood of bandits. The blood of knights. His boots tracked dirt and blood across the floor.
He walked up to the counter where a balding, round-faced innkeeper stood drying mugs.
"Room. Hot bath," Tiber muttered.
The innkeeper gave him a once-over. "Two silver stags."
"I don't have coin."
The man frowned, then looked past Tiber toward a corner of the room. "See them?" he asked quietly.
Tiber turned.
Four men. Hard-eyed, greasy-haired, drunk. They were laughing, but when they noticed Tiber looking, they grinned back at him like wolves.
"They harassed my daughter," the innkeeper said in a low voice. "She's not come out of her room in two days. I stopped them, but I fear they'll try again. You want a bed and bath? Kick them out."
Tiber nodded. "Done."
He limped over to the men.
"You four. Out."
One of them, a skinny man with a twisted nose, laughed. "Who in the seven hells are you?"
Tiber stared at him. "The man who'll beat your arse black and blue if you don't move."
"Big words for a bloody cripple," another sneered.
Tiber motioned with his chin. "Outside."
They rose, scraping chairs, and followed him into the dirt yard behind the inn.
They surrounded him. He let them.
The first man rushed. Tiber ducked the punch and drove his fist into the man's gut. The man wheezed and folded. The second lunged—Tiber grabbed his arm and broke it with a twist. The third tried to tackle him—Tiber headbutted him, then slammed a knee into his face, feeling teeth snap under the blow.
The fourth was smarter. He picked up a stick.
Tiber took it from him and cracked it over his head.
He walked back into the inn, breathing hard.
"They won't bother anyone again," he said, blood on his knuckles.
The innkeeper looked at him with something close to awe. "Upstairs. Room at the end. Bath's hot. You've earned it."
Tiber nodded. He limped up the stairs, each step a cruel test, and entered the room.
A tub of steaming water waited, the scent of herbs rising with the steam. He unbuckled his sword belt, setting Twilight gently beside the bath. He unstrapped his armor—plate, then chain, then padded cloth, each layer sticky with dried blood. Then his tunic and breeches.
Naked, bruised, aching, he sank into the bath.
The heat hit him like a wave. He exhaled, sinking lower until the water kissed his chin. For a moment, he let his head fall back, eyes closing.
It felt like the first time he could breathe in days.
What now?
He had no lord. No allies. No coin. No bed beyond tonight.
Maybe he'd ride through the Vale. Offer his sword to farmers, villages, anyone in need. Not for coin—just to do some good. To remind himself that being a knight meant something.
He wasn't sure.
Then he heard shouting from below.
He scrambled out of the tub, dripping, grabbed his tunic and breeches and yanked them on. His leg protested with every motion, the scarred flesh burning anew.
He opened the door and peered down the stairwell.
A familiar voice—strained, desperate.
"Please," Ser Benedar was saying. "My lady needs a place to rest. We've been on the road for—"
Tiber called down, "They're with me!"
Ser Benedar looked up, stunned.
"Ser Tiber?" he said, as if he were seeing a ghost. "By the Seven… you're alive."
Tiber limped down to greet him. Lady Belmore stood beside Benedar, her hair damp with sweat, eyes sunken with exhaustion. She didn't speak—just staggered into the room and collapsed on the bed, already half-asleep.
"What happened?" Tiber asked.
Benegar exhaled. "After you jumped, we… hesitated. I didn't want to leave her. But we were caught. The bandits found us. They dragged us before their leader—Ser Rennifer Corbray."
Tiber frowned. "Corbray?"
"Aye," Benedar said. "But… he let us go. Gave us a letter. Said it was for Lord Belmore."
"Why?" Tiber asked.
Benegar shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe some game of his. Some favor owed. Or something darker."
Tiber told him what had happened after. The fire. The cauterization. The duel with Ser Robar. Ser Willam's betrayal.
Benegar's face darkened. "Cowards. Greedy, arrogant, false knights. It's the same everywhere."
Tiber sat down, stretching out his sore leg.
"But why?" he asked quietly. "Knights are supposed to protect the weak. Isn't that the point?"
Benedar looked at him sadly. "That's the dream. But most men wear the cloak for gold or glory—or because they were born to it. Not all of us are true knights. But you… and me? We fight for the right reasons. We are the ones who make the stories worth telling."
Tiber smiled faintly. "Maybe."
Benedar rose, walked to the bed, and lay beside the sleeping Lady Belmore.
Tiber looked at the floor. Then at the empty spot near the hearth. He grabbed a blanket, lay down, and let exhaustion drag him into the dark.
No title. No castle. No songs sung of him.
But still a knight.
A true one.