Archive of Our Own

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Spring had begun to unfold its charm over Kuttenburg, and the air, sweet and warm, carried with it the scent of wildflowers. The cobbled streets, still damp from the previous night's rain, shimmered under the sun, and a light breeze played with the flags atop the tall houses. To the noisy bustle of the city were added the barks of a cheerful dog and the calm hoofbeats of two fine steeds, upon which two knights arrived, exhausted from their long journey from Suchdol. Hans Capon dismounted with a restrained sigh, gazing at the stone building that rose beside the city, not far from the bathhouse.

—There it is —said Henry, dismounting with the same ease with which he breathed, with the calm gesture of someone returning to a familiar place—. The fencing brotherhood’s headquarters.

Hans raised an eyebrow, looking somewhat warily at the three-story structure. It wasn’t a castle or a noble inn, but neither was it a peasant’s hut. It looked solid, lived-in. On its façade hung a banner with the guild’s emblem: two crossed swords over a shield divided in or and gules .

—Quite interesting… at least it looks like there’s a bit of extra fun around here… —the blond young man said, without taking his eyes off the neighboring bathhouse. Henry rolled his eyes.

—Stay, Mutt! —the young squire commanded his dog, signaling with his hand. The obedient dog sat down resignedly beside the main door.

As they crossed the threshold, an older man welcomed them with a brief bow. The reception hall on the first floor was spacious, with wooden benches against the walls, a stone floor polished by the passage of countless boots, and a distinctive smell of leather, weapon oil, and freshly sharpened steel. In the adjacent rooms, blacksmiths worked skillfully on dented armor and nicked blades. The whole place hummed with the metallic sound of preparation. Master Menhard came to greet them, clearly more than pleased to see his fiercest contender.

— Hêrer Heinrich, what a joy that you received my letter! —he said in a carefree tone as he approached with a wide smile—. I knew you’d come, the tournament will be even more exciting with someone like you!

—I couldn’t miss such an honor, Master Menhard! Allow me to present my lord, Sir Hans Capon, Lord of Pirkstein… —Henry said with a bow.

— Ach ja, ja! I’ve heard many things about you junger Capon, This young bursche , the only thing he knows besides fencing techniques is bragging about you, tag und nacht , day and night ! —smiled the good man, giving the young lord a warm handshake.

Upon hearing that last sentence, the color began to rise to the squire's ears, as if the very air had betrayed him. He tried to hide it by lowering his gaze, but the slight tremble at the corner of his lips gave him away. Hans, for his part, let out a brief and elegant laugh, with that touch of nobility he never lost, even in the most mundane moments. Though the revelation took him by surprise, he couldn’t deny that he liked it. In part, he felt flattered… but also comforted. After everything they had been through, after so many battles, journeys, and responsibilities that had kept them on different paths, that simple confession was enough to know that Henry had never left him behind for even a moment. It was as if, amid the kingdom’s chaos, there had always been an invisible thread keeping them connected.

—Well, meine Herren , The tournament will begin five days from now. Ich stelle mir vor, I imagine your journey must have been exhausting, ja wohl? So I’ll leave you with Arne to help you settle in.

Menhard bid farewell with a slight bow of his head, after all, he was one of the main organizers of the famed tournament and had little time to ensure everything was ready for the big day. As soon as he disappeared from view, a young man with orange hair and lapis-lazuli blue eyes stepped forward with a kind smile and light steps.

— Heinrich! You’re welcome! —greeted Arne, approaching with a beaming smile—. Es freut mich , I'm glad to see you’ve arrived safely, I hope the journey wasn’t too exhausting for you.

—Thanks, Arne —Henry replied in his friendly tone, offering a sincere smile—. It’s a relief to see familiar faces after such a long time.

Hans, though more reserved, also showed his manners with a firm and respectful greeting, bowing his head slightly.

—My pleasure, young Arne.—he said in a soft but clear tone, never losing his usual poise.

— Ich werde Euch helfen , I will help you carry your sachen to your bed. —The young swordsman offered to carry their things to the place where they could rest after the journey. Arne, with a light chuckle, stepped a little closer to both of them, displaying the familiar warmth that always characterized him. However, as he stood nearer to the squire, he couldn’t help but notice how well-equipped he had arrived since the last time they had met.

—I see you're as strong as ever, Heinrich . Nichts stops your drive, eh? —he said, and with a knowing smile, gave him a pat on the shoulder—. And you, my lord... —he added with a lighter smile— . ..sicher wird es dir alles leichter fallen, estando unter den Besten.

It seemed as though this last sentence had been intentionally said in his native tongue, with a clear intent for the young lord of Pirkstein not to understand it, though Hans simply raised an eyebrow in response, as if the discomfort of not grasping the words did not affect him in the slightest. Arne had always had a way of speaking that deliberately blended distance and closeness, as if his words were both a barrier and a bridge at the same time. However, that surprised look on Hans’s face made Henry think there was something more behind that choice of language.

The squire, for his part, smiled at the friendly gesture and approached to hand over his belongings and those of his lord to the young apprentice, but being even closer, Henry couldn't help but become more observant, more aware of the small space between them. He gently raised his hand and, almost without thinking, touched with his fingers the scar that adorned Arne’s face, just above his left eyebrow. Henry’s fingers brushed the mark, as if he were assessing how much it had healed since that fateful tournament.

—It’s healed well —he murmured, watching the scarred skin with attention, almost as if analyzing a detail that no one else would have noticed.

— Ja, danke. Until a few days ago, meine Sicht war noch verschwommen, My vision was still blurry!, but with God’s grace and the hands of the royal healer, Ich bin bereit zu kämpfen! I’m ready to fight! —Arne smiled more openly, clearly flattered, though the sparkle in his eyes seemed more nostalgic than proud. His gaze drifted for a moment, almost as if searching for a safe place to rest it.

—Try not to risk your life this time, alright? —Henry stepped back as he began to gather his things.

Hans, who had been watching in silence, felt a subtle tension begin to settle in his chest as he saw Henry’s gesture. The closeness between him and Arne, so natural and seemingly unbothered, stirred a slight discomfort that he couldn’t hide, though he tried to cover it with an expression of indifference. He remembered the stories Henry had once told him during long nights by the campfire, those tales about how they had managed to subdue the old guild and forge the current brotherhood’s reputation. However, he couldn’t understand Henry’s interest in a mere apprentice; in fact, it caused an unexpected stir within him. "It’s not jealousy", he repeated silently, trying to calm his thoughts. "That’s just how the chivalrous Henry of Skalitz acts", he thought, trying to convince himself that there was nothing more to those gestures than well understood camaraderie.

The servants climbed a carved wooden staircase to the second level, where a hallway led them to a beautifully crafted double door. Inside, the guild’s meeting room was sober yet dignified. Henry noticed the long sword of the brotherhood hung proudly above the fireplace, and he didn’t hesitate to boast to his lord that he had forged it with his own hands, and that it now stood proudly, formed from two regrettable pieces they had been given. Beyond, through another half-open door, Hans glimpsed Master Menhard’s room: a space with walls covered in dark wood, a lit fireplace, a large bed with clean sheets, a desk covered with scrolls, and a couch on which rested soft fox and deer pelts. It was undoubtedly the only room there that he would consider appropriate for someone of his lineage.

But it was not where they would be staying.

— Dritter stock , third floor —Arne said, waiting for them at the foot of the final stairs. His smile was friendly, but his gaze lingered too long on Henry, and that was enough to make Hans furrow his brow slightly.

The attic revealed itself as a large room with a slanted roof, lit by wide windows from which the reddish rooftops of the city could be seen. Eight beds were arranged in two facing rows, occupying either side of the room. Each one had its own thick curtains, enough to provide some privacy, though not enough to prevent noisy roommates from disturbing the young lord.

In the center, a long table boasted bowls of fresh fruit, bread, wine, and jugs of what appeared to be mead. The air up there was warmer, perfumed by some flower that grew nearby, perhaps lilacs or lilies, who could know.

—It’s... cozy —Hans commented, trying to sound neutral. But his voice tensed slightly as he saw the last door in the room.

—That leads to the straw reserve —Arne explained lightly.— In case someone prefers a... more rustikal bed.

Henry let out a small laugh, then patted Hans on the shoulder.

—Which are our beds, Arne? —Henry asked, dropping the heavier sack on the floor.

— Ja... das Problem ist , since you won the last tournament, many servants joined the Zunft , and now, with the event so close, most of the rooms are taken... —The redhead excused himself. — Und da Maese Menhard didn’t expect an extra guest, haben wir nur ein Bett für euch verfügbar... so, we only have one bed available.

—What!? —Hans immediately shouted.

—I’m very sorry, mein Herr , but I hope they can accommodate you two somehow! We’ll see you at lunch! —The young apprentice, eager to avoid further issues, hurried away, leaving the incredulous lord with words still in his mouth.

—Come on, my lord, it’s not that bad. The curtains will give us some privacy, and if it bothers you... —Henry lowered his voice, leaning toward his lord to whisper in his ear.— I can sleep on the floor, with some straw and a pillow. It wouldn’t bother me.

Hans looked at him sideways, a mix of confusion and embarrassment on his face.

—Enough with the “my lord”! You’re not sleeping on the floor, Henry. Not for me.

—I’d do it anyway. —Henry replied naturally, leaving his bag on one of the beds. His smile wasn’t mocking or condescending. It was sincere. And that unsettled Hans more than any discomfort from the place.

Outside, the bells of the nearby church began to ring, marking the passing of noon. The calm before the first training. The settling of both young men was quick and uneventful. Once their belongings were arranged, they did not hesitate to join the rest of the guild to share the first day's lunch before the tournament began.

The hall on the first floor was large and bustling, with long tables overflowing with a variety of dishes: rustic bread, steaming stews, fresh fruits, and generous pieces of roasted meat. The air was filled with the aroma of spices and the smoke coming from the kitchen, which vibrated with activity from the second floor.

Henry, already holding a frothy mug of beer, enthusiastically narrated the adventures he had experienced during his arrival in the region. He told how a simple delivery of a letter had led to a series of entanglements, chases, and dangers that nearly cost them their lives, even including the absurd idea of freeing none other than King Wenceslaus himself. His audience, laughing and toasting, listened with genuine pleasure. As for young Capon, he did not go unnoticed. His noble bearing, natural charm, and polished manners fitting his lineage made him the center of discreet glances. The maids silently vied for the privilege of keeping his cup always full, pouring generous sips of wine that soon began to stain his cheeks with a soft blush.

Hans, with his cup in hand, let his eyes linger on his loyal squire. He observed him closely, perhaps more than he should have. His slightly tousled brown hair, his eyes squinting from laughter, the light linen shirt that replaced his usual armor, revealing a figure less hidden by steel. His hands, calloused and firm, still marked by the forge’s fire, held the mug of bubbling beer with familiar ease. Then, without warning, his mind played a cruel trick on him. The image of those very hands, rough and determined, moving over him with strength, emerged with insolent clarity. He recalled with chilling precision how they could leave marks on his pale skin, especially on his hips.

Hans blinked, uncomfortable with the intensity of the memory, and subtly cleared his throat to shake it off. With a brief gesture, he requested more wine from one of the nearby maids, trying to regain the composure that the damn Henry, unknowingly, had just stolen from him once again.

The lunch went on without incident, and once the conversations and toasts were over, the young men were invited to join the official training alongside the other guild members. The air was charged with anticipation: no one wanted to miss the chance to measure themselves —or at least observe up close— the undefeated champion of Kuttenburg, the renowned Henry of Skalitz.

The participants made their way to the back courtyard of the building. As they crossed the threshold of the door, a wide sunlit field was revealed. To the left, a combat arena bordered by logs and ropes; in the distance, a vine-covered trellis extended its generous shade over several wooden tables, set up to share wine, laughter, and rest after the swordplay.

Henry strode forward with firm steps to the equipment manager and politely requested the necessary training gear, making sure to mention that his lord would also be participating. The man, already of age but quick in his movements, handed them what they needed: wooden swords, weathered shields, battle-scarred helmets, and padded breastplates to cushion the blows.

The dry, rhythmic sound of wood clashing against shields rose in the garden, and the excitement of the young warriors filled the air. Eager to learn from him, several young men crowded around Henry, begging him to face them, even if only for a few minutes. With a kind smile and the patience of one who knows his trade, he apologized. 

—I already have an opponent.  —he said. —It will be Arne, I owe him for his recovery. —The young men looked at the proud german with envy, his chest puffed out with pride.

Hans, away from the commotion, allowed the helpers to dress him without a word. His gaze remained fixed on the scene before him, reading Henry's gestures and smiles more than he would have liked to admit. It bothered him to be so aware of everything his squire had been doing over the past few months, but he would never admit it.

The training arena simmered with each clash of swords, and the onlookers held their breath as Henry and Arne danced in combat. The apprentice, agile as a young deer, moved with precision, looking to use his lightness to destabilize the champion. Henry, on the other hand, remained focused, his movements firm and measured, like an experienced hunter who knows well the patience of the chase. For several minutes, the wooden weapons traced circles in the air, crossing in swift arcs, striking shields, and sliding past the opponent’s guard. Arne managed to graze his side, but Henry, far from giving ground, responded with a flawless feint that broke the young man’s rhythm. A quick twist of his wrist, a well-calculated thrust, and in a breath, Arne lost his balance. The apprentice’s body hit the ground with a muffled thud, and Henry, still with adrenaline coursing through his veins, fell on top of him, unable to fully stop the momentum. For a moment, they remained like that, both gasping, sweat beading on their foreheads, while the expectant shouts of the onlookers filled the space around them. The crowd went wild at the sight of such a spectacle.

—There’s no doubt, that was a masterstroke... —someone commented.

 —Heinrich! Heinrich! Heinrich!

 —And to think his star category is the longsword...—whispered a warrior near Hans.

The young lord, absorbed in the scene unfolding before him, was struck by an overwhelming wave of emotions as intense as they were unexpected. He knew it was just a friendly match, he was well aware of Henry’s loyalty to him… and yet, he had never experienced such a visceral, fiery feeling of possession, one that set his blood alight with a burning flare. Without saying a word, he approached the squire, who was still panting while wiping the sweat gleaming from his forehead. With a longsword in hand, Hans intercepted his loyal page’s path, challenging him with a look that was anything but cordial, his eyes daggers digging into Henry's.

—Henry, dear blacksmith... you won't keep your lord waiting, will you? —he proclaimed with a sharp smile, one that only had the varnish of friendliness.

The squire, not fully grasping the underlying challenge, responded with his usual enthusiasm. He handed his short sword and shield to the guild's blacksmith, and in return, was offered an elegant practice longsword, light but lethal in skilled hands. The onlookers, intrigued by the sudden duel, gathered around the courtyard to watch how the acclaimed Lord of Pirkstein would fare in combat. Both stepped into the arena, positioning themselves face to face. The air was tense, almost electric, as if it could be cut by the very blades they wielded.

Hans did not take his eyes off his opponent, studying every slight contraction of his muscles. Then, Henry launched himself into the attack, quick as an arrow. But Hans, as though he could foresee every one of his movements, evaded with calculated grace.

—Is that all, Henry? Weren't you the undefeated champion of all of Kuttenburg? —he exclaimed in a mocking tone, while delivering a firm, direct strike.

—Don't get cocky, my lord! —the young man replied between gasps, smiling despite the effort.

What followed was a duel that left everyone breathless: a series of thrusts and feints that seemed choreographed by the gods of steel themselves. Many had bet that Hans couldn’t keep up with the champion... but they were utterly wrong. Not only did he match him, but he set the pace with a precision and fierceness that no one expected from the young noble. The fight, more than a struggle, was a silent conversation between two bodies that knew each other too well.

The clash of swords continued with an intensity that kept the audience on the edge of silence, absorbed in every movement. The metallic sound of blades colliding, the nimble steps on the packed earth, the labored breaths... all composed a symphony of skill and pride. Hans, driven by the adrenaline and fire burning in his chest, allowed himself to smile. He felt that every step, every block, every counterattack, was a declaration of his worth. He too could shine. He too could be worthy of Henry.

But it was that very confidence that betrayed him.

In a moment of carelessness, while attempting a wide turn to strike from a low angle, his foot caught on a stone hidden in the loose earth of the courtyard. He stumbled, and before he could regain his balance, Henry sprang at him by pure reflex, with the sharp instincts of someone who had fought for his life too many times. Hans jerked back, his back crashing into the stone wall of the building. There was no blow, no thrust. Just the weight of Henry, who had followed him there, now only inches away from him. The tip of the squire's sword rested against the padded chest of the lord, but it didn’t press. They were too close to think about winning.

Their labored breaths mingled in the small space between them. Henry, still gasping for air from the effort, looked him in the eyes, as though evaluating if he was alright... or perhaps just unsure of what to say in that moment. The heat of their bodies radiated in the closeness of the moment, and Hans felt time stop for just a second. That second lasted longer than any battle, longer than any journey or healed wound.

He could feel Henry’s breath grazing his lips, he could see every drop of sweat running down his forehead, every detail of his face, so familiar, so his. And in that proximity, Hans understood something he didn’t dare name: that all his pride, all his excitement, all his desire to prove to the world that he wasn’t just a pampered noble... all of it stemmed from this moment, from this man.

No one else seemed to notice what he felt. No one else seemed to understand what was at stake in that contained silence.

—Good thrust... my lord —Henry murmured, with a smile between exhaustion and amusement, still not pulling away.

Hans swallowed and forced a light laugh.

—Tsk... I got distracted, that's all.

But his chest still pounded, not from the fight... but because of Henry.

Both men separated under a shower of applause and enthusiastic cheers. As they left the arena, Hans was met with a wave of compliments and cordial words from the guild members, who spared no praise for his skill. The young lord accepted the attention with dignified composure, though inside, the echo of the fight still lingered. From a distance, his eyes couldn’t help but seek out Henry’s figure, who rested on a nearby bench, breathing heavily after the intense effort. “Control yourself, Hans. This isn’t like you”, he silently reprimanded himself, as he tried to suppress the whirlwind churning in his chest.

Several maids, moved both by duty and admiration, approached to offer him fresh water and relieve his fatigue. Gently, they wiped the sweat from his forehead, neck, and hands, using fine handkerchiefs that barely brushed his skin. Hans thanked them with a polite smile, though his attention was elsewhere.

Henry, for his part, was receiving enthusiastic pats on the back and a cascade of questions from the guild’s novices, eager to learn from the man who held the title of champion. Amidst laughter and jokes, the squire responded with the camaraderie that characterized him, never losing the warmth in his gaze. It was then that he noticed Hans approaching with a calm stride, sitting down beside him. The sun still shone high above, but no longer scorched. Its rays fell obliquely, gently caressing the courtyard, and the breeze that filtered through the walls brought a coolness that made the afternoon more bearable. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, but laden with unspoken meanings, with things that could only be felt when so close, yet so restrained.

—That was a good fight... —Henry initiated the conversation. —Though I felt you were more distracted than usual...

—Ahem, it’s your imagination, Henry. I’m just surprised at how much you’ve improved. —Hans looked away, knowing full well Henry could probably guess the truth. —Especially since the last time I defeated you at Blacktower Pond!

—What?! You still remember that? That was ages ago… —the brown-haired man laughed.

—Time is irrelevant when it comes to victory, my esteemed companion! Especially if... —But the young lord couldn’t finish his sentence, as he was suddenly interrupted by a warm, wet tongue licking his delicate hands. —Sweet Jesus! Henry, control your flea-ridden beast!

—Mutt! How are you, silly? —Henry beamed as his beloved pet trotted between his legs. —Have they given you something to eat yet? —His voice sounded more childlike than usual. Hans simply rolled his eyes.

After a while of conversation, soft laughs, and silences full of complicity, Master Menhard's presence broke into the courtyard with his characteristic imposing energy. Without further ado, he gathered the young combatants to give them an explanation that none of them should take lightly. With a firm voice and measured tone, Menhard spoke to them about the crucial importance of this year’s tournament. For the first time in many cycles, the renowned fencing brotherhood Federfechter —coming from the north of Prague— would honor Kuttenburg with its participation. The guild was famous not only for its mastery of refined techniques and precision in duels, but also for its deep intellectual pride, almost academic, regarding the art of the sword. They were recognized for adopting an almost philosophical approach to combat, although their reputation was tarnished by persistent rumors: they were not exactly known for playing fair. 

For that reason, Menhard looked especially at Henry with seriousness. He reminded him that, although his skill was already formidable, facing the Federfechter would require more than strength and agility. He would need to prepare more rigorously than ever, study the techniques he hadn't mastered yet, and anticipate the meticulous and sometimes unpredictable style of his opponents. The master's tone was not one of warning, but of respect for the challenge ahead. History was about to be written, and Henry was one of the pens that would wield it. 

—Well, Burschen ! Tomorrow training will beginnen an hour after dawn, don't oversleep and und prestad attention to the lessons —the master shouted before leaving—. From now on, you are frei , you can use the facilities to practice ode r or fix euer equipment, but don't kill yourselves! 

Hans and Henry exchanged a look, as if searching for an answer in each other to what they would do next. But when the squire opened his mouth without saying a word, the young lord stepped forward with resolve, if only to give himself some direction. 

—Enough of sweat and dust! —he exclaimed while getting up, stretching his arms dramatically—. I’ll take a good wine and visit the bathhouse nearby… I need to clean off this sweat and relax my muscles. 

—Did I wear you out, Capon? —Henry laughed, raising an eyebrow with that cheeky smile. 

—You wish, Hal! —Hans shot back, lifting his chin with feigned dignity—. But I’ve already given your fellow swordsmen enough to talk about for today. I’d love to stay and grace you with my presence a little longer, but duty calls…

He hated that Henry called him “Capon.” That nickname, which had started as a joke, made his stomach boil and stirred his nerves, as if he were still an insecure boy in front of a squire who, unknowingly, had the ability to disarm him completely. 

—Be careful, my lord —Henry continued with a mocking tone—. Young lords are being kidnapped around this city… and it's too big to find you in time. 

Hans frowned, pretending to be annoyed by the comment, and began walking out of the back garden with a firm step. He could already imagine changing his clothes for something more comfortable, leaving behind the hustle and bustle of the training to immerse himself in the steaming waters of the bathhouse attended by the delicate young women of the neighborhood. Not long ago, his intention would have been quite different from visiting them… but he had to admit, even if just in silence, that thanks to a certain squire with an easy laugh and hands cracked by iron, his tastes had changed.

 And those were tastes that, try as he might, those young women would never satisfy. 

Sin. 

Henry remained seated, accompanied by his faithful dog and some of the guild boys. He didn’t mind that Hans went alone to the bathhouse, though deep down, something inside him wished he could follow in his steps. Still, he preferred to focus his mind on the training. Master Menhard had already wArned him that the new opponents wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park, and he needed to keep perfecting his techniques if he wanted to be up to the challenge. Moreover, part of him thought that all this effort was bringing him closer to his goal: staying by his lord’s side and protecting him as he should. 

With that thought giving him strength, he stood up from the bench, took the practice longsword, and began to rehearse combinations in front of some training dummies. So focused was he that he didn’t notice the presence of the young german, who had been watching him entranced for some time. 

—Hard to believe that one day we found you walking on the street as a complete stranger, Heinrich … —the redhead commented with an almost nostalgic tone—. And now you’re the arm that defends the honor of this brotherhood. 

—I’m just trying to be good enough to protect my lord. It's my duty after all... —Henry replied without stopping hitting the dummy. 

— Ei! That lord of yours must be a lucky man then! It's the same thing I think every day when I see my beautiful Brunhilde —said the boy with a dreamy smile—. We must give our best, Heinrich! Es ist unsere Pflicht als Männer! It’s our duty as men!

—Brunhilde? I didn’t know you had a lady behind your back… —Henry stopped for the first time, intrigued.

— Ja Ja , well, yes. Apparently, she was charmed by my courage in the last tournament. She prepared me potions, heilen my wounds… and since then, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. I can't longer look at any other lady.

The gleam in Arne’s eyes made it clear that he was speaking from the heart.

—But well —he added, lowering his voice— I didn’t come here just to talk about meiner Liebe . There’s something important you need to know about the opponents. —Arne paused and looked around, making sure no one else was nearby.

— Es ist sehr wichtig , it’s important because the Federfechter are not like any other group we’ve faced before. Their fighting style is refined, Ja , but also very unpredictable. They’ve been training in secret for months, and many of them are experts in techniques that even we don’t know.

Henry furrowed his brow, dropping the wooden sword onto the straw dummy, making the sound echo in the air. He stepped closer to Arne, paying more attention than ever.

—And what kind of techniques are those? Something I can use against them? —Henry asked, his tone much more serious now.

Arne took a step back and, in a whisper, continued:

—They have a technique called "Einschnitt", a quick cut that seems almost impossible to dodge. And not only that, Sie kennen auch viele feine Manöver , they know many fine quick maneuvers that use the space to their advantage. You can't let your guard down. One mistake and they can knock you out of the fight. Es ist aus!

Henry nodded, feeling the tension grow in his chest. He needed to know more. He knew facing the Federfechter wouldn’t be easy.

—So... how can we beat them? —asked the young squire, willing to listen to any advice.

Arne smiled faintly, but not with the same confidence as before.

— Das Geheimnis ... the secret... is to always be one step ahead. You have to anticipate their movements. And most importantly, du musst ihre Köpfe lesen , you must read their minds. They are very smart, Heinrich . They don’t just fight with their bodies, but with their minds.

Henry sighed and tightened his grip on his sword hilt. It was clear that this tournament would not only be a test of skill but also of cunning.

—Thanks, Arne. I’ll keep that in mind. —Henry replied, with renewed determination in his eyes.

Arne nodded and, before leaving, gave a few supportive pats on the young squire’s back, who was now deep in thought after everything they’d discussed. It was curious how everyone described this "famous guild" and the respect they commanded. Henry prayed to God, asking not only for victory in the battle but also for protection from any mortal wounds. Yet, despite his thoughts, he couldn’t shake the heavy responsibility on his shoulders. Determined not to get distracted, he continued practicing until the dinner bell rang, followed by the delicious aroma of a broth that made his stomach growl. That impulse quickly led him toward the dining hall. Upon arriving, he saw his young lord —and secret lover— already sitting at the table, ready to enjoy a big bowl of beef broth. The place was filled with laughter and conversation among the guild members, but Henry’s presence made everything seem calmer for Hans. It wasn’t that he felt overwhelmed without him, but having a familiar face helped him let go of his correct and noble demeanor, at least with Henry; there, he could be a little more authentic.

—Did you enjoy your bath, my lord? —asked the brown-haired squire with a mischievous smile as he sat down across from him. The air around the young lord was infused with the scent of fresh herbs and wildflowers, much stronger than the food resting on the table.

—You’ve no idea how gratifying it was —Hans replied, bringing his hand to his nose with a mocking gesture, as if he wanted to point out the squire’s bad smell.— You should consider taking one yourself, my loyal companion.

—As if that would bother you when it’s time to sleep... Oh! —Henry complained, feeling a quick kick under the table. — Kurva!

Hans continued eating calmly, as if nothing could disturb him, serving more wine with complete tranquility. Nothing could unsettle him at that moment.

—Tomorrow is another day of training, am I wrong? —Hans said, bringing a piece of meat to his lips.

—That's right, though from what I see, some of the lads have other plans in mind... —Henry commented, rubbing his calf, which still hurt. He observed the guild members, who, with more wine and beer in hand than weapons, seemed much more interested in celebrating than training.

—You’d do well to relax too, Henry —Hans said, in a serene tone, offering his squire a foamy mug of beer.— There’s still time before the contest, these are peaceful times. Have some beer, eat, regain your strength. Tomorrow is another day!

Hans was right. He trusted his swordsmanship enough to know that, this time, he wouldn’t be defeated... at least, not so easily. Henry accepted the tankard with pleasure and brought it to his lips. The fresh, bitter taste of the beer, combined with the thick foam, brought warmth back to his tired body. They continued eating and sharing until late into the night, when the atmosphere was barely lit by the candles. It was a clear sign that it was time to rest. Some companions returned to their homes, excusing themselves with the promise to come back early the next day, while others fell asleep in their seats, exhausted from the wine.

The two knights stood up from the table, satisfied with what they had just eaten. Henry picked up his plate and Hans’s, gathering the leftovers to keep for his pet.

—I’m going to take these leftovers to Mutt. You can go ahead if you like, I understand you're tired.. —Henry said before leaving.

—You're going to fatten up that dog! —Hans mocked, smiling. —I'll be waiting upstairs... And don’t forget you have to “arrange” the place where you'll be lying down... —he added, feigning ignorance about what he meant.

Henry chuckled quietly, always surprised by the young lord's ability to hide his emotions so skillfully.

Leaving his companion behind, he exited through the back door and went to feed his loyal pet. The feast he offered was enough to keep him happy until the next day. He then returned inside and headed to the room where the baths were on the first floor. After a day of hard training, he couldn't deny that his scent was far from that of wild herbs. Moreover, he didn’t want to scare off his finicky knight. Stripping off his clothes, he quickly submerged himself in the wooden tub and began cleaning his body. The cold water sent a shiver through him, but he knew someone would soon make the warmth overtake him again.

He climbed the stairs quickly, eager to meet his young lover. The bustle of the place had died down some time ago, and now only they remained, accompanied by some distant snores that threatened to drown out the calm of the night. Upon arriving, Henry noticed the noble youth sitting at the central table, absorbed in reading a leather-bound book by the flickering candlelight. His blonde hair, shining like fine strands of gold, fell messily over his forehead, while a lock gently brushed his face. He had changed out of his noble clothes into simpler, more fitted attire, which clung to his body with the natural elegance that always accompanied him. Unable to avoid it, Henry’s gaze shifted to his intertwined legs, noticing the gentle movement of his foot, an unconscious reflection of his own calmness.

Hans didn’t pay attention to the squire, so engrossed was he in his reading that he didn't take his eyes off the book. "Could it be that book of poems again?" Henry thought, remembering the time he had found it hidden under the young lord’s bed in the Devil’s Den. He shook off those thoughts, determined to fulfill his task, and approached the only room on the third floor, encountering piles of straw stacked for some unknown reason. He grabbed a large handful of straw in his arms, along with a pillowcase, and headed toward what would be his bed.

—Alright, my lord! —He exclaimed theatrically. —I’ll arrange this straw beside your bed so you can rest better between the sheets, while I... seek comfort on the floor.

Hans looked at him, trying to suppress a smile.

—Proceed, good squire! —He responded in an equally theatrical tone, closing the book with a carefree gesture. —Everyone is asleep, Hal... —he whispered conspiratorially.

Henry moved closer to the side of the bed, and while still keeping his gaze fixed on his companion, he threw the straw onto the floor. Their eyes met, intense and firm, not straying for a second. The young lord stood from his seat and walked toward him with slow but determined steps. As he entered the small refuge they shared, he closed the curtain behind him, sealing their intimacy. The bedframe was made of solid steel, and the wine-colored linen drapes hung heavily, protecting the space from any breeze.

Henry’s hands took Hans’s, quickly closing the distance between them. Finally, they could hold each other as they had longed to throughout the day. Their faces brushed, the tension of the proximity thick in the air. Henry shifted his gaze to the young blonde's neck, inhaling deeply the soft scent he still carried from his time in the bathhouse, a mix of chamomile and lavender. The squire tightly encircled his lover's waist and, with slow but firm steps, guided him to the edge of the bed. Hans, guided by Henry's hand, sat on his strong thighs as he embraced him, never taking his eyes off him. The clash of their bodies, the brush of their hips, made clear the emotion coursing through them both, a shared desire that needed no words to be expressed.

The silence of the night enveloped the room like a thick blanket, broken only by the faint rustling of straw beneath their feet. Henry held Hans firmly, his hands reverently exploring every contour of his back, as if he wanted to memorize it by touch. The pads of his fingers traced slow, deep lines from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, and then, rising along the side of his torso, they barely grazed the young noble’s exposed chest, making his skin prickle at the touch.

Their lips met without warning, like two flames that could finally touch without fear of setting the world ablaze. It was a kiss that spoke of hunger, of nights restrained, of secrets shared in whispers and stolen glances. Henry kissed him fiercely but also gently, as though every gesture was a promise. Their mouths intertwined without respite, barely breathing, aware that a louder word could betray what the veil of night allowed them.

Hans struggled against the impulse to let himself be heard. He pressed his lips together through ragged breaths, holding back every sound that wanted to escape, while his body responded, surrendering, trembling. That squire of his —so rough in battle, so careful in love— left no corner untouched with his firm hands. Henry’s fingers slid down his ribs, over his stomach, caressing with a devotion that almost hurt. Hans closed his eyes as he felt his lover’s elusive hand in his underwear, pressing his forehead against the brunette’s, their breaths intertwined like their bodies, their warm breath melting into one.

—Relax, Hans, or you’ll fall... —he whispered into his ear.

—Then let’s change positions... —Hans pleaded as quietly as he could, not yet lifting his forehead from the squire’s shoulder.

Before agreeing to his companion's request, Henry kissed his lips again, eager for all that had been lost during the day. The kiss was short, as the brown-haired man slowly pulled away from Hans' lips, leaving only a soft sigh suspended between them. Their gazes met in the dim light, illuminated only by the weak glow of the candles filtering through the closed curtain. No words were needed, just a slight movement was enough for their bodies to shift positions. The young lord, gently guided by the brown-haired man's hands, lay on his side between the sheets, while Henry slipped in behind him, settling his body naturally against the curve of his back.

The warmth they shared was stifling, but not uncomfortable; it seemed to protect them from everything outside that moment. Henry slid his arm beneath Hans' and wrapped it around his waist, while with his other hand, he silently explored the smooth skin of his chest, feeling each subtle breath, each contained shiver. His fingers, playful and elusive, did not relent on the already sensitive nipples of the young blonde. His lips, never ceasing, pressed against the back of his lover's neck, leaving soft, wet kisses that contrasted with the tension of the moment, sometimes adding small bites, as if to say that joining on his skin wasn't enough.

Hans clenched his lips and shut his eyes tightly, trying to silence any moan that threatened to escape, while his back arched slightly at the relentless contact. He felt the strong man behind him lower his hands to play with his cock, erect and about to explode from the constant friction, the back-and-forth motion driving him crazy. The mere fact of having Henry like this, so close, so giving, was enough to make his blood boil. Their hearts beat furiously, not only from desire, but also from the awareness of where they were, of how forbidden and dangerous this moment was in the midst of the guildhouse.

Sin.

There, behind the linen curtains, oblivious to the world and the eyes of others, their bodies spoke in the ancient language of urgency and desire, without a word.

Scandalous sin.

✮✮✮✮

The faint light of dawn crept through the wooden window shutters, painting the stone walls of the bedroom with soft golden tones. The air was fresh, almost shy, as if it too knew how to keep secrets. Hans lay alone among the wrinkled sheets, his blonde hair messy and his bare back uncovered by a blanket that barely covered him. His eyelids were heavy, but the unrest in his chest forced him to open his eyes.

He slowly turned his face, searching for his squire… but found no one. He sat up in bed to look more closely at where his companion was. On the floor, atop the makeshift bed of straw, Henry slept like a child, with a peaceful expression, oblivious to any storm that might agitate the young noble's soul. Just as he had promised, the young man had returned to his place before dawn, letting the night fade away as if nothing had happened.

Hans sighed silently, placing a hand on his forehead. The memory of the night still burned on his skin… and in his pride. He rose slowly, trying not to make a sound. His naked body gathered the discarded underwear beside the bed, and with stealthy steps, he left for the first-floor baths. He needed water, many aromatic herbs… and some time to clear the impure thoughts still clinging to him like a fever. "I hope God Almighty forgives me one day", he thought.

Meanwhile, on the lower floors of the guild, the house was coming to life. One by one, the pages woke up with the punctuality that Master Menhard had imposed since the first day. Some yawned, others still smelled of wine, but no one dared to skip the training session that awaited them. Henry stretched among the straw, a bit sore, but renewed, and stood up with his usual discipline. There was no trace of doubt on his face, no sign that betrayed the passions of the previous night; in fact, he was shining more than the morning sun peeking through the window. He looked at the empty bed beside him, and a smile appeared on his face just like the sunrise.

When everyone gathered in the training yard, Master Menhard was waiting for them, poised like a man who knew war better than rest. Beside him, a dozen practice weapons were lined up, some shields, and a couple of chests covered with cloths.

— Guten Morgen, Jungs! I hope your bodies have discarded all the Alkohol I witnessed yesterday, because there will be no excuses for mistakes! —the wise man shouted. —The mastery of the sword… —his voice echoed, but then both pages found themselves side by side.

—Good morning, Sir Hans… —Henry made a humble bow to his lover.

—Ahem, morning Henry... it’s better to pay attention to your class… —Hans replied, still not looking him in the face. He could feel his ears starting to turn a noticeable red.

The class began without delay. The master taught lessons on defense, counterattacks, and positioning in close combat. No one noticed anything out of place. The laughter was sincere, the gasps were from effort, and the glances were too occupied avoiding a sword blow to the nose.

Except one.

Arne, who held his wooden sword as if it were an extension of his arm, paused for a second when he saw Hans adjust the collar of his gambeson. There, for just an instant, a small, purplish mark stood out, hidden right where the steel couldn’t cover. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, but then he shook his head, smiling.

— Bestimmt von gestern… —He murmured to himself. “Surely it was from the beating yesterday.”

And with a small twist of his wrist, he returned to his practice. No one had noticed anything. And if anyone had… it simply wasn’t the time to speak.

The day passed almost unnoticed, as if time, in step with the effort, had decided to move in leaps. The hours of training flew by, with swords crossed and muscles tensed, with voices giving orders and breaths pleading for respite. After lunch, calm arrived with the scents of home-cooked meals wafting from the kitchens, where the women of the house outdid themselves with creations that were more delicious every day. Each day, they managed to surprise them with new combinations, comforting dishes that warmed the soul and healed even the most exhausted spirit.

They not only cooked with art, but also had magical hands: they knew exactly what ointment to apply and where, how to bandage without tightening, and which herbs to place on a bruised eye to restore its normal color. Everyone allowed themselves to be cared for with gratitude… except one.

—Today I saw them give Sir Hans a hard blow to the ribs, but the very humble man doesn’t want us to examine him... —one of the maids commented sadly to another.

—Maybe we’re not worthy of him! —exclaimed another, unaware of the real reason.

Young Capon refused to let the women of the house examine his wounds. Who knows why? Perhaps pride, perhaps some other form of modesty. But Henry knew. And he couldn’t help but chuckle softly every time he saw him pass, hiding a grimace of pain. They were not exactly the marks of training that the young lord didn’t want to expose.

Once the training for the day had ended, Master Menhard again signaled the arrival of free time, during which each one could attend to their own matters. Both young men were on the top floor, organizing their belongings and storing the clean clothes recently delivered by the young ladies of the house. Hans noticed the intensity with which Henry was still mentally reviewing every mistake, every poorly executed move, every slip during the combat.

—If you're so determined to anticipate what's coming... —Hans said, crossing his arms with his typical mixture of arrogance and charm— We could visit the scribe of Kuttenburg. Maybe he has something about the Federfechter ... documents, records, whatever might give us an advantage.

Henry’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, as if Hans had just handed him the key to a forgotten castle full of secrets. He stood up immediately, almost without thinking.

—Do you really think the scribe could have something useful? —he asked with a curious, almost childlike sparkle in his eyes.

—I don’t know —Hans replied, shrugging— But if he has it, he won’t show it to just anyone. Luckily, my good friend, we’re not just anyone.

Less than an hour later, both, freshly cleaned and dressed in their best doublets — Henry’s somewhat more sober, Hans’s adorned with golden details that gleamed under the afternoon sun— walked through the cobbled streets of Kuttenberg. The city buzzed with its usual mixture of merchants, passersby, and soldiers, but they moved as if time belonged to them.

The scribe’s building was modest, made of weathered wood with a small plaque that barely hung next to the door. They knocked with their knuckles and waited. The creaking of hinges greeted them, along with the hunched figure of an elderly man, with furrowed brows and fingers stained with ink.

—What do you want, good men? —he asked directly, adjusting the glasses hanging from his nose.

—We want access to your records —Henry said, with a respectful tone—. Old documents, anything you have about the Federfechter and their history.

The scribe furrowed his brow even further.

—And what do you want that for? Are you lawyers? Historians? Who are you?

—Sir Hans Capon, lord of Pirkstein, heir to Rattay at your service… —Hans interjected, stepping forward—. We’re also warriors, yes, but we’re men of reason as well. And common sense tells us that one should know what they’re up against. We ask this in the name of Kuttenberg. 

—With respect —Henry quickly added, tilting his head with a courteous smile—. We don’t want to cause any trouble. We’re just seeking knowledge.

The old man looked them up and down, as if trying to figure out whether they were joking or truly desperate to learn. He muttered something under his breath, probably about the fragility of his archives, how little they lasted in the hands of others, and how annoying it was to reorganize everything afterward.

—I don’t like people rummaging through things… —he finally grumbled, but Hans’s gesture of placing a small bag of coins on the table seemed to change the tone of his protest.

—Neither do we —Hans said with a crooked smile—, that’s why we promise to leave everything just as we found it. Even better, if you like.

The scribe sighed deeply, as if resigning himself to his fate. He motioned for them to enter with a dry gesture. He really hated nobles and their way of solving problems.

—Come in… but be careful where you put your fingers. Some of those scrolls are older than your family trees.

—We’ll treat them with more care than our swords —Henry said, bowing his head with a slight reverence.

With a resigned sigh, the scribe allowed them to enter. Among old manuscripts and dusty scrolls, they found what they were looking for: notes on special techniques used by the rival guild, records of encounters, and most troubling of all… annotations made by bailiffs suggesting “strange accidents” that occurred to those who faced the Federfechter.

—Do you think these are enough proof to blame them if something happens?— asked the young blacksmith, his voice anxious.

—No… I don’t know, Henry, but I think they’re enough to know what you’re up against.

—It’s strange how, in most of the fights, they won because their opponents couldn’t continue… —the brown-haired man commented, running a hand through his head.

—Not to mention how most of them ended up locked in a latrine or vomiting out of their ears… Anyway, these are ancient writings, maybe it’s all from the past now…

—I’ll speak to the Master, he should be aware if something happens, they even describe symptoms of fatal poisoning or the kiss of death —Henry continued as he closed the last book.

—Sounds good to me! —Hans exclaimed.

It took them hours to read, debate, and cross-check information. The sun was already beginning to tint the rooftops a coppery red when they finally left.

That night, after a quick and light dinner — fresh bread, some cured cheese, and hot broth served by the always kind women of the tavern — both returned to the brotherhood when the sky was starting to dress in the dark velvet of night. There were no whispered jokes or furtive glances like on previous days; just a silent understanding, forged by fatigue and shared time.

The long day of training, the tension of the investigation, and the emotions still vibrating beneath their skin had left them exhausted, but also at peace. As they closed the curtains behind them, hiding their small refuge on the third floor, they moved with the confidence of those who no longer needed to explain anything.

Without urgency or shame, they undressed with slow movements. The doublets, shirts, and trousers fell in soft heaps at the foot of the makeshift bed. There was no desire this time, nor the electric anticipation of a caress; only the need to be close. Fatigue overcame any other intention.

Henry settled first, leaving space between the spread blankets, and Hans slid in beside him as if it were the most natural place in the world. One found shelter in the other’s chest, arms crossed behind the back, legs intertwined like roots seeking warmth. The heat of their bodies was more than enough to chase away the coolness of the stone.

—Tomorrow will be another long day. —Henry whispered, almost without opening his lips.

Hans nodded with his cheek resting on Henry’s bare chest.

—Then let’s sleep, Henry —he murmured.— At least let tonight be ours.

And so, amidst the faint rustling of straw, the distant murmur of other snoring, and the steady rhythm of their breathing, sleep enveloped them like a protective cloak. Deep. Restorative. Silent as a vow.

The next morning, Hans again found himself alone in the spacious bed. But this time, Henry was not sleeping at his feet; it seemed the young squire had already begun his day hours ago. The new day had begun. And with it, new challenges to face.

Each dawn in Kuttenburg brought the same golden glow that tinted the rooftops and towers with a promising light, but also the same demanding routine. Training began with the crowing of the rooster, and by then, the courtyard of the brotherhood was already buzzing with the sound of steel clashing, the sharp commands of the instructor, and the panting of the lads soaked in sweat. Under the watchful and stern gaze of Master Menhard, each young man pushed himself to the limit, aware that the honor of representing the city rested in their trained arms and tempered wills.

Menhard, however, didn’t just direct the training with iron discipline, but also took care of the complex administrative matters that a tournament of such magnitude required. He spent much of the day in private meetings with Fridusch Kummel, the city’s counselor, reviewing lists, coordinating the logistics for the visitors, and ensuring that the rival guild would have a flawless stay, with no reasons for complaint or diplomatic misunderstandings.

Every detail was scrutinized meticulously: from the arrangement of accommodations to the quality of provisions, and, of course, the prize that awaited the victor. The tournament’s treasure was made up of gleaming bags filled with groschen, swords forged by master hands in the forges of Kuttenberg, and armors that shone like mirrors under the sun, so refined they could belong to a noble of the court. Everything was being prepared so that the event would not only be a fight but a celebration of courage, skill, and the pride of a city that spared no grandeur.

Among those most dedicated to training, Henry and Arne undoubtedly stood out. The young squire from Skalitz, driven by an almost obsessive fervor, trained until his arms trembled with fatigue and his shirt clung to his body, soaked with sweat. His mastery of the longsword grew with each passing day, sharpened by the experience of battle and the constant reminder of what was at stake. Every slash, every feint was executed with almost fierce passion, making it clear that he was determined not to fail, neither to his brotherhood nor to himself.

Arne, for his part, stood out with a very different but equally effective approach. He wasn’t driven by passion, but by precision. He trained like someone composing a musical piece: every step, every strike, every defense seemed to follow an invisible score that only he knew. His technique with sword and shield was so measured and meticulous that at times it was hypnotic. There was no waste in his movements, no hesitation in his stance. While Henry shone like a burning flame, Arne moved like a perfectly tuned machine made for dueling.

As the days passed, the tension was palpable in the air. They were not only preparing for a tournament but also to represent the honor of their guild in front of the entire city. And both of them knew it.

The afternoon before the great tournament, after an exhausting day, Master Menhard gathered all the young men in the courtyard:

— Burschen, höret gut zu! Listen attentively! —he exclaimed in a firm voice. —As you already know, this tournament will be divided into three categories! Kampf mit Schwert und Schild, Langschwert und freier Waffenganglucha , that is, sword and shield, longsword, and free combat, which allows all weapons except ranged ones.

Everyone present cheered excitedly.

—The chosen ones to represent our Bruderschaft in each of the categories are: Henry of Skalitz, Arne der Deutsche, and Lambert Kravik. —Master Menhard announced proudly.

The initial murmur quickly turned into a wave of cheers. Some struck their sword hilts against their shields, others clapped enthusiastically, and more than one shouted an encouraging cheer that broke the stillness of the evening. From a corner of the garden, Hans watched the scene with his arms crossed and a faint smile on his lips. At his feet, Mutt lay wagging his tail with the same enthusiasm as his human companions. He had known in advance that Henry was among the chosen, but he began to clap as well, without fanfare but with a look that spoke of genuine admiration and something more intimate, reserved only for the young man from Skalitz.

Taking advantage of the moment, Henry made his way through the applause and approached Master Menhard, his brow slightly furrowed.

—Master, I've been waiting for the opportunity to mention something strange… —the young blacksmith whispered. —Several opponents from the rival guild have suffered… accidents. —His words, though soft, carried a concern that did not go unnoticed by the experienced Menhard.

—What do you mean, junger man ? —the master crossed his arms, paying close attention.

—It’s not natural… —Henry continued. —Neither the way nor the frequency with which these incidents occur outside of combat. Something doesn't add up. The warriors are getting sick, abandoning the fights, others simply don't show up on the day of the contests, there are too many letters accusing the same thing for it to be a coincidence…

Upon hearing Henry's words, Menhard let out a long, deep sigh. He adjusted his clothes and, with a tired gesture, crossed his arms, looking at the young warrior with seriousness.

—Precisely because of that, I’ve been so busy, Heinrich —the master replied in a grave tone, his gaze fixed on the young man—. As you well know, this tournament is not just a physischer competition, but also a field of intrigue. I’ve been working directly with the Ratsherrn Fridusch Kummel, managing that all the details are thoroughly reviewed. Alle Speisen und Waffen , all the food and weapons will be inspected by trusted men of the king. We won’t leave any suspicion unanswered. Also, if that doesn’t ease your mind, I can arrange a privates Zelt for each team, with restricted access. No one will be allowed in without permission. No one, Heinrich .

Henry, though not entirely convinced, nodded slowly, his brow still furrowed by the tension that had not yet fully dissipated.

The young warrior remained silent for a moment, chewing over the master’s words. The feeling of unease still lingered, but the certainty that Master Menhard was doing everything possible to protect them provided him with a small dose of relief.

—I understand, master. I appreciate the precautions you're taking… —Henry bowed his head in gratitude. —I’ll meet with the other participants to organize ourselves.

— Das ist es! Now, return to your Gefährten and prepare yourselves. This Turnier will be remembered, Heinrich , but it’s up to you to ensure it’s for glory and not chaos. —The master nodded with a slight smile.

Henry nodded again and, with a sigh, withdrew to the other competitors, knowing that the uncertainty he felt would not disappear easily. But for now, all that was left was to wait and prepare for what was to come. Later, in a corner of the courtyard, the three representatives gathered alone.

The three men settled at one of the tables arranged under the grape arbor, where the cool evening breeze gently rustled the leaves. In front of them, a light meal and a couple of cups of wine awaited. Though the fatigue from training was evident on their faces, it was pride that truly illuminated them: they had been chosen to represent the Bruderschaft of Kuttenberg. However, Henry knew that there were still more serious matters to discuss.

—Alright, we need to wisely divide our strengths —Henry proposed in a determined tone.

— Wohl! Good! —exclaimed Arne, raising his cup with enthusiasm.

—I’ll handle the longsword in the second round —the young blacksmith continued, pointing to names on a paper— Lambert, your strength is ideal for free combat. And Arne, your precision with sword and shield could give us a key advantage in the first round.

—My flail is eager to test the steel of those Prague weaklings! —roared Lambert, shaking his black mane with a defiant air.

—Ahem! It’s a pleasure to see you so determined, gentlemen —intervened a familiar voice, elegant and somewhat condescending—. But I believe my noble squire should also share some other details with you...

Hans had arrived silently, and now he took a seat next to Henry, absentmindedly stroking the ear of Mutt, the loyal dog that had followed him there.

—It’s true —Henry nodded, casting a serious glance at his companions—. Arne, you had already mentioned a few things to me, but Sir Hans and I went to investigate further with the town’s notary...

The other young men stopped eating and leaned forward, attentive.

—We found suspicious letters —he continued—. In them, it is mentioned that several competitors from the Brotherhood of Prague were disqualified for dubious violations… or were directly withdrawn from the competition due to sudden illnesses that struck them in the middle of battle.

—Kurva! Is that true, noble sir? —asked Lambert, between confusion and indignation.

—Not only is it true —Hans replied gravely—. You must also be on the lookout for their tournament techniques. I have the impression that... dirty tricks are one of their specialties. —His gaze fixed firmly on the rim of the wine glass in front of him.

Henry then unfolded some notes he had copied from the documents found with Hans. He showed his companions drawings of dangerous maneuvers, handwritten warnings, and symbols of caution. The atmosphere became more serious, but not grim. On the contrary, at the end of the presentation, a new determination shone in their eyes. They clinked their glasses in the center of the table, sealing a silent pact. That night, they celebrated as brothers-in-arms, convinced that no trick or threat would tarnish their will.

Tomorrow they would fight for glory. And they wouldn’t do it alone.

The hours passed with the calm that follows the storm. The discussions, strategies, and warnings had already been shared; everything important had been said. Gradually, the noise in the building quieted, until only the three selected remained, and of course, the noble Hans, whose presence seemed immovable, as if he were part of the place itself. The other young men, though reluctantly, were sent home: tomorrow they would only be spectators of the great tournament.

The night began to descend serenely over the cobbled streets of Kuttenburg. The spring breeze, soft as a sigh, brushed the half-open shutters without chilling the room. In the distance, the rhythmic pounding of wooden hammers echoed like a ceremonial beat: the workers were preparing the arena for the next day’s combat. The air smelled of wine, burned herbs, and anticipation; an entire city was preparing to celebrate.

On the third floor of the inn, Henry remained seated silently at the table facing his bed. He had just bathed, and his hair was still damp, but his mind wandered far away. In front of him lay his longsword, the same one his father had given him. He held it carefully in his hands, as if fearing the slightest movement might break the moment. The carved pommel and the handguard forged by his father seemed to have a life of their own under the flickering light of the candles, which illuminated the steel with a soft, melancholic glow. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Hans’ presence until he heard him speak, his voice seeming not to want to interrupt more than necessary.

—Are you... thinking about the tournament? —asked the young noble, not moving from the threshold.

Henry gave a slight start.

—Yes, of course… —he paused—. It’s an important event... —he replied, scratching his head, visibly nervous.

Hans approached with calm steps and a smile that barely curved his lips.

—Henry, no one is more prepared than you for this —he said gently—. Think about everything you’ve overcome… compared to that, this tournament is like… like a hair on the tail of your horse.

Henry tried to laugh, but all he managed was to look away, pressing his lips as if something had gotten stuck in his throat.

—I know... b-but!... —he stammered, but the words didn’t quite form.

It was then that he felt Hans’ hand softly rest over his. He wasn’t squeezing, wasn’t pulling, it was simply there. A silent gesture that spoke more than any speech.

—Come, Henry. It’s time to rest. Tomorrow the sun will rise, and with it... we will rise —Hans said, with a calm smile.

Henry nodded silently. Guided by his lover’s hand, he shed his heavier garments and allowed himself to be enveloped by the warmth of the sheets, still warm from the body that had occupied them before him. There, in the soft shadow of the room, he allowed himself to close his eyes and breathe deeply, recognizing the scent of clean linen, melted wax... and Hans. The shared bed was a secret barely held together by the complicity of silence, but enough to make them feel, for a few hours, that the world belonged to them. It was then that Hans’ closeness became impossible to ignore. The subtle brush of his thighs, a sigh exhaled too close, and the warmth of the beloved body, slowly waking the young blacksmith’s senses. He didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel how his masculinity began to throb against his lover’s thighs.

Hans turned toward him, without pretenses, with that mix of irony and curiosity of his.

—I thought it was nerves about the tournament… —he murmured with a barely visible smile in the shadow.

—I imagined other ways to distract myself… —Henry whispered in response, his voice lower than the murmur of the night wind.

His fingers, calloused from hard work, traced the nobleman’s pale skin with devotion. They caressed, explored, touched every inch as if searching for something to hold onto, fearing the daylight might tear it away from him. Hans let him, closing his eyes at the touch of those hands that, though sometimes clumsy with words, knew how to say everything with a single stroke.

—I believe I’ve spoiled you too much, blacksmith’s son… —Hans murmured, his tone somewhere between teasing reproach and vulnerable confession.

—Maybe —Henry chuckled, lowering his voice. —Though… this might bring me luck tomorrow.

Their bodies began to seek each other without urgency, with the slow rhythm of those who feel safe, even if only for a night. The desire, ignited by trust, was laced with tenderness and gratitude. It was Hans who pulled him in first, tugging gently at his shirt until he was close enough for their lips to brush. The first kiss was neither shy nor slow. It was a fiery clash of mouths that spoke without words, a meeting marked by the rush and adrenaline of knowing they were nearly safe.

Henry brought a hand to the nape of Hans’ neck, fingers sinking into his blond hair, while his other hand gripped the noble’s waist, pulling him close. The young noble let out a soft moan, parting his lips to welcome him deeper, his body responding with equal urgency: restless hands, touches sliding down the blacksmith’s back, claiming him as his own. There was desire, yes, but also something more primal. A need to hold on to the other, to feel him real, alive, there with him, before war or duty tore them apart again.

A barely-there smile curved Henry’s lips against Hans’ before he began his descent. He did so with restrained reverence, as if every inch of skin was sacred ground worthy of both hunger and tenderness. He kissed along the line of his jaw, down his neck; where he bit and sucked without a trace of shame, before continuing to his chest, where his lips lingered again, savoring the quickened pulse beneath the skin.

Hans exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, eyes closed, as he felt the warmth of that mouth travel over him. When Henry reached his stomach, his tongue traced a slow path that made him shiver. The young noble arched with a muffled moan, unable to stop his body from reacting with a mix of desire and vulnerability. He brought a hand to his mouth in haste, biting gently on his knuckles to keep the sound from escaping his chest.

Henry, undeterred and shameless, continued downward. His lips and warm breath reached Hans’ thighs, kissing them with growing hunger, as if each caress sought to be etched into both their memories. The gentle bites he left in his skin drew another gasp from the noble, who was now breathing unevenly, lost in the blend of pleasure, emotion, and the shared secret that bound them beneath the shadows of that room.

—Hal… please…! —the young blond gasped, still covering his face with his arm.

Hans’ eyes opened, first in surprise, then in awe, when he felt the warm brush of a wet tongue teasing the tip of his cock. The shiver that ran down his spine wasn’t from cold, but from a sudden wave of pleasure. He propped himself slightly on his elbows, his gaze locking with Henry’s: intense, determined, piercing through him as if he meant to reach beyond the body. The squire maintained a steady rhythm, careful but deep, as if every movement was guided by desire and an intimate knowledge of what made his lover tremble. Hans parted his lips, stifling the moan rising in his throat, letting a sigh escape the corners like pleasure trying to betray him regardless. With a mix of surprise and surrender, Hans brought a hand to Henry’s hair, gently caressing his dark curls with trembling tenderness. There were no words that could capture what he felt; it was more than desire; it was silent surrender, mutual recognition in the shadows.

Henry didn’t stop until he felt Hans’ muscles begin to tense beneath his touch. He knew him so well, could anticipate every reaction, every sigh muffled for fear of being overheard. That forced silence only intensified everything, as if the secret cloaked them in a spell that made each caress, each breath shared, burn hotter.

— Heinrich? —called Arne cautiously. —Are you gut? I thought I heard a groan and...

Panic shot through them at the sound of the young voice, timidly speaking from behind the curtain, followed by muffled steps approaching down the hall.

—I-it’s me, young Arne! —Hans interrupted, his voice somewhat strained, nearly breathless.

He and Henry looked at each other as if time had frozen. Every muscle tense, as if even breathing might be too risky.

—I-I was absorbed in my reading… a very chivalrous tale —Hans improvised, trying to sound casual. —Sakra, it completely captivated me!

—Oh… forgive me, my lord. And Heinrich?

—He… went out! Yes, he said he wanted to clear his head, breathe the night air…

From his corner, Henry stifled a laugh as he watched Hans struggle to maintain composure, hidden under the sheets like a mischievous boy. But the scene grew even more amusing when the blacksmith, without a word, boldly pulled the fabric down again, exposing him completely once more. Hans’ eyes widened in outrage, but before he could reclaim control, Henry had already resumed the task so rudely interrupted, with playful determination. A stifled moan escaped the noble’s lips, as he bit down on his fist to keep any sound from alerting the innocent youth on the other side of the curtain.

—Oh… danke . I think I’ll go look for him, he must be around… —the redheaded boy hinted. —Enjoy your reading, mein Herr…

Hans didn’t have time to respond. Henry’s tongue gave him no respite, stealing away any chance to form a single word. The only thing he could clearly make out were Arne’s footsteps retreating down the stairs, fading into the lower floors. The inn was quiet once more, lit only by the warm flicker of a few scattered candles.

—Y-you’re a bloody madman! —Hans whispered, lightly smacking his lover’s brown-haired head. —What would you do if that damned german suddenly pulled back this fucking curtain?

—Nah, don't worry. He'd never dare interrupt a noble... besides, you handled yourself quite well, Capon...

That name; so unmistakably his, spoken in that low, steady voice, was enough to disarm him completely. Henry knew exactly when and how to use it to knock him off balance.

Sin.

With a resigned sigh, Hans allowed the caresses to continue, surrendering to the desire that now wrapped around everything. There would be no more interruptions, they could assume they were truly alone, at least on that upper floor of the inn. Henry resumed his task with renewed devotion, savoring every reaction from the nobleman who shivered beneath him. He could feel his body tremble, his skin burning, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The heat of the moment affected him too: his own cock, rigid and damp, begged to be freed from the confines of his underclothes.

When he felt Hans’s body begin to tense, teetering on the edge of climax, Henry slowly straightened, settled between his legs, and carefully unfastened his trousers. With a decisive motion, he released his dick and, without breaking eye contact, brought their cocks together with gentle precision, aligning them side by side. His hands moved in a rhythmic cadence, stroking them with a tempo that rose and fell like an untamable wave. Hans bit his lip, his body arching with pleasure, moans escaping in whispers only the shadows could hear.

The shared friction, the heat of their bodies melding into the night’s silence, wrapped them in an ancient, primal urgency. Henry leaned over Hans, kissing his neck, his collarbones, drinking in every choked breath like a sacred hymn. His hands kept their dance, steadier now, hungrier.

—H-Henry… now, please…—the poor lord pleaded in a broken whisper.

—Hans… almost there —Henry murmured against his skin, voice low and breathless.

Hans clung to the sheets, his body taut, mouth open in a moan he barely managed to muffle by biting the squire’s shoulder. His hips sought more friction, more union, the relief so near. Henry’s hand had found a pace that bordered on madness, rising and falling without mercy. And then, with a shared gasp, they both reached their climax, a deep, almost sacred shudder coursing through them from the center of their chests to the tips of their fingers. All thought vanished. There was only the two of them, panting under the dim candlelight.

To Henry, the sight before him was raw and erotic beauty: Hans, eyes still closed, one hand covering his mouth, his pale chest rising and falling with uneven breath. His neck bore the marks of kisses and suckles that still burned like fresh fire; his abdomen glistened with beads of sweat and semen release; and his trembling legs spoke of pleasure still lingering in his body. Henry could already feel that same urgency stirring in him once more, but instead of giving in, he was overcome by a deep, warm peace. He lay down beside his lover, exhaling in unison within that sacred silence known only to those who’ve loved with their entire body.

The world beyond those linen curtains seemed to disappear. They weren’t in Kuttenberg, nor at a tournament, nor in a building filled with swords, wine, and curious eyes. They were alone, wrapped in each other’s arms, speaking this new language they had discovered together… made of hungry touches, broken sighs, and the thrill of knowing they were both desired and hidden.

✮✮✮✮

The sun climbed high above the rooftops of Kuttenburg, casting its golden light over the wooden palisade and the banners fluttering in the wind. The entire city had donned its finest for the great tournament, and from early morning, the music of bagpipes, drums, and lutes filled the streets, mingling with the expectant murmur of the crowd. Bells rang in the distance, and among food stalls, decorated carriages, and children running with pennants in hand, the entire town moved toward the combat grounds as if attending some sacred celebration.

Further on, the town galleries teemed with excitement. Men and women of all ages crowded beneath more modest, yet equally festive, awnings decorated with ribbons and green branches. Some drank ale, others munched on buns, and all shared that vibrant energy that only comes when honor and glory are on the line. Young women whispered and giggled, casting eager glances toward the arena, where the combatants were beginning to gather.

The heart of the tournament pulsed around the grand lords’ pavilion, an imposing structure of scarlet and ivory canvas, held aloft by carved posts and trimmed with golden edges. Beneath its embroidered awnings were the seats of judges, advisors, and visiting nobles. Heraldic tapestries hung with pride, displaying the emblems of great houses: rampant lions, crossed hammers, towers, ravens, and dragons. A large dark-wood table, draped in velvet cloth, held goblets, chests of prizes, and scrolls bearing the names of the contenders.

The team masters, already gathered at the scene, met in the center of the pavilion to present themselves to the judges. Étienne de Montferrat , the master of Prague, stood tall, his gaze cold yet refined like any proper Frenchman, he greeted the organizers and the rest of the assembly. His tall figure and fine garments gave him an intimidating presence, while his icy blue eyes scanned the scene with calculated ease. At his side stood the master of Kuttenburg, Menhard of Frankfurt, a man of simpler manners but no less imposing stature. He received Étienne with a cordial smile, though a prudent distrust was evident in his eyes.

— Ha! Meister Étienne, it seems we can finally celebrate this Turnier in a fair manner, as it should be! —said the local maester , extending a hand.

Étienne shook it, but his smile was more courtesy than warmth.

— Mais naturellement, Maître. It should be a noble, clean, and fair combat ... as every tournament of such magnitude ought to be! —he replied in a soft tone, almost a whisper, though the intensity of his words did not go unnoticed.

Menhard nodded, confident, but raised a slight brow upon noticing Étienne’s calculating calm.

—Let us hope so, for all is set in the name of the kingdom’s glory," he said, with a hint of pride in his voice.

However, Étienne quickly veered into the conversation, as if the matter of “justice” held little interest for him.

— Oui, oui… mais , as with every event of this sort, there is always room for a bit of… ruse —he murmured, letting the insinuation hang in the air, one the maester of Kuttenberg did not overlook. —I do hope your hommes are ready to taste the steel of Prague, mon très cher ami …

—What do you mean, Meister? —asked Menhard, unable to hide the trace of suspicion.

Étienne, his expression untouched by concern, replied only with an enigmatic smile. Before they could delve further, both turned at the sound of cheers and the roar of the crowd. A powerful and familiar voice rose above the music and general commotion, commanding attention.

From atop the lords’ pavilion appeared Fridusch Kumel, clad in noble finery, his signature thin mustache framing the corners of his lips. Raising both hands in a gesture of welcome, he greeted the crowd with enthusiasm and exclaimed:

—Attention, attention all! Noble citizens of Kuttenberg! As you already know, the glorious day of the tournament has arrived! —His deep, commanding voice carried effortlessly to the farthest stands. —Fear not, you have not come in vain! You shall witness magnificent duels! Feats worthy of song and memory! Let us welcome our master swordsmen and the illustrious counselors who honor us today with their presence!

Another wave of applause and shouting rippled through the grounds as those addressed saluted respectfully from within the tent. The already vibrant atmosphere seemed to swell with every word of the host.

—And now, give a great round of applause to the participants of each discipline! —Kumel proclaimed, his voice ringing with authority over the crowd’s growing excitement. —In the yellow corner, we have: Ondřej Drahota, Lazár Székely, and Heinz von Dallwitz!

From their private tent, the three representatives of Prague made their entrance with haughty airs, every step radiating confidence. They greeted the crowd with measured, almost arrogant gestures, their gleaming armor betraying the craftsmanship of the city's finest armorers. The public's response was immediate: cheers, whistles, and applause clashing in a cacophony of excitement as they crossed the palisade and raised their arms, proudly displaying their ornate shields and imposing figures.

—And now, dear people! —Kumel continued, raising his voice even higher, swept up in the moment’s fervor. —Give a thunderous welcome to our local brotherhood! In the red corner you will find: Henry of Skalitz, Arne the German, and Lambert Kravik!

The response was overwhelming. The crowd roared with emotion, fervent applause pouring down upon the three young men who stepped confidently into the arena. Their armor, solid and noble in craftsmanship, gleamed beneath the morning sun. At the front stood Henry, a natural leader: his smile was wide and radiant, and he waved his arms enthusiastically in greeting. His black armor, decorated with fine golden details, made him appear like a noble and majestic shadow, a true black knight in service to Rattay. There was something magnetic about him, nearly impossible to ignore, and the crowd quickly surrendered to his charisma.

Henry, awestruck by the sea of faces stretching out before him, silently searched for his young lord. Then, among the throng, his eyes found Hans, who was seated a few meters away in the galleries reserved for nobility. Without a shred of shame, Henry blew him a kiss, disguised as a theatrical gesture meant for the public.

Hans, caught off guard, felt the familiar warmth rise to his face. He quickly looked side to side and, making sure no one was watching too closely, crossed his arms in a forced gesture of indifference… but not before pretending to catch the kiss mid-air and tuck it discreetly against his chest. “You show-off, son of a blacksmith…” Hans thought, a mix of embarrassment and fondness swirling in him. His smile widened as he saw the gesture well received.

A group of girls nearby squealed, convinced the kiss had been meant for one of them.

—Ahhh, it was for me, I swear by the Mother Virgin! —one shouted, pointing excitedly.

—Shut up, he didn’t even look your way! That kiss was mine!

Hans smirked slightly, holding back laughter at all the confusion... and all the fuss over his squire.

A bit farther down, in the wealthier tribune, girls were gathering in clusters, giggling and swooning. Several leaned over the palisade, sitting on friends’ laps or climbing barrels for a better view. Hans watched them with a kind of fondness, almost tenderness—until he was pulled from his thoughts by their sudden screams:

—Look, look at that one! The one with the armor trimmed in gold!

—Oh, blessed God, look at those shoulders! I bet he could lift me with one arm! —said one of them, laughing and covering her mouth with coquettish flair.

—And that redhead? The one walking in front? He’s waving!

—Oh no, he saw us! He’s looking this way! —another one whimpered, hiding behind her friend.

Hans cleared his throat and lowered his gaze, feeling the wave of embarrassment crawl up his spine. Slowly, he realized he was just as excited to see Henry proving his worth.

Once the participants were formally introduced, each team was guided to their respective tents, located at opposite ends of the palisade. There, the tournament stewards began distributing the regulation garments: padded doublets in their team colors, distinctive armguards, and the weapons designated for the first match. The armorer handed out the regulation sword broad-bladed, sharp enough to wound but not to kill, along with a round oak shield reinforced with iron. The young Tudesque accepted them with confidence; he would be the first to fight. Surrounded by an air of bravery, he walked steadily toward the battlefield when summoned by the herald.

—We shall witness two skilled men in the art of swordplay! —bellowed Frisduch once again. Arne der Deutsche! Welcome him back after his recent recovery!

The crowd went wild.

—Now that we know our first duelist, let us see who will match their strength against him! —The councillor’s eyes scanned the notes laid out before him. —Ondřej Drahota! Hailing from Moravia, they say he moves like a serpent!

Arne and Ondřej were the first to be called. Both prepared quickly, needing no instructions. The fighters crossed the field at a steady pace, each from their respective end. As the judges supervised the final adjustments and inspected the weapons, the air grew thick with anticipation. Ondřej, sturdy and stone-faced, twirled his sword effortlessly and gave a slight nod to the lords. Arne, younger and standing tall, did not return the gesture; he merely glanced sideways at the crowd before planting himself in front of his rival. In his own way, he seemed to measure the distance of the ground, the weight of the shield, the way the air bounced off the tent’s fabric. The musicians fell silent, and a dull sound from a long, curved horn signaled the imminent start of the first duel.

—For the glory of Kuttenburg, let the duel begin! Combatants, commence! —Kummel’s hand marked the start of the fight.

His final words were almost drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

The horn’s blast gave the cue, and both combatants charged toward the center of the field with determination. Swords clashed with a roar of steel, but it was the shields that spoke the loudest: they crashed with force, slid in tight turns, rose like wings, and shut like doors in a dance of reflex and strength. From the red tent, Henry watched intently, tension and pride etched on his face. He couldn’t help but smile at Arne’s firmness, the precision with which he raised his shield, how he absorbed the blows and countered with speed. He had improved a great deal. Henry could feel how the german’s adrenaline had become his own.

The man from Prague was no clumsy warrior, far from it. His body moved with an agility that was almost animalistic, but there was something unsettling about his style. He wasn’t trying to overpower with brute strength or dazzle with technique. He was provoking: quick feints, false strikes, sudden steps forward only to pull back, like a viper toying with its prey. It was as if he wanted Arne to rush in, to make a mistake he could exploit with cunning. But the Tudesque didn't take the bait. He endured. He measured. He responded with poise. His shield spun with force in a lateral blow that pushed Ondřej to the edge of the palisade, and in the next exchange, a direct charge was enough to throw him off balance.

One wrong step… and the Prager’s shield dropped. Ondřej stumbled backward, landing on his backside, weaponless and defenseless. Arne straightened fully, sword still held firm and pointed at him. The fight was over.

—End of the duel! Huzzah, we have a winner! —cried the herald. —Arne der Deutsche! The winner in the sword and shield discipline is a swift and skilled swordsman! He has not been defeated this time!

The crowd’s roar was immediate. The stands shook with applause, cheers, and whistles of celebration. From his place, Hans looked at Henry, who raised his fist proudly for his comrade. Meanwhile, in the judges’ tent, Maître Étienne de Montferrat pressed his lips together and slammed his fist on the table in fury, toppling a goblet of wine that spilled over the scoring sheets.

—Merde… —he muttered under his breath, his brow furrowed in frustration. The Frenchman snatched his tunic with a harsh gesture and stomped down the steps of the tent with heavy, purposeful strides. No one knew exactly where he was headed, but his shouts and curses in his native tongue echoed through the camp, leaving behind a trail of tension… and the uneasy feeling that Étienne de Montferrat had no intention of leaving his fate to chance.

Arne left the battlefield with his chest held high and his brow beaded with sweat, but his gaze was steady. As soon as he crossed the palisade, he was greeted with enthusiastic pats from his teammates. Lambert threw an arm around him, giving him a brotherly squeeze on the shoulder, while Henry offered a wide, proud smile.

—Well done, Arne… —Henry’s hand landed firmly on the redhead’s shoulder.

—You did it, lad! By all the saints, that final move was brilliant! —said Lambert with a jocular tone and a mouth full of food. Admiration sparkled in his eyes.

But the celebration was short-lived. From the stands, the voice of Fridusch Kummel boomed once more over the crowd, with the theatricality of a seasoned actor.

—And now, dear friends and noble guests, the most anticipated discipline of the day! The longsword! A dance of steel, strength, and skill! To your positions, brave combatants!

Henry took a deep breath, feeling his heart begin to pound harder. It was his turn. He walked to the armorers’ tent, where the squires bustled about, making last-minute adjustments. Amid the wooden benches and weapons neatly arranged by category, he found his own: a sheathed, gleaming sword… but something was wrong. He took it, and as he drew it, the metallic sound wasn’t quite right. His skilled knowledge of smithing told him something was off. The blade was dull. Blunt, as if it had been used for weeks without a single sharpening.

He frowned and raised the sword with suspicion, running his fingers along it.

—What is this? —he asked in a low but firm voice, addressing the nearest armorer, an older man with rough hands and tired eyes.

—It’s the one that was assigned, lad. Can’t say much more than that —the man replied neutrally, shrugging.

—This couldn’t cut through butter… —Henry muttered through clenched teeth. Everything felt wrong, but there was no time for suspicions or complaints.

Without delay, he walked to the sharpening stone set beside the tent. Kneeling before it, he held the sword firmly, gripping the hilt with one hand while his leg worked the pedal. The wheel began to spin, slowly at first, then faster. With each stroke of steel against stone, golden sparks flew like tiny, furious fireflies. The rough grinding sound briefly rose above the distant bustle.

Henry worked with a craftsman’s focus, his breathing steady, his fingers precise. Every inch of regained edge was a silent victory. He was a blacksmith’s son, and though the blade had not been sharpened by a friend’s hand, he would not step into the combat field with a useless sword.

He looked up for a moment and saw the arena. They were already waiting for him. He exhaled one last time, brushed his fingers carefully along the edge, and nodded to himself. He was ready.

Both contenders walked toward the center of the arena with firm steps. The ground crunched beneath their heavy boots, and the tension in the air was like a taut rope ready to snap. Flags flapped vigorously, and the murmurs of the crowd swelled into a deafening roar as Fridusch Kummel raised his arms once again.

—Ladies and gentlemen! —his voice thundered, deep and solemn—. In this corner, from the northern lands of Hungary, with the strength of a mountain and the eyes of a wolf: Lazár Székely!

The crowd responded with cautious applause, though not without respect.

—And in the other corner… our undefeated champion, the pride of the Brotherhood of Kuttenberg, forged in flame and steel, known for his boldness and bravery: Henry of Skalitz!

The roar of the crowd was instant. “Heinrich! Heinrich! Heinrich!” they shouted. Hans tensed in his seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he felt his heart race in time with the cheers. From his vantage point, he could see Henry raise his longsword and salute with confidence.

—Who shall taste glory, and who shall feel the sting of defeat? It will be decided soon! Contenders, begin! —Kummel raised his arm once more.

The match began at the councilor’s signal. The swords clashed instantly in a burst of steel and force. Henry moved with remarkable agility, every thrust met with flawless defense. His spins were elegant, his balance perfect. But the young Hungarian would not be intimidated. His style was direct, heavy, and full of intent.

From the stands, Hans watched every movement without blinking. His stomach was in knots, and with each strike, he found himself holding his breath without realizing it. Sweat trickled down his brow, and he didn’t even notice the girls beside him clinging to each other in excitement.

Henry struck with grace, his feet barely touching the ground before launching another attack. But Lazár was craftier than he seemed. In a sudden move, he pretended to stumble, swaying sideways. When Henry stepped in to take advantage of the apparent opening, the Hungarian pushed off with one leg and flung a handful of loose dirt straight into Henry’s eyes.

The dust rose in a cloud. The crowd gasped in surprise. Henry recoiled sharply, raising one hand to shield his eyes as his guard fell. Hans shot to his feet with a desperate cry:

— Henry!

For an instant, time seemed frozen. Lazár, like a hungry beast, lunged at his prey with his sword raised, ready to land the final blow. But at the very last moment, Henry twisted his torso with a desperate motion, barely wiping his eyes with his forearm as he raised his blade in defense. The crash of steel against steel shook the air like thunder. The crowd, silenced by the tension, held its breath in unison.

From that point on, it was like watching a wounded animal refusing to fall. Henry, though partially blinded, seemed to move by pure instinct. He spun with force, countering with a flurry of precise strikes. Lazár defended as best he could, but the pressure was relentless. Finally, in a head-on clash, Henry delivered a downward slash so powerful that his opponent’s sword flew through the air. The weapon spun several times before landing, with a sharp thud, into the tournament’s prize table, between goblets and medals.

The silence lasted only a second. Henry stepped forward, his breath ragged, his face streaked with dust and sweat. His eyes, a deep steel-blue, locked onto Lazár’s with a chilling intensity. He was no longer just a village boy… He was a hunter. And before him, weakness found no mercy.

The roar of the crowd crashed down like a tidal wave. Hans, standing among the nobles, remained still for a moment, as though his body had yet to register what his eyes had just witnessed. Then, he released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and sank into his seat, his back folding under the weight of tension. His heart thundered in his ears, relentless and wild, yet a smile broke through the shock, one that curled his lips with pride. He shook his head, caught between awe and relief, and suddenly sprang to his feet.

He descended the stands without thinking, moved by an irresistible urge to run to his squire, to touch him, to see with his own eyes that he was alright. When he reached the area behind the palisade, he saw him—Henry was surrounded by his companions, who were showering him with joyful congratulations, clapping his shoulders and exclaiming with delight. The bathhouse girl was tending to him gently, wiping his face with a damp cloth, while the young man, still breathless from the fight, accepted the care with a bright, unwavering smile.

— Heinrich! You move like a cat! —cried Arne, his eyes gleaming with admiration.

—That son of a whore thought he’d walk away victorious! Ha! You struck him down like a true knight! —laughed one of the lads, bellowing with mirth.

Hans pushed through the group, and the boys quickly stepped aside to let him through. His gaze landed first on the girl, who nodded kindly, confirming without a word that there were no serious wounds. Then his eyes found Henry’s just as the young man raised his head, their gazes met.

—Henry… —Hans murmured, unable to hide the emotion in his voice.

—Sir Hans. —the young man replied, his smile weary, but still radiant.

—God almighty, Henry! —Hans cried, pressing a hand to his chest in theatrical exasperation, though true worry still clouded his eyes. —Those bastards nearly scared me to death!

—You worry too much… —Henry whispered softly, but didn’t get to finish the thought.

A cry shattered the moment like glass on stone.

—Henry! Arne! We’ve got a problem! —The voice came from one of the squires rushing in at the tent’s entrance. He stumbled in, drenched in sweat, his face pale as wax. —It’s Lambert!

Henry straightened at once, his body still tight from the fight.

—What’s happening?

—I—I don’t know exactly… he won’t stop vomiting. He’s drenched in sweat and can’t leave the latrine. It’s been a while now…

— Was?! —Arne exclaimed, eyes widening in alarm.

—Sakra… —Henry muttered, hands to his hips as his mind began to race.

Hans stepped forward, his voice low and steady.

—Did he speak to anyone? Did you see him do anything unusual?

—Nothing, my lord! Nothing! He was just… just eating from the feast while you were fighting… that’s all… —The boy covered his mouth with a hand, as if realizing too late the weight of what he’d just said.

Henry frowned. Something in those words sparked a light in his mind.

—What feast? —he murmured, narrowing his eyes. —We haven’t touched any food… All of it’s here, locked up…

And then he knew. The memory returned sharp and clear: the pastries on the table, laid out as though they belonged to their banquet. No one had brought them. No one had claimed them.

—Kurva! —he spat, furious. —Those pastries… I knew they weren’t ours!

Hans glanced at him, his mind reaching the same conclusion. His jaw clenched, and for the first time that day, victory felt overshadowed by a far more sinister threat.

—Then it wasn’t an accident —he said, almost to himself. —Someone’s trying to take you out of the tournament… one by one.

The voices inside the tent were only just beginning to settle when a new sound cut the air—a thunderclap through the tension. The tent’s entrance flap was yanked aside violently, and the city’s councilor stormed in, heavy-footed, his face flushed and eyes sparking with irritation.

—What in God’s name is going on here?! —he bellowed, glaring around as if seeking a culprit among them. —The arena awaits, and the musicians have already repeated the fanfare twice ! Why the delay?

The moment the councilor burst in, the young men accompanying the group flinched, retreating like schoolboys caught in mischief. They quickly stepped back behind Henry and Hans. The two nobles, however, held their ground; arms crossed, eyes steady, watching the herald with the calm of men who do not fear storms. In that tense exchange, the squire who had delivered the bad news seized his chance. He slipped into the shadows of the tent and vanished like a hare fleeing the battlefield.

—Fridusch… we have a problem. We believe one of our comrades has been poisoned. —Henry was the first to speak, stepping forward. His face was still streaked with dust and sweat from the bout, but his voice did not waver.

A heavy silence dropped over the tent. Kummel stared at him, brow furrowed so deeply it cast shadows on his face. He tilted his head ever so slightly, as though he’d just heard an especially bothersome piece of nonsense.

—Poisoned? —he repeated with a mocking tone. —What kind of nonsense is that, Henry? Do you expect me to believe your companion conveniently fell ill just before the match due to some conspiracy fit for minstrels?

— Verflüetet sêle! Damn it! We’re not making this up! They found him in the latrine, unable to stand, unfähig aufzustehen. He won’t stop vomiting! —said Arne, his face grave.

—And none of us touched a bite from the feast. Only he did. He thought the food was for us —Hans finished explaining.

Kummel’s frown did not ease. He looked at them as if he could read the lie in their faces, though the confusion of the moment was hard to mask. His voice thundered with an accusatory tone:

—Gentlemen… If no contender steps into the arena within five minutes, it will be considered a full disqualification for the team. Prague would claim the victory… —The man grimaced.— You know it as well as I do. I can't make exceptions just because someone has chosen… to fall apart at the worst possible moment.

Arne stepped forward, brow tense and jaw clenched, but before he could speak, Henry did. The squire moved ahead with confidence, his eyes still red from the dust of the previous bout, now filled with a chilling determination.

—Then, I will fight in his place —he declared firmly.

—This again? —Kummel snorted in exasperation.— Henry, wasn't saving your hide in the last tournament enough? This isn't some village fair where one can do whatever they please. There are rules, there's honor, there's...

—And there are precedents —Henry interrupted with a clear, almost solemn voice. —In the last tournament, I was allowed to stand in for a fallen comrade. It was you who authorized it, counselor. And I won. I'm not asking for special treatment... only justice. Lambert was poisoned, and it wasn't by our hand..

Silence settled over the gathering like a heavy cloth. Kummel narrowed his eyes at him, suspicious, but unable to refute the claim. At last, he huffed with resignation, casting a glance to the heavens as if searching for divine patience.

—It’s unusual. Highly unusual. It’s dangerous, and you know that in this bout, the outcome could very well be death —the counselor stressed with concern. —You’re already tired, Henry, and this is the most brutal of all the categories, almost anything goes. If you get hurt...

—I know, my lord. But if we let it end like this, we’ll be handing victory to those who play dirty. I can’t accept that. Not me. —Henry’s eyes fell on his father’s sword; he felt the weight on his shoulders.

—By God and all the saints…—Kummel muttered, lowering his arms in resignation. —If this becomes a habit, I’ll have to commission a whole new set of rules. Very well, Henry. You will fight. But if you fall, let it be known it wasn’t for lack of warnings.

Henry nodded without a word. Hans gave him a long look, a mix of worry and pride. The squire took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility… and the pull of fate that always seemed to drag him to fight for those he cared about.

—You have ten minutes! I’ll notify your masters. Prepare yourselves properly.

With that, the counselor turned on his heel and vanished behind the curtains of the tent, leaving behind a dense air thick with anticipation.

— Heinrich , I can’t believe you’re doing this!

—And yet, I am —Henry replied with a half-smile, picking up his sword and tightening his belt. —Because if they fight dirty, we will fight with honor.

—Then prepare yourself, Heinrich! We'll go inform Meister Menhard. —Arne grabbed his things and prepared to leave. —You too people, ihr Spitzbuben!

None dared to speak. They filed out one after another, muttering under their breath, casting furtive glances over their shoulders. One even stumbled on the canvas flap in his haste to turn around too quickly. When the last shadow slipped out, silence fell over the tent like a heavy blanket. It was a thick, private silence, despite being alone, the air felt weighted, stifling.

Hans remained standing, unmoving, arms crossed, face unreadable. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor for a moment before lifting toward Henry. Despite his composed expression, something in his eyes betrayed the storm within: worry, fear… and a fragility carefully hidden beneath layers of pride.

—Are you sure about this? —he asked at last, his voice low but steady. —You don’t have to do it. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, Henry.

The squire didn’t answer right away. He didn’t need to. His still, determined eyes spoke more than any words could. He stepped forward silently, as if the ground itself respected his steps. He approached Hans with the solemn calm of one who understands his fate, as though each movement was guided by something deeper than will alone.

When he stood before him, he raised his hands slowly, like one reaching to touch a relic. His fingers, firm and warm, rested gently on his lord’s waist with an almost reverent delicacy. It was a simple gesture, free of theatrics, yet imbued with such honest tenderness that it seemed to halt the very air around them. There was no nervousness, no clumsiness, only a serene, trembling calm, as if he were touching something sacred… because to him, he was. Hans was not just his lord. He was his compass. His faith. His reason to keep fighting.

—It’s not for them and you know it… —he murmured, his voice barely a breath between them. —It’s for you, Capon.

The blond nobleman lowered his gaze, and for a moment, he looked younger. He forced himself to swallow. He could feel the warmth of those hands on his waist, even through the fabric of his doublet, a warmth that anchored him to the moment and disarmed him more effectively than any words ever could. He didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

Still wrapped in sacred silence, Henry’s gaze drifted to the armor resting on the nearby bench. It was black as night, clearly new, burnished, adorned with golden ornaments that shimmered under the faint light filtering through the tent. A majestic piece. It wasn’t the armor of just any soldier. It was the armor of someone who had once promised to be a knight, even if only in dreams. The memory of that night at Suchdol Castle crossed his mind. Months ago, a story had been told the night they pledged their love, a story Hans knew well: the black knight who fought without the colors of his land… though for an ideal greater than himself.

Henry realized, now, that he bore the colors of Rattay, the colors of the Lord of Pirkstein. And though he fought not for titles, nor for justice, not even for glory, he fought for him.

Henry knelt without letting go of him, one knee firm on the ground, the other bent. With gentle reverence, he took Hans’s gloved hand and raised it to his face as if holding a relic. His gaze turned solemn, deep, bearing something older than any law. When he spoke, his voice was not loud nor grandiose, but it carried the weight of an eternal vow:

— By the grace of God… by the honor of my name… and by the blood that runs in my veins… —His words came slow, measured.— I swear upon this land that I will not fall before giving everything. That my arm shall not falter, nor my soul tremble. In your name, Hans Capon, I will fight… and I will win. Long may the life of the future lord of Rattay be…

Henry’s lips sealed his vow upon the trembling hand of the blond youth. The kiss was chaste, yes, but solemn, too. Slow, reverent, intimate… like an ancient rite, a vow sealed not with ink or parchment, but with a heart laid bare. Hans trembled. Not from fear, but from the weight of that promise, from the intensity of a love that asked for nothing, yet gave everything. His chest tightened. The knot in his throat was unbearable. The wetness burned his eyes, betraying him. He shut his eyelids tightly, refusing to yield. Not here. Not now. Pride was stronger.

His heart beat so loudly, for a moment he thought Henry might hear it. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

And then, without warning, the deep roar of the ceremonial horn tore through the air like an ancient prophecy. Grave, solemn, inescapable. A sound that not only marked the beginning of the final battle, but sealed a destiny. The echo vibrated through the canvas of the tent like a sacred wave, silencing even their heartbeats. No words were spoken. None were needed. They stood motionless, facing each other, suspended in the moment, as if time had granted them a final breath. The silence surrounding them was not empty, it was reverence. It was farewell.

They parted slowly, as if even the air resisted it. Henry released Hans’s hand with a tenderness that hurt, as if letting it go was harder than any battlefield wound. Then he turned, serene yet resolute, and gathered what he needed: the sword, the armor, the helmet still bearing the dust of his last fight. And without looking back, he crossed the threshold of the tent. Hans followed him with his eyes, unmoving, rooted to the ground like a statue carved from pure, restrained emotion. When the fabric fell closed again, only the drumbeat of his heart remained, echoing like distant thunder in the silence.

Outside, the world kept turning. But for Henry, everything stopped.

His steps were steady, yet his mind drifted along another current. He saw everything with an eerie clarity, almost dreamlike. The masters stirred like distant puppets in their tents, arguing over scrolls and rules. The roar of the crowd became muffled, like an underwater murmur. Birds soared overhead with surreal slowness, as if time itself had yielded to the gravity of the moment. And in the distance, the battlefield. His opponent was already waiting, tall as a specter in the midday light. But Henry did not look at him. He advanced without hesitation, like a man who already knows his fate and accepts it. Not for duty. Not for glory. But for something higher, something deeper. He took his place with the solemnity of an ancient vow.

In that world suspended in time, only one image persisted: Hans’s face after his words. Flushed. Perplexed. With that expression of pride barely contained, of love stranded between duty and desire. And on Henry’s lips, the echo of that touch still burned, as if sealed with molten wax.

“Audentes fortuna iuvat”

Henry took a deep breath. His hand closed around the hilt of his faithful sword.

The final battle awaited. And he would not fail.

The thunder of the drums marked the solemn rhythm of the ceremony, while the banners waved in the spring breeze. When both contenders stepped onto the battlefield, the crowd’s roar surged like a wave, flooding every corner of the grounds with a mixture of anticipation and confusion. Many applauded, others whispered behind furrowed brows: why was the young man from Skalitz fighting again?

The music dropped suddenly, as if holding its breath. And then, the voice of Counselor Kumel rang out from the dais, clear and firm, rising above the murmurs.

—Attention! Attention, good people of Kuttenburg! —he proclaimed solemnly. —By decision of the Kuttenberg council, and in agreement with the Masters of the tournament, a last-minute change has been authorized in the final bout. One of the combatants has been withdrawn for medical reasons and will not be continuing!

The murmuring swelled into a river of questions, but Kumel raised his voice with renewed energy:

—But do not worry, for this spectacle shall continue as it should! In his place, and of his own volition, shall rise a young knight already known to you all! One who has already proven his mettle, his courage, and his skill! Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you once more: Henry of Skalitz!

A fresh ovation roared from the stands. And in the center of the field, beneath the open sky and the weight of every gaze, Henry stood tall with the resolve tempered by countless battles, his expression steady, as if his entire being had been forged for that very moment. In his chest, his heart pounded fiercely, not from fear, but from the echo of a vow just spoken. The deep black of his armor gleamed like polished obsidian under the sun, and the golden trims along its edges sparkled with a borrowed, almost mystical nobility. He carried no banner, no sigil… because he needed none. His gaze did not seek the crowd’s applause, nor the nobles’ approval. It sought only the face that had inspired him to rise again. A face no longer before him… yet one he felt burning into his back like a fervent prayer, like a name whispered into fate’s ear.

—And now! —Kumel continued —Let me introduce his worthy adversary: a man as tough as they come, whose skill is well known throughout the city of Prague! The favorite of his masters! Heinz von Dallwitz!

Another wave of cheers shook the air. The German knight entered with a steady stride, composed, almost silent in presence. He was a man of honed technique, every movement measured to the last detail. The favorite of Maester Étienne, some whispered. His armor was plainer, yet spotless; his expression focused, betraying no emotion. At his belt gleamed the weapon he would wield in battle: a war hammer.

Familiar voices rang out from the crowd, Henry’s comrades shouting encouragement from one side of the arena. Familiar voices, friendly faces. But he did not turn his head. He was ready and set to fight.

—May the Blessed Lord guard you and fill you with glory! Contenders, it is time to begin! Ready? Fight! —The advisor’s voice signaled the start of the combat.

The roar of the crowd was a constant thunder, stirring the air with anticipation. The first clash was thunderous.

Their opening exchanges were fierce, a brutal dance of steel against steel, without pause or mercy. The crowd howled with each clash, with every movement that skirted danger. Henry moved with precision, evading the heaviest blows, searching for an opening, a weakness in the German’s defense. Heinz responded with flawless technique, his strikes sharp and calculated, as if he had mapped out the entire fight from the start.

The German’s hammer fell mercilessly, each blow carrying the weight of a sentence. Heinz von Dallwitz held nothing back. He struck with the meticulous fury of an executioner, each swing of his weapon meant to break not just his opponent’s defense, but his spirit. Yet Henry endured. His arms ached, his legs trembled from constant strain, but his blocks were precise. The steel of his sword and forearm served as an improvised shield, absorbing just enough of the impact to stay upright. Each strike rattled his bones, each hit a reminder that he fought for something greater than himself.

Amidst the violent dance, through sweat, dust, and blood, Henry found openings. Like a hunted wolf still full of fight, he struck back. His blade moved with controlled fury, landing swift, clean thrusts that made the Praguian giant falter. They weren’t deep wounds, no arteries or vital organs, but they hurt. The precision of his strikes forced Heinz to step back, shift his weight, hesitate for the briefest second. And in a fight like this, a moment’s doubt was enough to tip the scale. The German growled, from rage and suppressed pain, clenching his jaw so tightly that it cracked beneath his helmet. He tried to hide it, but the crowd could see it: the young squire from Skalitz was beating him back through sheer courage, skill… and something harder to define, a determination that made him unstoppable.

— Du verfluchter Unrat! —growled the Praguian in pain.

Suddenly, cornered by the brunette, the German broke his composure. With a swift motion, using the turn of his free arm, he drew a sharp dagger hidden among the ties of his belt. It was a quick flash, nearly imperceptible to the crowd, but Henry felt it at once. A sharp sting, like the lick of a glowing ember, slashed across his left forearm. Just a scratch, a red line drawn with precision. It didn’t bleed much, but something about the wound felt wrong. 

At first, he tried to ignore it, to follow the flow of the fight, but seconds later, his body began to betray him. His vision blurred at the edges, as if the shadows of dusk were falling over his eyes. The air became thick, heavy, as if he were breathing through damp cloth. The sounds—the roar of the crowd, the whistle of the wind, the rumble of steel weapons—gradually faded, dissolving into a liquid silence, underwater. Each step was a challenge. Every movement, a battle in itself. His limbs felt numb, his fingers could barely grip the sword's hilt. Then he understood immediately, he knew what it was. The poison wasn't potent in high doses… but enough to weaken him. To make sure he couldn't resist much longer.

The German glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment, his eyes seemed to gleam with something more than concentration. It was satisfaction. A calculated malice. The certainty of an unfair victory.

On one side of the arena, amidst the exultant cheers of Henry's comrades, the young lord remained still, as if time had left him behind. With his eyes wide open and his lips slightly parted in shock, he kept watching the scene, too afraid to blink, as though he feared everything would disappear if he did. And then, recalling the moment when the dagger gleamed with treachery and his squire began to slump like a dead weight, he felt it like an arrow straight to the heart. That couldn’t be normal.

—Henry... —he whispered, without strength, without voice, with a primitive fear drawing his face.

It was only a second, but it was enough. Heinz von Dallwitz, like a predator sniffing out weakness, wasted no time. With the efficiency of an executioner and the brutality of a man who knows no honor, he raised the hammer above his head and brought it down with dry violence onto the squire's chest. The impact was monstrous. Henry's body fell heavily onto the dry earth, raising a cloud of dust that enveloped him like a shroud. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes wavered, and a gag reflex tore gastric juices from his throat that slid down his cheek and stained the sand.

The world began to blur around him, the sounds faded as if he were sinking into a deep pond, the light diffused into a white, opaque halo. He felt nothing of his body, only cold, an icy cold that started in his chest and spread like a frozen flower.

—Shit, Henry... no...! —Hans screamed desperately, unable to move. —Get up, Henry! Damn it, get up!

The crowd erupted in astonished shouts at seeing the undefeated champion fall; the air thickened, and breaths were suspended, while hands intertwined in silent prayer.

Despite everything, as if the echo of Henry's soul traveled beyond flesh and air, he heard his young noble. There, in the fog of fainting, when darkness called him with the sweetness of a final embrace, Henry saw. Not the faces of the crowd or the steel of the German. He saw the tent illuminated by the warm light of torches, the charged silence that enveloped them, the kiss on the trembling hand, the proud tremor in Hans's eyes, his voice holding back tears and pride, the warmth of the unspoken vow sealed between them. He remembered why he was there. Whom he represented. What he had promised. The weight he carried was no longer just steel, but love, faith, a bond beyond words.

And then, he rose.

Slowly, as if every fiber of his body had to remind death that it was not yet his time. The eyes of those present widened. Heinz, who had already begun to lower his guard, took a step back, confused, incredulous.

—Your poison... —He lifted his gaze and spat on the ground. —is soft-bellied crap...

Henry raised his sword. The battle continued, but it was no longer the same. The German charged at him with renewed fury, his blows faster, more violent, wanting to snuff out the spark before it could ignite. But Henry resisted. Each defense was a statement, each thrust a response to fate. The weapons clashed like lightning, the dust rose under their feet like smoke from war, and the sun seemed to burn only over them, as if the world had narrowed down to the center of that arena.

And then, the moment arrived.

A feint, a diversion, an opening. Henry dodged the downward strike of the hammer, spun around in a clean motion, and raised his sword with both hands. All his rage, fear, passion, and love focused in that single slash that descended like the wrath of the heavens. The steel struck full force against Heinz's helmet with a sharp clang, a broken bell that made the arena shake. The German took a step back, stumbled, dropped his weapon as if it no longer belonged to him, and with a vacant stare, first fell to his knees… and then, overcome by darkness, collapsed.

Silence. Absolute silence, solemn, as if even the birds in the sky had stopped, and the dogs in the streets ceased barking. Even Fridusch himself struggled to find words to describe that moment. And then, the roar.  

A burst of cheers and shouts shook the walls of the field, not only for the victory itself, but also for the miracle of that man who had risen from the abyss. The young Capon, unable to contain himself, fell to his knees among the crowd, hands on his chest and eyes filled with joy, lips parted in a sigh that couldn’t find its form. He had never felt such pride and relief at the same time.

—End of the duel, ladies and gentlemen! Henry of Skalitz: The squire, the knight, the undefeated victor! —he shouted joyfully to his audience. —The undefeated champion rises once again!

All the guildmates, even Master Menhard, rushed toward the young blacksmith in the center of the arena, where his victory resonated in the air. Filled with joy and emotion, they lifted him in their arms, raising him amid cheers and festive chants that seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Henry, in that moment, felt bigger than the arena itself, beyond the limits of his own being. The adrenaline ran through his veins like an overflowing river, while the pride of his victory spread throughout his body, defying the paralysis the poison tried to impose on him.

However, as the crowd celebrated his battle, exhaustion hit the young blacksmith with force, like a wave that drags him without warning. The noise surrounding him began to fade, and his eyes, which had reflected the intensity of the combat, blurred. His breath grew heavier, as if his body's energy had been drained in a single blow. He felt his strength faltering, and in the blink of an eye, the world around him disappeared. Only the voice of young Hans remained, echoing through the fog of his consciousness, a fading echo of concern that disappeared with everything else, until silence consumed everything.

✮✮✮✮

The morning following the tournament unfolded slowly over the city rooftops, bathing the towers, the golden fields of wheat, and the still-damp walls in golden light. The fresh spring air slipped through open windows, bringing with it the soft perfume of wildflowers that floated like whispers on the breeze. In the brotherhood house, temporarily converted into a refuge and sanctuary, an expectant silence reigned. All eyes, all prayers, were focused on the main room of the building, the one Master Menhard had designated to give proper and private rest to the champion of the joust.

There, in the tempered twilight of the room, Hans sat, almost motionless, on a bench placed beside the bed where Henry lay. He had not slept, although his calm demeanor might have tried to pretend otherwise. In his hands, he held a small notebook with a simple binding, where, without taking his eyes too far from the sleeping face of his squire, he let drop vague thoughts, unfinished verses, or phrases that came unbidden. The soft sound of the pen wet with ink was the only thing breaking the silence until the faint squeak of the door interrupted the stillness. Master Albicans, the royal physician, crossed the threshold with a firm and serene step, bringing with him the scent of medicinal herbs and accumulated knowledge.

—Good morning, my lord... —he said with a voice as measured as the morning itself. —I can tell, by the heaviness in your eyes, that you didn’t rest last night.

Hans didn’t even look up. —Good morning, dear Albicans. I don't know what you're talking about —he replied with feigned lightness. —I’ve been watching over him this morning, that's all...

The physician raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly, but said nothing.

—I see... —he murmured, approaching the bed. —The antidote should have taken effect by now. I’ll give him this draught to help rouse him.

With measured, almost ceremonial gestures, the scholar took a small amber-colored glass vial from his bag. He carefully opened it and, after checking the temperature of the liquid, poured it patiently onto Henry’s slightly parted lips. The squire, who until then had seemed carved from marble, shuddered with a grimace of disgust and let out a dry cough, followed by a series of exaggerated retches. His face contorted as though he had just bitten into a rotten lemon, and he muttered something unintelligible...

Hans leaned back on the bench with a soft laugh that escaped straight from his chest. The notebook slipped from his hands and hit the floor, and he immediately bent down to pick it up, his heart pounding, caught between relief and that kind of laughter that bursts out when everything teeters so close to disaster that there’s nothing left to do but laugh..

—Ah, incredible… the great squire of Skalitz, brought back to life by a brew from hell —he muttered, covering his mouth with his hand, as if the comment had slipped out unintentionally.

Henry, still coughing, barely turned his face towards him. The healer also tried to suppress a laugh, as though fascinated by the effect of his medicines on his patients.

—You could’ve woken me yourself... —he whispered, his voice rough.

—And miss that look on your face? Not a chance —Hans replied, leaning in with a wide smile, as if he could finally breathe again.

—Welcome back, young Henry… —the scholar said with a bow. —Your sleep was almost eternal, just ask Lord Capon, who didn’t leave your side, not even to rest…

The humor of the moment quickly faded, replaced by a barely concealed embarrassment. Hans cleared his throat and looked away, uneasy, as if he’d just realized what he’d said.

—Well… It’s my duty, as a noble, to watch over my squire’s health. After all, there’s no one more capable of protecting me —he added in a steadier tone, as if saying it with confidence might make it more convincing.

They both chuckled, sharing the quiet understanding of two people who know full well those words were nothing but a clumsy, yet charming, excuse.

—For now, make sure to keep taking this digestive tonic —the scholar said in a serious tone, placing a small bottle in the squire’s hands. —You’re lucky the poison didn’t aim to kill you, Henry...

—Indeed, my lord. I thank you for your help —the young man replied, bowing his head slightly in respect.

—With your permission... —said Albicans, before leaving the room after a brief bow.

Hans sat at the edge of the bed, clearly relieved to see Henry conscious and with energy sparking again in his eyes. He had been about to say so many things... He wanted to congratulate him on the victory, of course, but also shout at him for being so reckless in risking so much just for pride. However, when he opened his mouth to speak, he didn’t manage to say a single word. Hasty footsteps echoed down the stairs, and in the blink of an eye, the door burst open.

Master Menhard stormed into the room, his face lit up by a joy that could not be disguised. He greeted Hans with an energetic gesture and, without further ado, approached the bed and caught Henry in a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of him. It was an overwhelming gesture, typical of a German, and someone who, for a moment, thought he had lost him.

— Liebster Heinrich! You can’t imagine how worried we were for you, Junge... —he exclaimed, overflowing with joy. —Your performance in the Turnei was worthy of being sung by bards for generations!

—Thank you, master... I apologize for causing you distress —Henry said with a weak smile, bringing a hand to his head, still a little dizzy.

—When you fainted, ritten Herr Hans and I immediately headed to the judges’ tent —the master continued, his tone shifting from joy to restrained anger. —You should have seen what we found! All the documentation of the Franzosen and his entourage... falsche! Falsified! Speise, Wehr und selbst die Harnische... I mean, the weapons, the armor, even the food, nothing was registered as it should be. It was a deception from the beginning. 

Henry listened attentively, each word reinforcing what he had begun to suspect during the fight.

— Der Dolch , the dagger that infamous used against you, was soaked in a paralyzing poison. It wasn’t tödlich… a lethal dose, but enough to incapacitate you long enough to snatch away the victory... a vile and cowardly trap! niederträchtige und feige!

—So they were exposed, then? —Henry asked with a furrowed brow.

—They’re nobles, Henry... —Hans replied with a bitter grimace— They paid enough groschen for this scandal to be quickly forgotten.

—Sons of a bitch... —the squire whispered to himself.

— So ist’s! —Menhard interrupted, glaring at the floor—. But they have been verbannt , banned for life. They will never represent any decent  Bruderschaf t again, and in Prague, their name will be synonymous with shame. There is no honor in a bought victory... and speaking of Sieg ... Junge , you are the great winner of Kuttenberg! Wir harrten Euer, um zu feiern! We awaited your awakening to begin the celebration!

Henry barely had time to react before Menhard gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder, with the strength of an enthusiastic warrior, which pulled a grunt more of surprise than of pain from him. The German let out a laugh and, with the same energy with which he had barged into the room, left with promises of wine, music, and overflowing mugs. When the door closed behind him, the silence hung in the air for a few seconds, as if the very air had been infused with joy.

Henry let his head fall back onto the pillow, exhaling with a tired smile.

—So, shall we celebrate then? —he murmured, still not opening his eyes.

Hans didn’t answer immediately. He was watching him from the edge of the bed, arms crossed over his chest and that half-smile of his, the one that only appeared when he was holding something larger than words in. Then, he let out a small laugh through his nose and slowly shook his head.

—Not until you make sure you won’t faint among the beer mugs. I had enough carrying you here half-dead.

—I wasn’t half-dead —Henry protested, opening one eye dramatically.

—No, of course not... you only spat out your lungs and half your stomach. —Hans shrugged, teasing, but his eyes softened when they met the squire’s— You’re an idiot... but a victorious idiot.

Henry turned slightly toward him, more serious now, searching his face.

—Did you worry a lot, my lord?

Hans pretended to think about the answer with an exaggerated gesture, as if he were mentally evaluating an invisible heap of numbers, but then he lowered his gaze, and his voice became quieter, more honest.

—I think I didn’t breathe until I saw you open your eyes.

The room filled with a silence that was no longer uncomfortable but heavy with something deeper, something that had been building between laughter, wounds, and promises not fully spoken. Henry extended a hand toward him, open, as if that gesture were meant to hold on to something more than just company.

Hans took it without a word. Their fingers intertwined, and they stayed like that, not caring about the world, the party waiting for them downstairs, or the politics, or the false papers, or the corrupt nobles.

For a few seconds, it was just the two of them.

And then, without looking back, Hans leaned in a little closer and said in a teasing voice:

—Then if you’re going to ask me to dance tonight, Hal, at least have the decency not to step on my feet.

Henry let out a laugh that made his chest hurt, but the pain was sweet.

—I can’t promise anything, Sir Hans…

The night had gently fallen over Kuttenburg, wrapping the city in a golden mist of oil lamps and lanterns hanging between balconies. In the Brotherhood’s house, the meeting hall in front of the main room had been admirably transformed into a celebration space. The walls, once sober, now displayed banners and laurel branches. Long tables covered with embroidered cloths overflowed with mugs of clay filled with foamy beer, dried fruits, loaves of freshly baked bread, aged cheeses, steaming sausages, and sweets brought by the local bakers. Along the hall, chandeliers burned with a warm light, reflecting in the glasses the amber color of wine and the golden bronze of the ceremonial weapons displayed. Knights, nobles, squires, and artisans mixed in a single murmur of joyful voices and constant toasts, while some musicians improvised melodies with the lute, flute, and tambourine in a corner.

Outside, the backyard shone with a different charm: wilder, livelier. Several bonfires blazed in the open air, surrounded by improvised benches and upturned barrels used as tables. The aroma of roasting meat filled the air, where huge pieces of meat slowly turned over the fire, guarded by cooks who worked with the skill of those who know that feeding a celebration is also an act of honor. Among the guests, trays with hot dishes were passed around, and children ran between the men’s legs, playing knights with branches as swords, and among them, Mutt barked happily as one of the youngest tried to place a flower crown on him. The younger ones danced near the fire, driven by wine, the lively rhythm of the music, and the feeling of having witnessed something they would remember for the rest of their lives.

It was then that Henry made his entrance into the hall. He walked with a steady pace, dressed in a dark tunic of fine linen that fell clean over his newly polished boots, with breeches of an elegant wine color and his hair still damp from a recent bath. He wasn’t wearing weapons, just a simple sash and a wooden medallion hanging around his neck, a reminder of his days as an apprentice. There was energy in his stride, a strength that wasn’t arrogant but born of survival and undiminished honor. The wound on his arm was still bandaged, but there were no signs of weakness. Despite his best appearance, every breath he took was measured, as though he had leArned to mistrust even water. “Careful this time,” he thought to himself, remembering the bitter taste of Dr. Albicus’s medicine and his reluctance to ever taste it again.

He didn't have to look for Hans. The young nobleman was already among the people, as expected: laughing, toasting with the guests, and sharing stories with eloquence, surrounded by faces that listened attentively. He dressed with elegance, though without extravagance, wearing a deep blue tunic with golden edges and a brooch with his house's emblem. His golden hair stood out among the orange glow of the flames. When their eyes met in the crowd, Henry barely smiled, and Hans, noticing, raised his cup in his direction with a look that said it all: "Took you long enough."

As soon as he crossed the threshold, the conversations lowered in tone, followed by a few applause and finally, cheers. Several men stood, raised their mugs in the air, and in seconds, the whole hall vibrated with a chorus of admiration and joy.

—To the champion of Kuttenberg! —shouted one of the city captains.

—To the beast who defeated the traitors from the West! —added another, laughing.

Henry, a little overwhelmed, raised a hand in greeting, unsure of where to look. Menhard pushed his way through the crowd, holding two overflowing cups and a smile as wide as his beard.

— Endlich seid Ihr unter uns! Finally, among us! —he exclaimed, handing a cup to the young squire. — Auf Euer Wohl! To your health, Heinrich! And may you never forget this day!

The room filled with applause, and the cups clinked forcefully. The taste of the wine was intense, spiced, probably from some old barrel the master of the guild had been saving for an occasion like this. The songs began to play with more vigor, and soon the entire hall was back to the rhythm of the celebration.

Later that night, the air was already filled with joyful clamor, the clinking of toasts, and laughter echoing among veterans, soldiers, and citizens who sang songs that some troubadour played while strumming his instruments with enthusiasm. The walls seemed to pulse with the energy of the celebration, with exaggerated stories of the tournament and Henry’s name spoken over and over as the great champion of Kuttenberg. The atmosphere was one of such contagious happiness, so warm and simple, that it seemed the war, the pain, and the betrayal were merely distant bad dreams. Some guests had already left for their homes, others passed out from the good wine, but the party continued like never before.

The young blacksmith was leaning against one of the columns in the courtyard, maintaining his good spirits, though also quite drunk—if not outright tipsy—his eyes lost in the crowd until they stopped on a scene unfolding by the fire of the main bonfire. There stood Hans, his young lord, dancing with a girl whose cheeks were flushed and whose braids shone like the sunset, spinning to the rhythm of drums and flutes. Henry followed him with his eyes, each movement of the smitten lord seemed made to tempt him without realizing it. The young girl laughed uncontrollably, and Hans—elegant, lively, glowing—took her by the waist and spun her as if she were floating. Hans’ golden hair sparkled under the sparks flying from the fire, and the sweat on his brow gave him an almost unreal glow. His tunic was disheveled from the movement, perhaps from drinking, revealing part of his neck and collarbone. His breath came in shallow gasps, rising and falling in a rhythm Henry couldn’t stop watching.

—He's one lucky noble... —one guest commented, trying to keep himself steady from how drunk he was.

—Tiger, the girl will surrender to you if you set your mind to it! —another answered enthusiastically.

But Henry didn’t see the girl. He only saw him.

He saw how his fingers glided across the fabric. How his legs held him firmly, how his lips parted only to laugh, how his eyes sparkled with that light Henry struggled so much to ignore. And suddenly, he couldn’t deceive himself anymore. It wasn’t a clear thought, not a sudden revelation. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t camaraderie. It was hunger. A dull, growing desire that dragged him from his gut and burned in his chest. He wanted Hans. Not as a squire to his lord. Not as a friend to his friend. Not in the chaste sense, not from a distance, but as man to man. He wanted him close, as close as the body allowed. He wanted to kiss him until his breath was stolen, to feel his laugh break under his lips, to see that proud noble surrender in his arms, just for him.

The flames seemed to roar louder. The world around him blurred. Henry could no longer hear the music or the joyful cheers. He only felt that need boiling in his blood.

And then he understood he couldn’t stay still any longer.

The squire waited for the perfect moment. A distraction among the musicians, a general laugh from some crude joke. The attention shifted for just an instant, and Henry didn’t hesitate. He slid through the bodies like a wolf among trees, until he stood before him. Hans turned his head, barely surprised, and before he could say anything, Henry grabbed him by the wrist firmly. It wasn’t violent, but it left him no choice.

Hans opened his mouth, but didn’t have time to say a word. Henry pulled him along, through the laughter, through the fires and shadows, not looking back. No one seemed to notice his absence, or if they did, they didn’t care. There was too much music, too many empty cups, too many blurry faces.

Once inside the building, Henry said nothing. He didn’t need to. In a movement as unexpected as it was precise, he slid his arms beneath Hans' thighs and back, lifting him effortlessly over his shoulder. The young noble barely had time to let out a surprised gasp, while his arms awkwardly tried to wrap around Henry’s neck, who moved decisively through the guild’s hallways. The atmosphere of the party was left behind, as if the whole world had vanished, and only the two of them remained, breathless, their gazes intertwined, the weight of all that had not been said.

They climbed the old staircase to the third floor, its steps creaking softly beneath Henry’s steady stride. Each footfall beat like the rhythm of an unspoken promise. The dark wood and silence were a stark contrast to the music and laughter that still echoed below. But here, everything was different. More intimate. More urgent.

Henry nudged open the door with his foot. The scent of fresh hay and timber filled the space. It was a small, almost forgotten room, with whitewashed walls and a single window through which flickered the glow of a bonfire from the courtyard. Heaps of straw made up a crude bed, and upon it, he laid Hans down with a tenderness that contrasted with the tension coiled in his muscles. Without looking away from his young lord, Henry walked to the door and slid the bolt into place.

The young lord was completely mesmerized; the dark surroundings, the straw beneath him... none of it mattered. All that existed was the urgency, the uncontrollable desire to have Henry there, to feel him as his own. Hans propped himself up slightly, leaning on his elbows, his breath shallow and his cheeks burning. The squire walked over and leaned down, placing a hand on each side of his body, watching him like a wolf that had finally found what it had longed for. His eyes traced every inch of Hans’ face, his exposed neck, his chest rising with each breath. He didn’t kiss him yet. He wanted to savor him first with his gaze, memorize him.

—I just need this, my lor... Hans —he murmured in a hoarse voice against the young blonde's neck —I promise you, I won’t let you forget a single second of this.

Hans didn’t answer with words, but his eyes burned like embers stirred by the wind. He reached out, gently pulled at Henry’s shirt, and drew him close until their lips finally met.

The kiss was feral, heavy with pent-up desire and longing. Their mouths searched for one another as if they had waited years for this. Henry kissed him with hunger, pouring into it everything he hadn’t dared say aloud. Their mouths opened to each other, fierce and desperate, their tongues meeting in a slow, exploratory touch that quickly gave way to urgency. Henry consumed Hans’s mouth with reverent passion, as though every kiss could etch itself into his skin.

Henry’s body moved with purpose, commanding the space, guiding the rhythm. He gently pushed Hans back onto the makeshift bed, placing himself on top, his weight a silent declaration of who held control. The straw rustled beneath them, and the room, heated by their skin and breath, became stifling and delicious. With impatient fingers, Henry undid Hans’s belt, clumsy but determined, one buckle and tie after another falling to his touch. Hans moaned against his lips, their thighs brushing, his hands tangled in the disheveled brown locks that fell across Henry’s brow.

Henry kissed as if claiming him, as if each touch settled an old debt. His mouth ravished Hans’s neck, alternating between kisses, licks, and tender bites that drew shuddering gasps from the young noble. Every caress was desperate, possessive. His fingers sank into Hans’s golden hair as if holding onto a dream he refused to lose, tracing his cheekbones and jawline with almost sacred devotion.

He descended slowly, his lips trailing along Hans’s chest, leaving small bites and kisses in their wake, savoring the heat that rose from his skin. He paused for a moment, watching the hurried rise and fall of his lover’s chest, then dipped his mouth again to mark him, claim him. The memory of Hans dancing around the fire, of his body moving freely and unknowing of the effect it had, only fueled the fire within Henry.

Hans moaned, surrendering beneath him, his face flushed and his lips parted. His mind swirled in sensation; he could no longer tell if it was the desire, the wine, or simply having Henry so near that pushed him to the edge. All he knew was that he needed him. That he wanted him.

—Hal… please… —he gasped.

Henry’s hands moved to his breeches and tugged them off with decisive ease. The soft light streaming through the window bathed the noble’s body, revealing a pulsing need between his thighs that begged to be answered. Henry paused for just a breath, letting his eyes drink in the sight, then wrapped a firm hand around him. The first stroke was strong, assured. The rhythm, fast.

Hans arched, stifling a moan behind his hand. He felt like he might lose his mind. Each touch was a spark, an urgent call toward the brink. His back arched against the straw bed, while his fingers explored Henry’s body with frantic devotion, tracing the muscles shaped by years of smithy, worshiping the strength, the heat, the weight that pressed down on him.

His hips moved instinctively, legs trembling. The pleasure surged like a growing wave. And Henry, eyes fixed on him, sweat glistening on his brow, mouth murmuring his name, seemed to be just as consumed. It was a dance of flesh and hunger, a wordless language they both understood. Hans felt himself spiraling… and he wanted nothing more.

Henry didn’t stop. He watched him with narrowed eyes, as if drinking in every reaction from his lover; every shudder, every held breath only spurred him on. Without a word, he leaned down over Hans and kissed him with such ferocious passion it stole his breath away. It was a hungry kiss, wet, desperate. A kiss that spoke of desire, but also of hidden tenderness, of something deeper that pulsed between their heaving chests. With his free hand, he pressed his own erection against his lover’s, beginning a steady, rhythmic motion of pleasure.

Their bodies rubbed together, skin to skin, separated only by the last scraps of clothing. Henry’s hands found Hans’ waist, and without stopping the kiss, he pulled the rest of his garments down with the skill and urgency of a man who didn’t want to waste a single second. When their hips met, the heat sparked between them again.

—Tell me if I should stop… —Henry whispered, his voice hoarse with arousal, brushing Hans’ cheek with a tenderness that clashed with the fire in his eyes.

Hans looked at him, pupils blown wide and cheeks flushed, and slowly shook his head. He wanted more. He wanted everything.

—You’re already late, Hal… you should know that —he murmured with a teasing smile. Henry returned it in kind.

Then the brunette turned him carefully, gripping his waist and kissing the nape of his neck as he held him close. His breath crashed against Hans’ sweat-slick skin, and his body trembled with restrained need. His hands slid down over Hans’ thighs; aided by his own saliva, he prepared him patiently, gently, making sure this moment was not just fury, but devotion. And when at last he felt him ready, Henry guided his dick with one hand and pushed into him with a choked moan that echoed in the silence of the room.

Hans gasped, fingers digging into the hay, his world reduced to the rhythm of their bodies, to the heat, to the sighs and moans that filled the room. Henry began to move, slow at first, each thrust deliberate, intense, as if he wanted to leave his soul inside him. And Hans, far from resisting, welcomed it all eagerly, surrendering, that mix of fragility and hunger making him utterly irresistible.

In the midst of the frenzy, Henry wrapped his arms tightly around Hans’ torso and, without pulling out, turned him so they were face to face. He stared for a moment—at that flushed face, those bitten lips, the pleasure-glazed eyes—then began moving inside him again, slower at first, as if wanting the moment etched into their memories. Then the pace quickened. His forehead brushed against Hans’, their breath mingling. Henry gasped his name over and over again into his ear. He caressed his sides, kissed his cheeks, and moved with increasing desperation, as though time would run out, as though he needed to brand this moment into their skin forever.

—My lord, my lord, my prince... You are mine alone... Hans Capon —he said, his voice rough and trembling, kissing his brow with devotion. —Tonight and every night to come… I won’t let anyone else touch you like this.

Hans closed his eyes, utterly undone, clinging to his squire’s shoulders, letting himself be carried away by the rhythm and those words, wrapping around him like a spell. He could only hold on, feeling Henry in every fiber of his being, in every trembling breath. The pleasure rose like a violent tide, threatening to steal his breath away. When he finally reached his climax, it was as if he broke apart from within, an explosion of sensation that made him cry out Henry’s name against his neck, never lifting his face from his lover’s skin. His seed, white and glistening, spilled between their bellies.

Henry followed seconds later, buried to the hilt, with a low groan that was swallowed against Hans’ neck. He came inside him, as if that could seal the moment, make it permanent. He collapsed at Hans’ side with a trembling sigh, still shaking, still panting, hands clinging to Hans’ body as if reluctant to let go.

And there they stayed, entwined, sweaty, exhausted… yet strangely at peace. Outside, the music still echoed in the distance, the celebration’s cheers a faint murmur, as if the whole world had shrunk to that room, that “bed,” that fleeting, eternal moment between the two of them.

✮✮✮✮

The morning light filtered gently through the linen curtains surrounding the bed, casting golden silhouettes on the wrinkled fabric and the still sleepy body of the young lord. Hans awoke slowly, with his muscles relaxed and his chest still heaving from the memory of the previous night. He blinked his eyes a couple of times, disoriented, not remembering walking to the bed after their encounter. "Could it have been Henry?" he thought. Under the faint light, his skin bore the marks of the desire they had shared: bites on his neck, dark kisses on his chest, and above all, Henry's firm grip marked on his hips, as if that body had wanted to leave a trace of its surrender.

Beside him, the squire still slept, calm. It was strange for Hans; since they had arrived, they shared the bed for the first time, without barriers, without fear, with the warmth of the other still pulsing between the sheets. Hans watched him for a few minutes, allowing himself the luxury of memorizing his resting profile, the way his chest rose and fell, his messy hair, the reddish lines on his skin — marks from his nails — and that peaceful expression he had so rarely seen on him.

—Is it time to leave, my lord? —Henry whispered without opening his eyes.

—Y-yes! That’s what I was thinking, Henry... —The young lord turned his gaze away, embarrassed at being caught spying.

Hours later, the two men were dressed, with the bearing of knights ready to continue their journey. Under their gambesons, their armor shone clean and firm, and padded collars rested on their necks, carefully concealing the marks of the night. There was a different shine on their faces, a silent complicity, a barely concealed smile that neither the general hangover nor the morning breeze could extinguish.

In the main hall of the Brotherhood, Arne handed them a bag of provisions and shook their hands with a mix of respect and resignation. He didn’t like goodbyes, but he knew they’d meet again soon. On the other hand, Master Menhard couldn’t stop laughing, giving enthusiastic pats on their backs. Proudly, he handed Henry the tournament prizes: a bag full of groschen and a suit of armor of impressive quality. The other lads of the Brotherhood, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, raised their hands in farewell, still wrapped in the hangover of an unforgettable celebration.

The horses were ready, Mutt barked happily, the sun was high, and the road lay ahead. Henry mounted first, with the natural confidence now reinforced by something deeper. Hans followed, mounting his horse with the elegance of a noble, and before setting off, they exchanged a brief glance.

—Do you have any destination in mind, my lord?—Henry asked cheerfully.

—Oh, my good Hal, with you by my side, no destination is ever completely peaceful! —the young blonde joked back.

—In that case, I can't promise anything... —Henry laughed.

A promise without words passed between them, simple and powerful: no matter where they rode, as long as it was together.