Stepping into the tourney grounds, Twig — now in the avatar of Ser Monde Rouster — walked beside his young squire, Madrik.
They moved through the lane of tents where knights and noble houses had gathered around the tourney field. Colorful banners fluttered in the wind, each bearing sigils, colors, and marks of ancient lineages — symbols of pride and power that spoke of centuries of prestige.
Merchants and food vendors had set up small stands nearby, filling the air with the scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread, creating an atmosphere more festive than martial. In the distance, the stands rose high: wooden structures built for both commoners and lords.
At the far end, the royal family and highborn nobles occupied raised pavilions adorned with silk, brocade, and vibrant banners — while the crowd pressed together in simpler seats and makeshift tents.
Twig looked around and thought it resembled scenes he'd seen on TV before — lively, colorful, and brimming with tension.
As he walked through the rows of tents, his appearance — armored head to toe, squire by his side, dismounted and composed — immediately drew attention.
Eyes turned toward him: some curious, others doubtful, others openly suspicious.
Conversations halted.
"Who's that?"
"Do you recognize the sigil? The house?"
"No... and I know most of them."
Whispers spread. Knights and squires exchanged murmurs and glances, trying to place the unknown man in shining armor.
Madrik, noticing how everyone stared at his master — and at him by extension — began to grow tense.
Twig, catching the boy's unease, gave him a reassuring glance.
"Come now, Madrik. Don't get nervous. You want to be a great knight someday, don't you? Then get used to the looks. Stand tall."
"I'm not scared, Ser Monde!" the boy said, his voice tight.
"Oh, you're lying to me, boy — you are scared," Twig said with a calm smile. "But that's fine. Have courage. Trust me — everything will be all right."
His words came steady, warm, and firm — enough to ground the boy again.
"Yes, Ser Monde! I'll be brave — just like you! I won't be afraid!"
Twig smiled faintly, lowering his gaze to the boy.
"Who said I'm not afraid, Madrik?"
The boy blinked, surprised.
"I didn't tell you not to feel fear," Twig continued. "I told you to have courage. Fear and courage can live in the same heart — what matters is how you balance them."
He paused, his tone soft yet steady.
"Fear sharpens your senses — keeps you alive when danger strikes. But courage... courage is what keeps you moving when fear tries to freeze you."
Madrik fell silent, reflecting on the words — though they hadn't reached only him. Other knights, squires, and even a few nobles nearby had overheard the brief lesson and turned to look at the stranger who spoke with such quiet conviction.
Then, a knight — already half-dressed in polished plate and showing the self-assurance of a man born into privilege — stepped forward.
He stopped in front of Twig, offering a short, cold nod.
"Greetings, unknown knight. What is your name?"
"I am Monde. Ser Monde Rouster," Twig replied, straightening his posture. "But I think it would be more courteous for you to introduce yourself before demanding another man's name."
"Monde, is it? Rouster?" the knight repeated, his tone mocking. "Never heard of you."
"And why should I introduce myself to a stranger? Everyone here already knows one another."
He raised his chin arrogantly and gestured to his surcoat.
"Behold the sigil of my family. If you don't know the Hollards, what business do you have at this tourney?"
Twig arched an eyebrow, amused by the arrogance. Deciding not to let the man's provocation get to him, he quietly activated his ability.
[Skill Activated: Appraisal]
[Ding!]
Name: Deran Hollard
Age: 19
Title: Third Son of Lord Rewan Hollard
Race: Human
"But of course, Ser Deran Hollard," Twig replied smoothly, meeting the man's gaze without flinching. "Your name and family are known indeed. But courtesy among knights, I believe, is not defined by lineage, but by honor."
He smiled faintly.
"If I did not know your name and wished to ask, I would first give you mine. Would it not have offended you had I done otherwise?"
Deran's face tightened — as if he'd swallowed a bug. His jaw clenched, but after a moment, realizing he'd been outmaneuvered, he gave a stiff, shallow bow.
"Fine words, Ser Rouster," he muttered coldly before turning away, his pride visibly bruised. He returned to his companions, leaving Twig standing calm and composed beside his wide-eyed squire.
Then, a chuckle broke the tension.
"Hah! You didn't leave him a single opening, did you, Ser Rouster?"
The voice came from a man approaching with an easy gait and a friendly grin. "I'm Criston," he said, extending a hand. "Ser Criston Cole."
Twig studied him briefly — the familiar name making his curiosity spark. Then, maintaining his role as the courteous knight, he inclined his head.
"The honor is mine, Ser Criston Cole," he said evenly. "I am Ser Monde Rouster — at your service. And this is Madrik, my squire."
Ser Criston gave the boy a quick glance, then returned his gaze to Twig.
"At my service? What do you mean? You're not sworn to any noble house?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Twig smiled lightly. "That's right. I'm a hedge knight — I serve no lord or banner. For now."
"Then what brings a hedge knight like you to this tourney, Ser Rouster?" Criston asked, half teasing.
Twig crossed his arms, the confident smile still there.
"Simple enough — I came to test my skill, to prove my worth as a knight. And who knows?" He grinned playfully. "Maybe a fair princess will decide to take me into her service."
Criston laughed. "You're a funny man, Ser Rouster. The way you talk... and those wild dreams about princesses."
He shook his head, still smiling, then his tone grew more serious.
"Just make sure you don't die in the melee. Most knights who enter, end up losing their heads. They come here boasting of glory and skill…" He paused. "...and leave the field headless."
"I trust in my skill with the blade, Ser Criston. If we meet in the melee — you'll see for yourself."
Criston chuckled again. "I hope your sword arm's as sharp as your tongue, Ser Rouster. Well then — prepare yourself. The melee starts soon, right before the joust."
With that, he gave a polite nod and turned toward his own tent.
"Good luck to you as well, Ser Criston," Twig called after him, returning the gesture with a faint smile.
Then he turned to his squire.
"Come, Madrik. It's time."
The boy nodded eagerly, eyes bright with both fear and excitement. Together, knight and squire walked toward the arena — ready for the battle that awaited them.