The knight was at Wolf’s Pass, approaching the city of Doknar. The sunset had just begun to cast its orange beams through the few clouds that crossed the sky. An evening breeze stirred the rider’s blond hair and made the brown cloak—draped over the white robes of his order—flutter gently.
Just before reaching the gate, he stopped the horse with a simple click of his tongue and looked at his companion up to that point.
“Well, my friend, I believe this is where we part ways,” said the knight from atop his mount.
The man who had accompanied him was rather slim, with a delicate figure. He wore a slightly worn leather coat, though it was of good quality; a wide-brimmed hat with a red feather rested on his head; his mustache was neatly trimmed, and he carried a mandolin strapped to his back. His mount was noticeably smaller.
“Try not to get yourself into trouble that I’ll have to pull you out of, Sir Kalen ‘Fal.”
“Right back at you, Amadis. And thank you—for everything.”
“Hey, paladin… I should be the one thanking you. Do you have any idea how many songs I wrote during our adventures? I’m going to make a good amount of crowns off these verses, you’ll see.”
Kalen watched his former companion ride off, whistling a catchy tune. Before meeting him, he had thought of bards as simple musicians or storytellers. But after traveling with Amadis, he had come to understand that his skills went far beyond mere composition or performance. He could truly make a difference in many situations—calming or swaying crowds when needed. And in Amadis’s case in particular, he could also wield a sword when the moment called for it.
“Well, Blackmane…” he said, patting his massive white horse and adjusting the weathered leather satchel on his back, “let’s head home and see how everything’s going.”
The horse began to walk at a slow but steady pace. Before crossing the walls and entering the city, he could already see that the movement had not yet ceased. After all, this was the capital city of the kingdom.
The main street, called the “Paladins’ Path,” was packed with vendors, minstrels, drunkards, and all kinds of people offering their goods. The district just beyond the main gates was known as the “Flag District.” Its name came from the fact that on the rooftops, windows, shutters, attic dormers, and even chimneys, there were flags, pennants, and streamers of every kind and color. Some were family crests, cavalry banners, or insignias from various guilds or schools, while others were simply colorful decorations, bearing no heraldry in particular. However, the flag that dominated was that of Doknar, reflecting the characteristics of a proud people with a strong sense of belonging.
People greeted him as he passed, recognizing him as a knight of the Order of Reidos. Though it hadn’t been long since he had been ordained, he had already completed several missions—some of them quite complex. He was no novice, that much was certain.
He passed through the massive circular main plaza, known as “Central Plaza” — what an original name — and was instantly reminded of his trials as an initiate. The team sword-and-shield combat, then the individual duels, the obstacle course, and of course, the mounted joust.
On the day of the exam to move from initiate to “knight-to-be,” the entire town was invited to witness the competition, and a full week of festivities was held to welcome the new and shining knights of Dorlan. He remembered the nerves he felt standing before the grandmaster, the High Solífice —the highest authority of the cult of the sun god Leiorus—and before the king himself. He also recalled his first fall from horseback after taking a lance hit, which, by the grace of the gods, didn’t end in defeat, since his opponent also fell and hit the ground just before him.
He passed along “Merchants’ Street” and continued until he reached a massive stone bridge crossing a stream of questionable flow. On the other side, he could see Mount Leiorus, with the titanic statue of the sun god, and beside it, Reidos Keep—the home of his order.
He sighed.
Suddenly, he caught sight of his reflection and felt a bit self-conscious. Though he had done his best to tidy and clean his robes, months of adventuring had taken their toll on the fabric, which now bore stains that refused to come out. He was properly groomed, to be sure, but he was nowhere near the neat appearance a knight was supposed to present.
The order’s crest—embroidered in blue at the center of his chest, shaped like a coffin with a crossed dagger and flames at its base—was now nearly unrecognizable due to wear. Perhaps the Order of Reidos wasn’t as strict about appearances as the Order of Thurdunae, but even so, it had an image and a reputation to uphold. That brotherhood was a symbol in itself.
In its early days, the Order of Reidos had been founded to eliminate the threat of the undead and lycanthropes in the years following the founding of Doknar. The order had nearly wiped out the vampires of the kingdom, driving them beyond the Ederia Sea, into Bloodmere. With the decline of such creatures, they became wandering knights and guardians of the roads, eventually earning the nickname “The Walkers.”
Moreover, Reidos had taken part in the defense during the Great Invasion of Dorlan, heroically managing to defend its city. And that made him think once again about their heraldry—now fluttering on various banners along the sides of the bridge, leading up to the great gates of the keep: the coffin-shaped shield symbolizing the undead, the silver dagger representing the fight against lycanthropes, the sun in the background denoting their devotion to Leiorus, and the fire at the base standing for the extermination of vampires and incubi.
The last time the entire order had fought together was only a few years ago, when ships from Bloodmere appeared on the horizon under Faradax’s command in an attempt to conquer Doknar. Fortunately, they had once again managed to repel the invaders, who had not even come close to matching the numbers seen during the Great Invasion that had taken place over five hundred years before.
Upon reaching the open gates of the massive keep, Sir Kalen ‘Fal let out a sigh of relief. His gray eyes gazed once more upon his home, and he rejoiced to see it just as he remembered. It wasn’t as if the stones would have shifted places, or the keep itself might have vanished—but after so much time away, completing missions in distant lands among such different people, his customs had become a distant memory. And now those memories were there, knocking at the door of his mind.
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As he crossed the threshold, two initiates—easily recognizable by their blue cloaks bearing the order’s crest in white at the center, and their short, almost shaved hair—approached to receive him.
“Sir Kalen ‘Fal, it is an honor to welcome you back to Reidos Keep,” said one of them.
“It’s a pleasure to be back… What was your name again?”
“Initiate Rocher of Kalimburgh, Sir Kalen.”
The knight dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to the other initiate, not without first giving a gentle pat to his faithful steed, then turned once more to the young man.
“You are Rocher of Reidos. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t, Sir Fal…”
He noticed the eyes of both initiates drifting quickly to his waist, where they locked on the massive bastard sword hanging from his belt.
“Is that…?”
“Eldora,” the other young man finished the sentence, his expression of awe giving him a slightly dim-witted look.
Kalen nodded proudly.
“Eldora, also known as ‘Guardian of Eternal Rest,’” said the knight with a faint smile, pulling aside his cloak so the two young men could at least catch a glimpse—though still sheathed—of the sacred sword he carried on his right side, which also revealed that his dominant hand was the left.
It was a blessed blade, forged by the finest blacksmiths and artisans, both human and dwarven. From its hilt, a serpent coiled around the crossguard and ended in a contour surrounding an emerald at the center, which glowed with a faint, almost imperceptible green shimmer.
"I heard that sword once belonged to Sir Broknar Corrvax," Rocher murmured to his friend.
Kalen smiled, as he didn’t believe the sword was that old. Still, he left the two young initiates with the mystery.
"All right, I need to go see the master, Sir Rhien Mildavar. Go ahead and tell him I’ve returned. As soon as I make myself presentable and fix up my… robes, I’ll go to him."
The boy dashed off down the corridor formed by the keep’s walls. Sir Kalen began to walk, noticing that the sun—carrying out its perpetual ceremony of movement across the firmament—was finishing its descent, giving way to a starry night, though veiled by a thick blanket of gray clouds.
A few hours later, the newly arrived knight was washed, clean-shaven, and dressed in fresh robes. Before going to see his master, he decided to drop off his chainmail with the order’s blacksmith, along with his dagger. His sword required no repairs.
Just a few meters from the forge, the sound of the hammer striking the anvil brought back a memory of Brother Weylam advising him on the care of his gear and mount.
“What is the final phase of every mission or battle?” he had once asked during a lesson, in his deep and raspy voice.
“The final phase is the maintenance of equipment and mounts. Only when everything is in perfect condition can we say the mission is truly over.”
He smiled as he recalled his days as a young initiate. Nostalgia was a luxury he could afford, at least for now.
“Brother Weylam!” he called out as soon as he entered the stone structure, which stood apart from the rest of the buildings, near the training yard. Almost immediately, a broad-shouldered but not particularly tall man, bearded and with a few gray hairs, approached the entrance. He was missing one eye and part of an ear. His arms were bare and easily twice the size of Kalen’s. His hands were covered in leather gloves, and in one of them, he gripped a massive hammer.
“Brother Kalen, may a lightning bolt from Leiorus strike me down,” said Brother Weylam. He was also well known for his frequent blasphemies, but he’d been in the order for so many years that he was rarely scolded. He had even been an instructor to the current master.
“Good to see you alive!”
“Likewise… it seems old age still can’t catch up to you.”
“Bah! As long as I’ve got my hammer and tools, old age won’t dare knock on this door. What can I help you with, boy?”
“Well…” The newly arrived knight took out his chainmail and dagger, showing him their current state.
“Well, Brother Kalen… what in the hells did you fight this time? Forget about that chainmail—it’s done for. I’ll forge you a new one by tomorrow. And the dagger… yeah, I’ll have that ready too. Anything else this old man can help you with?”
“No, that’s all, Brother Weylam. As always, thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure to help repair the gear of the Walkers. That means my lessons paid off. Come by tomorrow for your things. They’ll be in top condition.”
“Farewell!” Kalen called as he left the forge.
He climbed the steps to the main hall of the fortress, lit by torches mounted along the walls of worn, brown brick. Along those walls hung tapestries from various orders, including the extinct Order of Dragma—the dragon hunters.
As he reached the hallway, he noticed how the darkness seemed to swallow everything despite the firelight, as the windows were small and allowed in very little natural light. He walked to the end of the hall and, once there, gave two gentle knocks on the sturdy wooden door.
“Come in,” a voice called from the other side.
“Permission, Brother Mildavar.”
“Brother” was the standard form of address among all members of the order, from the rank of knight upward—even when speaking to a superior.
Upon entering, he saw his master sitting behind his desk. The massive, broad-shouldered man, who had lived through many winters, still wore his full plate armor. His order's robes stood out from those of the other knights by the golden edges and the Reidos crest outlined in gold, clearly indicating his rank.
His gray hair, once black, was neatly cropped close to the scalp, as was his beard. His wide nose was flattened and crooked from some old blow, and one of his eyelids drooped slightly—likely from the same cause. Despite his age, he still radiated strength. Kalen had often wondered what the man must have been like in his youth, at the peak of his physical prowess.
“Brother Kalen ‘Fal!” he said, spreading his thick arms wide. “What a pleasure to have you back with us.”
"It's my pleasure, Brother Mildavar."
"I hope that with your missions, you've managed to bring a little more peace to the kingdom."
"I hope so. At the very least, I dismantled a smuggler gang in Ghoriak, eradicated a plague cult in Conea, and helped an old alchemist with some spells."
The master shrugged, nodding with a half-smile.
"I wish all knights had at least half your conviction, Brother Fal. Now then, let's go to the dining hall. Let's have dinner, drink some wine, and talk about plans for the future."
The knight swallowed hard.
"Plans for the future, Brother Mildavar?"
"Does that surprise you?"
"Well, I was planning to spend some time here in Doknar… Maybe help with training some initiates."
"Uhm… come on, for now, let’s eat and get some rest. Tomorrow we’ll speak more."
Dinner passed peacefully and without further incident. Kalen was able to reunite with old friends and some familiar faces from the Order. He noticed a few envious glances at his status as a "Walker," since not all knights were allowed to go out and "purge" the kingdom. Such cases were usually specific and evaluated by a council. For that reason, although a break wasn’t unwelcome, the paladin knew he had to make the most of his time between adventures.
