Esten de Stalvart's camp met me with silence—that special kind living in places where people met death. Gray tents grew from earth like mushrooms after rain, tattered but stubborn. Air thickened with sweat, metal, premonition of change.
Philosophers love pondering authentic being. I know for sure: it's when you stand before foreign camp and realize—next half hour becomes either story's start or absurd end.
A knight approached from breed serving to bone. Not youthful glory dreamer, not blood-weary old man—golden mean of military craft. Face bore stamp of chronic fatigue, eyes studied my captain's ribbon with cook's interest in unfamiliar spice.
— Captain's ribbon, —he said with cautious politeness, — but haven't seen you. Who are you?
In our world where every knight knows every at least by rumor, unknown captain—event. Not always pleasant.
— Sholn de Lorens, —I replied, name sounding foreign in own mouth. — Defender of country within its bounds.
Last words—almost apology. That's how I felt: man whose valor works only home turf.
Knight relaxed—name seemed familiar.
— Sorry, Sir Sholn, —now respect in voice. — Heard echoes. What brings you?