"What's your name?"
Leon asked the question during their final week of travel, during a lesson break when they were walking their horses back to camp. It had been bothering him for weeks - three months of daily interaction and he didn't even know what to call her beyond "Sword Saint."
She glanced at him, helmet as inscrutable as ever. "My title is sufficient."
"But you have a name, right? An actual name?"
"I do."
Leon waited. She offered nothing further.
"Are you going to tell me what it is?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"The title serves its purpose. A name would add nothing of value to our current arrangement."
"Our current arrangement," Leon repeated. "You mean you teaching me how to not fall off a horse?"
"Yes."
Leon sighed. "You know that's incredibly frustrating, right? Three months of lessons and I don't even know your name."
"You know my capabilities. My role. My function. A name would not enhance your horsemanship."
She was right, technically. But it still felt wrong, impersonal, like he was being taught by a particularly articulate suit of armor rather than a person.
"Fine," Leon said. "Keep your secrets."
"I intend to."
That was the closest he ever got to learning her name.
The capital appeared on the horizon two days later.
Leon saw the walls first - massive stone fortifications that rose from the landscape like a man-made mountain range. They made Castle Ravenna look like a village outpost. Made every defensive structure he'd seen so far look like children's toys.
As they drew closer, the true scale became apparent. The walls were at least fifty feet high, thick enough to drive carriages along the top. Watchtowers punctuated them at regular intervals, banners flying from each one. And beyond the walls, rising even higher, were the spires and towers of the inner city.
"Holy shit," Leon breathed.
Beside him, the Sword Saint said nothing, but he thought he detected the faintest shift in her posture. Amusement? Satisfaction? With her, it was impossible to tell.
The road widened into a proper thoroughfare, traffic increasing exponentially. Merchants with wagons. Nobles in carriages. Farmers driving livestock. Soldiers on patrol. The sheer density of humanity was overwhelming after months of traveling through relatively empty countryside.
People noticed the royal caravan. Of course they did - it was impossible to miss. The king's banners flew at the front, the procession stretched for nearly a quarter mile, and at its head rode Leon and the Sword Saint.
Flowers started falling.
Not literally - people were throwing them. Tossing petals and whole flowers from windows and balconies, cheering as the caravan passed. Children ran alongside, pointing and shouting. Adults bowed or waved or simply stopped to watch.
"LONG LIVE THE KING!"
"HEROES OF THE GATE!"
"THE HIGH ARCHMAGE!"
Leon had never experienced anything like it. The noise, the attention, the sheer enthusiasm of the crowd. It was overwhelming in a way that made him acutely aware of how much of a fraud he was.
These people were celebrating him. Praising him. Throwing flowers at him like he was some kind of conquering hero.
He'd learned to ride a horse and accidentally absorbed a magical explosion. That was it. That was his grand contribution.
The Sword Saint rode beside him, accepting the adulation with the same unreadable composure she brought to everything else. If the crowd's attention affected her at all, she gave no sign.
They passed through the outer gates - massive things that opened in sequence, guards saluting as they passed. The city beyond was everything Leon had imagined when he thought "medieval fantasy capital" and then some.
Cobblestone streets wide enough for three carriages abreast. Buildings that rose four, five, sometimes six stories, each one decorated with carved stone, painted shutters, hanging banners. The architecture was a mix of practical and ornate-ground floors for shops and trade, upper floors for living, everything built with the kind of attention to detail that came from craftsmen who took pride in their work.
It looked like a Renaissance faire had become a functioning city.
They passed through residential districts where houses clustered together, their proximity speaking to the city's density. Hanging banners celebrated the king's return, colorful fabric stretched across narrow streets creating canopies of red and gold.
The people themselves were a study in contrasts. Nobles in elaborate clothing - embroidered doublets, flowing dresses, enough jewelry to stock a modern boutique. Rich merchants in fine but practical wear, their wealth evident in the quality of fabric and cut. And the lowborn -servants, laborers, street vendors- in simple homespun clothing that made their status immediately obvious.
It was so easy to tell the differences. Back in his world, you could maybe guess at wealth by brand names or accessories. Here, it was written in every aspect of dress, from the dye quality to the number of layers to whether someone wore shoes or went barefoot.
They approached the castle through increasingly grand districts. The buildings grew taller, more ornate. The streets widened further. Guards became more frequent. And ahead, dominating everything, was the royal castle itself.
It wasn't just a castle. It was a complex of castles, walls within walls, towers rising from multiple baileys, the whole thing occupying enough space to house a small town. The architecture screamed "impregnable fortress" while somehow also managing "seat of power and culture."
Three separate gates led into the complex, each one massive, each one opened in succession as the caravan approached.
Leon would have thought it overkill before the battle at the gate. Now, having seen what monsters could do, having watched defensive lines break and towers fall, it seemed entirely justified. Maybe even insufficient.
They entered the innermost bailey - a courtyard large enough to hold the entire caravan with room to spare. Soldiers lined the walls. Nobles and courtiers gathered on the steps leading to the palace proper. And at the top, waiting with practiced patience, stood the royal court.
The king dismounted from his carriage with ceremonial precision. Leon and the Sword Saint dismounted from their horses -Leon with significantly less grace, but at least without falling, which counted as a victory.
The crowd fell silent as the king ascended the steps. Leon followed at the appropriate distance, the Sword Saint beside him, the rest of the caravan forming up behind.
King Alderon reached the top of the stairs and turned to face the assembled crowd. When he spoke, his voice carried across the courtyard with practiced projection.
"We return victorious from the front lines, where the kingdom's finest warriors held back the tide of monsters threatening our realm. The first clear is complete. The garrison is established. And we owe this success to the skill and dedication of those who stood with us in our hour of darkness."
Cheers from the crowd. Leon tried to look appropriately modest while internally screaming.
"Among those who distinguished themselves," the king continued, "one man stands above all others. Through his tactical brilliance, his magical prowess, and his unwavering courage, High Archmage Leon of Pelenna turned certain defeat into decisive victory."
Oh no.
"It is therefore my honor and privilege to bestow upon him the title of knight, formally recognized before this court and all the lords and ministers of the realm."
Oh no no no.