As the first light of dawn broke, an unusual atmosphere permeated the drill ground. The guards and stewards, who usually went about their separate duties, had all gathered. Even the halberdiers stationed before the main gate had quietly moved to the side of the colonnade, peering curiously around the pillars. Yet the seemingly close-at-hand daily exercises remained just out of everyone's sight.
The so-called new recruit training was nothing more than a mere formality. The actual assessment process was so rudimentary it was almost nonexistent. Over the years, no one had ever failed the initial test. Even those lacking martial prowess could easily pass, relying on their family's influence. If they didn't have that to fall back on, they could always find a few nimble farmhands to fill in, and that would be enough to get by.
The person in charge was more than happy to go along with it, as bestowing a rank was nothing more than a nominal gesture. Those undergoing the assessment were all scions of noble families, and they would be granted a knighthood upon reaching adulthood. Isaac, the subject of the assessment, was well aware of this and maintained a detached demeanor. His figure, standing with sword in hand, was blurred by the morning mist, seeming out of place amidst the deliberately solemn atmosphere.
As noon approached, the sun heated the flagstone ground until it was scorching. Finally, a cloud of dust stirred beneath the elm tree on the western side of the parade ground. The scribes, who had been dozing against the weapon racks, straightened up in unison. Even the horse trainer, whose temples were beaded with sweat, instinctively began to adjust his leather armor.
The sound of iron hooves came to an abrupt halt before the gate. Dylan, the flag captain who also served as the assessor, reined in his horse and turned around. His silver-spurred boots gleamed in the sunlight, startling a few plump hawks from the treetops. This young noble, who commanded dozens of riders, exuded an air of authority that belied his rank. Beneath his dark cloak, the scabbard of his sword faintly revealed the family crest.
Though the commander of the third banner seemed to hold a modest position, he was in fact highly favored by the count. The military organization within Count Perez's domain had always been unconventional. The various banners were directly under the lord's command, and the usual commander of a five-hundred-strong unit would have to show deference. Having such a figure oversee the selection of knights was both proper and a mark of solemnity.
Indeed, he was an old acquaintance of his father, Knox Villar.
Isaac, standing with his arms folded at the side of the field, curled his lips into a smile. Even with the lenient process, encountering an examiner who was an old friend of his father was better than facing someone cold and impersonal. He rubbed the calluses on his palm and thought to himself: Uncle Dylan had served alongside his father for over a decade; surely he wouldn't deny him this small favor?
Before the onlookers' smiles had time to fade, Dylan dismounted. He casually tossed the reins to an attendant, greeted the stewards with a curt nod, and strode directly to the weapon rack to select a blunted training sword. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in his armoured sleeves, casting a fine pattern of light on the gravel.
"Begin," Dylan announced, as the sound of metal clashing marked the start of the assessment.
Whether it was combat skills, physical fitness, or marching and responding to military orders, all were part of the basic assessment. These subjects, which ordinary soldiers would need months to master, were performed flawlessly by this hastily assembled team. Dylan, seated at the reviewing stand, clutched his scoring book so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Had he not been certain that Isaac had no need to cheat here, he would have suspected foul play.
But reason quickly dispelled the suspicion: An officer about to leave the knighthood would hardly risk his military career for an empty glory. With a rustle of parchment on his knee, he finally wrote down an "excellent" rating.
Isaac dismissed the formation with a smile and, as he approached Dylan, stretched his shoulders as if shedding a great burden. "I didn't expect Uncle Dylan to conduct the assessment."
"I was on a routine patrol and thought I'd drop by to see you," Dylan said, tossing back the military dispatch. His tone then shifted abruptly: "Since you've submitted your resignation, are you planning to go home?" This was indeed the standard path for a young noble.
Isaac, now stripped of his silver armor, walked towards the weapon rack, his fingers brushing over the dusty mail. The morning light, streaming through the oculus above, cast a faint golden halo around his shoulders but could not illuminate the turmoil in his eyes.
"The Villar family's vineyards are vast, but they can't withstand division among seven heirs," Dylan said, fingering the copper buckle on his leather wrist guard. He suddenly recalled a hunting trip three years ago when the young man had protected his younger brother, his left arm pierced by a wild boar's tusk, blood soaking the maple leaves yet he clung tightly to the reins. Looking back, that sense of isolation had already shown itself.
The rising heat from the stone floor distorted the view. Isaac unsheathed his sword and gently placed it on the table. The crisp sound of metal striking wood startled the sparrows under the eaves. He ran his hand over the faded ribbon wrapped around the hilt, a piece of silk torn from a skirt—those children who used to play together were now all scheming, waiting for the division of the inheritance.
"There's a need for a convoy escort, and the city is offering a reward for the extermination of bandits," Dylan said, pulling out a parchment from his doeskin satchel. The freshly written commission still carried the scent of pine smoke. As Isaac's gaze flicked over the "three hundred silver coins" written on it, his eyelashes trembled slightly. Dylan added in a timely manner, "At least it's enough to buy a horse that doesn't limp."
A burst of laughter erupted from the eastern side of the parade ground as a newly appointed squire knocked over a wooden training spear. Isaac looked at the group of frolicking boys and remembered how his elder brothers used to immerse their blunt swords in an ice bucket when he first learned swordsmanship. A taste of rust rose in his throat. As he turned, he stirred the fine dust in the air, as if severing some invisible bond.
"Go pick a chestnut mare from the stables this afternoon," Dylan said, watching the young man's thin yet upright back. He suddenly understood why his old comrade Leondro had allowed his youngest son to be ennobled early. Those old scars hidden beneath the medals had, after all, been tempered into the edge of a broken sword over time.
Isaac packed the faded triangular banner into his satchel. The banner, a symbol of knighthood that should have been hung above the doorway, was now to accompany its owner in his wanderings—just like his discarded silver armor, pressing down with a creak at the bottom of the wooden chest.
"The caravan sets off the day after tomorrow," Dylan said, tossing the parchment onto the oak table before parting. The ink-drawn trade routes resembled a spider's web. "The three hundred silver coins promised by the city lord are enough to buy a horse that knows the way." Dylan deliberately emphasized the word "knows the way." The arrow wounds from the night patrols in the storm, after all, were nothing compared to the cracks in a person's heart.
As the sound of hooves on the cobblestone road faded into the distance, Isaac was polishing the unsharpened ceremonial sword. The blade reflected the flickering shadows of the trees outside the window, and for a moment, it seemed to overlap with the family crest. The image of his seven brothers dividing the meager inheritance appeared in his mind, and he suddenly felt grateful that he had cut off his way back early—just like when he resolutely chose to take the knight's assessment as a commoner.
"The freedom of a knight always comes at the cost of shackles," Isaac murmured to himself. Those so-called "watered-down" titles were nothing more than a facade. If he had joined the knighthood, the handover would not have been so perfunctory, and he would have had the chance to meet the count at the ennoblement ceremony.
Of course, the reason Isaac was unwilling to join the knighthood was the oath of fealty to Count Perez during the ennoblement ceremony. The bond between a liege lord and his vassal was extremely binding, and betrayal or seeking an alternative path was virtually impossible without severe consequences. Without absolute strength, Isaac had no desire to go down that road. It was better to seek his own path while still a free man.
As the first wisp of morning mist crept over the windowsill, Isaac, having packed his belongings, took one last glance at the family crest and tore off a corner of the triangular banner, tucking it into his inner pocket. Without a hint of reluctance, he knew he would find his own path in the future. His departing figure startled the crows in the trees, which flew towards the dark clouds deep within the count's domain.