There she went, as suddenly as she had appeared at his door.
Her ideals lingered, unyielding, stirring something in Reynard he had long buried—a sharp ache beneath the armor he showed the world.
The door creaked as he closed it, hinges protesting. He locked it deliberately and sank onto his desk. Night pressed cold against the glass, the sky clear and scattered with nameless points of light.
A sigh escaped him, one of many he had drawn since joining the Order. Godfrey would have understood her. Perhaps even admired her. Why did he not honour his wish today?
Beneath his bed, wrapped in layers of cloth, lay Silveredge. Its steel gleamed faintly in the moonlight, a reminder of the honor he felt unworthy to touch.
He had done something that would haunt him always—a debt the blade could never forgive.
…
They were stationed at the gates of Tyre, and for Reynard, it was the first time he had seen the sea. Silver reflected the rising sun like a sheet of silver, broken by the dark hulls of ships, and the wind tugged at the pennons of the Order.
A thunder of hooves shattered the calm. Captain Godfrey rode through the archway on a white stallion, cloak billowing, armor gleaming. His cropped brown hair glistened in the Levant sun, and his beard was threaded with gray. Up close, the years showed themselves in small, honest ways. Yet even at a distance, he radiated certainty, and the men of the First Company fell into line without a word.
He gave a brief, almost imperceptible smile to Reynard and Gandry. He had been their mentor, their rock, during their time at the Order’s training academy in Bayeux. Veteran knights often took apprentices, but the pair had been fortunate—they had trained under the greatest teacher the Order had ever seen.
“Men! Hear me!” he called, voice clear and unwavering. “Do not be distracted by the beauty of the Sea. We have been called to defend the port of Iss, Ayyubid Soldiers. We will take up arms.”
He raised Silveredge. The steel sang as it slid free, the lion’s head on the hilt gleaming proudly.
“We ride south,” Godfrey continued, eyes sweeping his knights. “To shield the helpless. To punish the wicked. To honor our oaths! And to praise the Lord who watches us all!”
The knights struck fists to breastplates in unison. Reynard’s chest tightened. Awe. Fear. Inspiration. The man seemed unflinching, already larger than life—a hero of uncompromising principle.
And yet, the gray continued to set into his beard.
…
South.
The sun baked the dusty road. Hooves clattered against stone, armor rang off the hills.
Godfrey was impatient—with delays, sloppy thinking, and the slow crawl of lesser men. Swift and precise: that was his rule. Commands measured, steps deliberate. Reynard imagined the mastery needed to match him—it would take a lifetime.
Reynard had heard of Godfrey’s increased age, how he was slower, less agile, less radiant. Reynard couldn’t see a single part of that.
Godfrey surged forward, the First Company straining to keep pace. His blue cloak billowed like a banner of heaven, the silver emblem of the Order flashing in the sun. Every movement was exact, unstoppable.
“Men!” His voice cut through the wind, sharp as steel. “Iss lies only a league ahead. Gather information. Speak to the locals. Every detail matters. Our duty does not tolerate omission.”
Reynard flinched at the absolute certainty in the words, the unshakable weight of the man himself. Even the approaching threat—a small band of mercenaries—felt insignificant against him.
Beside him, Gandry nudged Reynard, voice low. “A couple of mercenaries. They don’t stand a chance. Godfrey leads us. Enjoy the view while you can.”
He pulled a drink from his pack. Reynard’s eyes almost glowed as he saw it—fresh quality, premium ale.
“Gandry, come on, you know how I always used to help you with your jousting lessons in Bayeux? Remember that time on the Seraphinan Fields? When you almost impaled the instructor with your shoddy form!”
Gandry evaded every swipe for his precious nectar with precision; it was his, and yet what was his was his brother’s.
“Go on then…” face still blushing from the memory, “Don’t let the Captain catch us, he’s as rigid as it gets when it comes to duty.”
Ahead, Godfrey rode like a force of nature, sunlight glinting off his armor, Silveredge sheathed but ever-present. Every step, every gesture, reminded Reynard why the man was called Godfrey the Brave—and why no one could match him.
…
The streets of Iss were quiet, but the quiet had weight. Children peeked from shuttered windows; merchants whispered behind their stalls. Reynard rode through it all, noting every alley, every shadow, every sound. The First Company moved with precision—silent, sharp, unstoppable.
Godfrey rode ahead, Silveredge sheathed at his side, blue cloak snapping in the sun. Every gesture was exact. Every movement carried the weight of a man who believed in justice as an absolute law. Reynard’s chest tightened. The Captain’s certainty made the world feel small—and the responsibility enormous.
Beside him, Gandry grinned. “Not a citizen missed. Not a detail ignored. Makes you wonder why we bother.”
Reynard shot him a look, ignoring the bravado. Ahead, something caught his eye—a cellar door, tucked beneath a stack of crates, barred with a simple latch.
He murmured, kneeling. “This isn’t storage.”
Gandry kicked at the crates. “Probably rats or wine. Come on.”
Reynard shook his head. The instinct he’d learned over years of drills and battle refused to let him walk past. He lifted the latch quietly, slipping into the cellar alone.
The air hit him first: thick, hot, and metallic. Torches flickered along stone walls, casting grotesque shadows over huddled figures. Chains clinked. Murmurs of fear rose from men, women, and children. Coins changed hands like some cruel token.
A slave market.
Reynard’s stomach turned. His hands shook. Heart hammering, lungs burning. He ran back toward Godfrey, the stench of slavery embedded in his nose…
…
“Captain!” he gasped. “There’s a cellar—”
Godfrey interrupted, voice calm, absolute. “Is it about the civilians in the town?”
Reynard stuttered, not believing his idol wouldn’t hear him out, “No, Sir, bu—”
“Then get back to work, lives hang in the balance, and we must adjust the scales.”
He glanced back toward the cellar. Mothers clutched children. Men stared at the floor. The chains glinted in torchlight. Was this… wrong? The injustice burned, sharp and immediate. But Godfrey’s words echoed: If it’s not about the innocents…
Reynard swallowed hard. His hands tightened on the hilt. There was no question of hesitation. The choice was clear, but the cost weighed heavily on his chest like a stone.
He spurred his horse.
Was it such a crime? To be born Muslim?
…
Godfrey had been right. He had predicted they would strike every two weeks. The First Company waited, supplies replenished, hearts coiled like springs.
When nightfall came, torches flickered in the distance, shadows leaping across the streets of Iss. Reynard crouched behind a low wall, every nerve alert as lightly armored mercenaries crept closer. Their formation was loose but disciplined—perfect for raiding, perfect for killing unready knights.
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Godfrey had counted them. Every number, every patrol, every patrol route known. The First Company had the advantage—but only if the trap held.
Horses stabled in basements, stairwells brimming with knights, every window armed. Two men per building, ready to strike. Every step the enemy took brought them closer to doom.
Godfrey’s voice cut through the night, low, absolute:
“Patience. Wait for the signal.”
The mercenaries advanced, unaware of the steel waiting in every shadow. Reynard’s chest tightened. The glint of blades caught the torchlight. Fear coiled with excitement.
Then—sharp, sudden—a whistle rang from the center of the street, ripping through the night sky.
…
The doors burst open. Knights poured into the streets like a tide of steel. Hooves cracked cobblestones; riders roared as if the air itself would split. The mercenaries faltered, formation breaking under the sudden, precise assault.
Reynard gripped his spear. The weight was familiar, solid—comfort in the chaos. He was part of a storm, but the storm belonged to Godfrey. Every charge, every maneuver flowed from the Captain’s mind, honed over decades of battle and discipline.
His jousting lance, long, thick, and optimized for bloodshed, found its target. A bloody, beating heart erupted from a soldier’s chest as his face contorted in agony, crying and weeping, with tears and blood erupting, and Reynard extracted his lance.
Six.
The number pulsed in his head as he drove the spear through another mercenary. Elegant, precise. Always keeping distance.
He gestured the Sign of the Cross. Prayer and instinct tangled.
This would be a long night.
…
For all of Godfrey’s tactical prowess, their numbers were far too great.
He fought on regardless. Silveredge flashed like pale morning steel, each strike clean and practiced, each movement born of decades of discipline. Men fell before him as they always had. But the field was wider than one blade.
Breath burned in his lungs. His arms felt heavier than they used to. Where once he might have pressed forward without thought, he found himself measuring every swing, every step.
An Ayyubid soldier lunged from behind.
Godfrey turned a heartbeat slower than he would have in younger years. The spear grazed his pauldron instead of finding his spine. He twisted aside, drove Silveredge up beneath the man’s ribs, and wrenched it free—but the effort cost him.
Around him, the tide only swelled.
One knight could not turn a battle alone.
But the Brave would try all the same.
…
Reynard tore across the cobblestones, heart hammering, eyes fixed on the glint of his master’s sword, Silveredge. Arrows streaked past, steel clanged, and cries of men echoed in chaos. Smoke stung his eyes, choked his throat.
“Reynard, cover me! Don’t die on me!” Gandry bellowed, slashing through the streets of Iss.
They cut through the mercenaries—swords flashing, bodies falling. Instinct drove them forward, toward Silveredge, toward their captain.
Godfrey the Brave moved like a storm through the enemy lines, every swing carving a path, every parry a lesson—but Reynard caught the faintest hitch in his step, a pause barely longer than a heartbeat. Even legends could tire. His armor was dented, his breathing heavy.
Reynard felt awe—and fear. Side by side with Gandry, he pressed forward.
Silveredge struck again, piercing a soldier’s chest. Godfrey bellowed to the two knights, “Gandry! This fight is too dangerous! Rally the First Company and meet at the gates of Tyre!”
Another mercenary fell before the blade, its edge glinting with the morning sun. Even now, battle had not dulled it—though its wielder’s breath came heavier than it once did.
“Reynard! You stay here and back me up! We need to ensure the town is secure!”
Against his better judgment, Gandry rode alongside his friend, his brother-in-arms. The battlefield was no place for discussion, yet he leaned close and pressed his fist firmly against Reynard’s pauldron—a brief, grounding gesture amid the chaos.
“Protect the Brave! I doubt he’ll need it, but I’m entrusting it to you, brother!”
Reynard felt the weight of responsibility settle into his chest. He wanted to protest, to argue that there were too many enemies, too little time—but the look in Gandry’s eyes left no room for hesitation. He could only manage a soft, grateful smile.
With a powerful kick to his mount’s flanks, Gandry surged forward, disappearing into the shadows and the roar of battle. Reynard stayed, chest tight, heart hammering; he felt it.
He felt fear.
…
Silveredge flashed through the air, precise and deadly. No matter the angle of Godfrey’s swing, the blade cut clean, beautiful in its brutality, leaving men fallen in its wake. Piles of bodies littered the stones, yet even he struggled to keep pace with the chaos. Reynard saw it: the hitch in his breath, the tremor in his arms, the fraction of unsteadiness in his footing. But he was Godfrey the Brave, and legends did not falter entirely.
Ten mercenaries surrounded them, curved blades held tight, eyes darting between Reynard and the master swordsman. They thought Silveredge a prize to steal. They did not know its weight, its sharpness, its history.
The men charged.
Steel rang against steel. Sparks flew. The streets became a storm of collisions. Reynard fought desperately, trying to match the rhythm of his mentor, yet even now, advanced age tugged at Godfrey’s movements. Each swing demanded effort. Each parry came with a pause that had never been there before. And yet he carved a path through the enemy, unstoppable in presence if not in perfection.
Their clash lasted until morning, the ringing of steel drowning out the chirping of birds, sweat stinging Reynard’s eyes and blotting out the rising sun.
Until.
It happened.
…
It had never happened before.
His legs felt rooted to the cobblestones, his hands trembling, his vision shaking. Behind him, an Ayyubid soldier appeared, sword raised. He had been reckless. Careless. He had made the first mistake.
Never let your guard down.
Memories flooded him: Bayeux, the long hours of training, the laughter and grueling discipline shared with Gandry and the other knights of the Order. Each flicker collided with the present, a cruel reminder that this could be his final stand.
This town, so far from home, could be where it ended. No burial site. No honor. Just a name lost in the dust.
“Reynard, MOVE!”
His ears rang. The voice echoed, relentless, as the Brave hurled himself in front of him. A blade struck his chest, a devastating blow, but Godfrey did not falter. He twisted, countered, and drove Silveredge home with such force that the enemy staggered, morning sunlight flashing along the blade.
The soldier collapsed, blood spilling like a broken fountain.
Godfrey’s breath came heavier now, each movement carved by years, each swing demanding effort. And still, he fought on.
Reynard watched, awe and terror twisting together.
The last morning of his master.
The last morning of the Brave.
…
The Brave lay weak in Reynard’s lap, panting, his grip on Silveredge loosening. If Reynard had not known better, he would have sworn the gray was threading through his beard in real time.
“Reynard… my student… I am…” Godfrey faltered, blood splattering against the stone. “…so proud. You’ve become… a splendid young knight…”
Reynard’s chest tightened, lungs burning. Fear, cowardice, and his hesitation had caused this wound, a wound that would never have come if he had gone with Gandry. He could do nothing but shake and cry.
“Captain… I…” Tears choked him. “…I’m so sorry. I, we can still fix this. Let me… let me stop the bleeding.”
He tore cloth from the fallen Ayyubid soldier and moved to bind the wound. Godfrey’s hand caught his.
“Reynard… be rational. We both know I’m not going to make it. Not at my age…”
With the last of his strength, he pressed Silveredge to Reynard’s chest.
“Reynard… remember the stories I told you… Lady Seraphine… and her brother, Lord Florian…”
More blood spilled. Reynard could do nothing but watch, helpless, as tears ran down his face.
“This sword… it has a history. Please… say the Saracens took it after my death. It has long brought ruin to our Order… please, Reynard… keep it hidden, until a knight worthy of being Lady Seraphine’s successor appears.”
Godfrey’s hand fell to the ground.
Cold.
Reynard finally broke, his voice raw, his body trembling.
“No! Captain… Master! Wake up! No! MASTER!”
…
Gandry stared at the sight before him, eyes wide, breath gone from his chest.
His friend, his brother in arms, knelt on the cobblestones of Iss, shaking and sobbing, cradling a body in his arms. For a moment, Gandry refused to understand what he was seeing.
It could not be.
It simply could not be.
He approached slowly, boots scraping against broken stone, heart hammering louder than any drum. The closer he came, the clearer it became.
The same cropped brown hair.
The same weathered face.
The same gray-threaded beard.
Captain Godfrey.
“No…” Gandry whispered. “Reynard… what happened?”
Reynard did not look up. He only clutched his master tighter, shoulders trembling.
“Reynard.” Gandry’s voice hardened as his hand fell to the hilt at his side. “Explain. What happened.”
Nothing. Only ragged breaths and quiet whimpers.
Gandry drew steel. The blade hissed free.
“Answer me, Reynard.” His voice cracked despite himself. “Answer me, or so help me God, I will drag the truth out of you.”
Reynard finally lifted his eyes, red, hollow, broken. The world spun as the words clawed at his throat.
“I… I froze. I don’t know what happened… it all…”
His voice died in his mouth.
Gandry advanced, every step heavy, deliberate. With a sudden, brutal punch, he drove Reynard into the stone.
“Reynard!” Gandry bellowed, voice raw. “I trusted you! I entrusted the safety of our Captain, our master, to you! And you froze?”
He grabbed Reynard by the collar and slammed him against the nearest wall.
“Answer me!”
Reynard could not even summon the strength to rise. All he could do was clutch the wrapped sword beneath him as he collapsed to the floor.
Gandry approached, eyes hard, and spat at him.
“You are no brother of mine. A coward, unworthy of the title Silver Sword Knight.” He stepped back, breathing ragged. “Never speak to me again. You disgust me.”
…
Reynard lifted the bottle from his table and drank, the liquid bitter and familiar. It had been so long since he had shared a drink with Gandry. Silveredge rested in his hand as he stared at the sky.
The night had faded into a pale sunrise. Gandry’s favorite, back when they trained together. Fitting.
The blade felt impossibly heavy, as if Godfrey’s soul itself pressed down upon it. He could never carry this weight. Not like Godfrey. Not like Ava. Not like anyone who could have borne it.
Reynard stretched as the morning sun spilled across his chamber. He needed to tell the Marshal about Ava’s departure immediately. Any delay would only bring him trouble later, and he had no desire to clean the stables in front of the recruits…
“Ava…” he whispered.
“If only you’d had Godfrey as your Captain… and not me.”
