Ser Ronald paced the tent like a caged bear, his face flushed with frustration.
"Are you mad, boy?" he roared, spinning on Solomon. "Do you have a death wish?"
"Joseth is a brute," Ronald continued, counting the points on his gauntleted fingers. "But he is a brute who has won tourneys. He has killed men in single combat. And you? You are a child with two farmhands."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a desperate growl. "This is not bravery, Solomon. This is suicide. Apologize. We will pay you gold. We will give you horses. Just swallow your pride and live."
Solomon stood still, watching the Master-at-Arms unravel.
"Ser Ronald," Solomon said, his voice as calm as a millpond. "I thank you for your concern."
"Concern? I am trying to save your life!"
"You offer me gold for my honor," Solomon said softly. "You offer me horses for my men's blood."
He looked past Ronald to where Lord Raymun sat, watching silently.
"If I take your gold," Solomon asked, "what am I? I am a man who can be bought. I am a man whose servants can be beaten for sport, as long as the price is right."
He shook his head.
"There are some stains that gold cannot wash out, Ser Ronald. Only blood can do that. If I back down now, House Bligh is dead. We become a joke. A punching bag for every hedge knight who had a bad day."
"This is necessary," Solomon concluded. "Some animals only understand the whip. Joseth is such an animal. I must speak to him in a language he understands."
Ser Ronald threw his hands up in despair. "Madness! Pure Northern madness! Your father was a fool to take his sons to war, and you are a fool to finish the job!"
With a snort of disgust, the old knight stormed out of the tent, muttering about wasted youth and stubborn idiots.
Lord Raymun Darry finally stood. He walked slowly to Solomon, his eyes searching the boy's face for any sign of fear.
He found none.
"You are resolved?" Raymun asked.
"I am, my lord."
Raymun sighed. He reached to his belt and unbuckled his scabbard. It was a beautiful piece of work—black leather tooled with silver dragons, housing a blade of exceptional quality.
"This is Myrish steel," Raymun said, holding it out. "Lighter than castle-forged, but sharper. It holds an edge like a razor."
He pressed it into Solomon's hands.
"Your iron bar will not serve you tomorrow. If you are determined to die, at least die with a lord's weapon."
Solomon took the sword. It was perfectly balanced, light and lethal. It felt alive in his hands.
"Thank you, my lord," Solomon said, bowing low. "I will not forget this."
Raymun offered a sad smile. "You can still withdraw. I will not judge you."
Solomon looked up, gripping the Myrish hilt. "I don't plan on withdrawing, my lord. I plan on winning."
The medical tent smelled of vinegar and old blood.
Lushen and Lauchlan sat on cots, nursing their bruises. Lushen's left eye was swollen shut, a purple lump the size of a plum. Lauchlan favored his ribs, wincing every time he breathed.
When Solomon entered, they tried to stand, but he waved them down.
"My lord," Lushen mumbled through swollen lips. "We... we shamed you."
"We couldn't stop them," Lauchlan whispered, staring at his boots. "We are useless."
Solomon knelt between them, inspecting their wounds. They were battered, but nothing was broken beyond repair.
"Are you afraid?" Solomon asked.
"No!" they answered in unison, the word fierce and immediate.
"We aren't afraid of dying," Lushen said, his voice cracking. "We are just... we are just sorry we are weak. We wanted to protect you."
Solomon felt a lump in his throat. He put a hand on each of their shoulders.
"Listen to me," he said firmly. "This was not your fault. You didn't lose because you were weak. You lost because they cheated. Armor against skin is not a fight; it's a beating."
He stood up, pacing the small space.
"In my old life," Solomon began, speaking more to himself than to them, "I learned a hard lesson. People tell you that if you are kind, the world will be kind back. They say 'turn the other cheek.'"
He laughed, a short, bitter sound.
"It's a lie. If you turn the other cheek, they just hit that one too. If you are soft, they eat you."
He turned back to his men, his eyes burning.
"Today, Joseth beat you because he thought we were soft. He thought we were safe victims. He thought House Bligh was a joke."
"Tomorrow," Solomon said, "we correct him."
"We don't just fight him. We hurt him. We hurt him so badly that the next time a knight looks at a peasant of Mirekeep, he feels a shiver of fear in his spine. We make them terrified to cross us."
Lushen looked up, his good eye wide. For his whole life, he had been told that suffering was his lot. That knights were wolves and peasants were sheep.
Now, his lord was telling him to become a wolf.
A slow, painful grin spread across Lushen's battered face.
"I understand, my lord," Lushen rumbled. "We hit back."
"Hard," Lauchlan added, clenching his bruised fist.
Solomon smiled, a feral baring of teeth.
"Exactly. Tomorrow, we are not going to a duel. We are going to a slaughter."