The wind was freshening, whipping across the open plain with a bite that tasted of coming rain, but Vilon barely felt the chill.

His father had always said that after a battle, a man needed only two things: wine to sate his thirst and a woman to sate his bloodlust.

Vilon wanted neither.At that moment he wanted only for death’s kiss.

It had been a great battle, and he slain enemy after enemy. The loot had been good too and he had seen heroes rise in the field where so many men fell.He knew people would sing of this. Of this battle as much as they would sing of the Prince of Yarzat and the lord of Epietoli.

It was a bloody battle, indeed. But he desired now neither wine nor woman.

All he craved was a hole deep enough to bury himself in, far from the stench of the dead. For two years, since the day he had lowered his father into the earth, he had convinced himself he was alone.

How foolish he had been. He hadn’t been alone. Not until today.

"I know it ain’t any of my business, Ser, but are you sure about this?" the cart-driver asked, wiping a grimy hand on his tunic while his two sons struggled to slide the heavy, stiffened Chestnut off the wooden bed. "You could get a decent pile of silverii for the meat. The butchers would give you three, at least, for a carcass this fresh. It’s a waste of good food to put it in the dirt.The worms will end up eating what we could.All knowers knows and so do I."

Vilon didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words felt like stones in his throat. He simply reached into his pouch and pressed the promised silver into the old man’s calloused palm, his grip lingering just long enough to signal the end of the conversation.

The driver pocketed the coins with a sigh and a pitying look. "Give him the shovel, boy."

The iron tool clattered onto the tall green grass with a hollow, mocking ring.

"For another silverii, I could loan you the boys to help with the digging—"

"That will be enough," Vilon snapped, his voice cracking like a dry branch. "You won’t get another bronzii from me. Go."

"Suit yourself, and good luck digging. I’ll go and take the shovel by day’s end, let it rest near that tree" said the man pointing to his right and shrugging. He climbed back onto his bench, the snap of his whip echoing across the field as he turned the team away from the young knight’s final vigil. The cart rattled over hidden pebbles, the rhythmic thud of hooves growing fainter and fainter until the only sound left was the mournful howl of the wind.

Vilon stood over the body of the great destrier. Chestnut looked smaller in death, the fiery copper of his coat undulled by the dust of the long path they had taken together. Their last one.

He looked down at the horse’s closed eyes and felt a sudden, sharp memory of home. He remembered the long, drowsy afternoons after lunch when he would nap beneath the shade of the orchard, forgetting to bind the beast to the trees. Chestnut, as stubborn and cunning as a thief, would always wait until Vilon’s snores were steady before creeping toward his tunics to steal the apples and pears tucked into his pouches.

Once he had ate what he would have had for supper and breakfast of the next day.He never though he would recall that day of hunger with so much longing. 𝕗𝚛𝚎𝚎𝐰𝗲𝗯𝗻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝕞

Vilon remembered the sharp, indignant nip of teeth on his shoulder whenever he had groomed the horse too roughly or taken a turn too sharp on the hunt. The beast had been bitey, arrogant, and impossibly proud, a reflection of the man that had raised them both perhaps?

He was the last soul that remembered the smell of Vilon’s home, the last living thing that had felt his father’s hand on its mane. He wasn’t just a mount; he was a friend. And now?He was undone and alone.

Vilon gripped the wooden handle of the shovel until his knuckles went white.

’’It isn’t right. ’’ he muttered.

He was truly alone now.

The wind screamed through the valley, but there was no snort of a horse to answer it. There was only the dirt, the iron, and the long, cold work of saying goodbye.

He drove the spade into the heavy mud, the sole of his boot straining against the steel rim as he heaved a clotted mass of earth over his shoulder. The rhythm of the work was the only thing keeping the silence from swallowing him whole.

"I didn’t know the words when my father was taken," he began, his voice a dry rasp that the wind tried to snatch away. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to the empty field or to the stiffening heap of copper fur behind him. "That was one of my greatest regrets. He wasn’t a legend, Chestnut. He wasn’t even a particularly good knight, his armor was always rusted and his temper was worse, but he could have been a much worse father."

He paused, leaning on the handle, his breath pluming in the cold air. "He took me in, didn’t he? He never raised a hand to me without cause. The nights we spent in a dry barn or with a belly full of pottage weren’t many, but when we starved, we starved together. That has to count for something in the eyes of the Father when he judged him, it must have."

He stole a glance at the horse, then quickly looked away, his jaw tightening as he drove the spade back into the muck.

"But I know the words now. Remember that priest? Utton, the one with the shaky hands and the breath that smelled of sour ale?I recall him well drinking in the evening and praying for forgiveness in the monring. I wonder if he got that in the end, the gods’ forgiveness.

We escorted him to that village just for a roof and a morning bowl of oats. I pestered him for leagues until he taught me the rites. I promised myself I’d never lower a friend into the dirt again in silence. I’ll say them for you, Chestnut. I’ll give you the send-off you deserve."

He hit a stone, the jar traveling up his arms and into his teeth. He felt his eyes go glassy, the horizon blurring into a smear of grey and green.

"And Owen... I let him ride you through the ford. He was a heavy lad, wasn’t he? I’m sorry for that, old friend. I didn’t know you were ailing. I didn’t know your heart was tired. It must have hurt, carrying us both while the world was ending around you."

A sob caught in his chest, breaking through the stoic mask he tried to wear. He wiped his face with a muddy sleeve, leaving a dark streak across his cheek.

"I was going to ask him to be my squire, you know? What’s a knight without a shadow? I had it all planned out. I’d teach him the high guard and the long thrust. We’d trudge through the Principalities, winning every small-town tourney from here to Kakunia until some lord saw the emblem on our shields and how big our heart is and take us into his retinue. It was a sweet dream, wasn’t it?It was a beautiful fairy-tale"

He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that died quickly. "Just a dream. Now I’m awake, and the world is nothing but mud and cold wind.It is a weary thing to live."

The hole was growing deeper, but the pit in his stomach was deeper still. A knight without a horse was a ghost in plate armor. He couldn’t go to a tourney on foot. He couldn’t find employment as anything more than a common heavy-infantryman, trading his noble aspirations for the anonymity of a shield-line

He didn’t know how to plow a field, his hands were calloused for the sword, not the seed. He didn’t know a trade.Nor a way to survive.

He had the silverii and he would get some more from selling the Oizenian gear he had got, but what he would have would never be able to buy what he had lost.

"I’ll be a sell-sword," he whispered to the dirt. "A mercenary. Blood for bread. There isn’t much I can do, is there? Is that what we’ve come to, Chestnut? From the heights of tbattle to the gutter of a tavern brawl?"

The shovel bit into the earth again and again, the rhythm becoming a hollow substitute for a heartbeat. Vilon’s breath came in ragged, burning hitches as the pile of dark, wet clay grew beside him. Every heave was an attempt to throw away the worries of what he was going to do now.

"At least you won’t have to worry about the winter," Vilon panted, his sweat cooling instantly in the biting wind. "No more shivering in drafty stables or chewing on dry straw. You’ll have the whole field. All the grass you can dream of."

He stopped, wiping his brow with the back of a muddy hand. He looked down at the trench. It was deep, not deep enough to hide the shame of a fallen knight, perhaps, but deep enough to keep the scavengers away. He climbed out of the pit, his legs shaking with exhaustion.

"That’s it then," he whispered. "That’s the best I can do for you.You deserved better friend."

He turned back to Chestnut. The horse lay as a great, silent monument to better days. Vilon walked to the head of the carcass, kneeling one last time to stroke the stiffening velvet of the muzzle. He felt a sudden, desperate urge to apologize again, for the hard gallops, for the spurs, for not being a better man.

"Ready?" he asked, as if the beast would huff a breath and help him.

Vilon stood, braced his feet in the slick grass, and gripped Chestnut’s front legs. He let out a primal, guttural roar, heaving with every ounce of strength in his back and shoulders. He pulled, his boots skidding through the mud as he did.

The horse didn’t move.

Vilon let go, gasping for air, his muscles screaming. He moved to the midsection, trying to roll the carcass, pushing with his shoulder until he felt something in his own chest pop. The body shifted an inch, then settled back into the earth with a heavy, indifferent squelch.

He stood there, bent double, clutching his knees as the realization began to sink in.

He looked at the horse , hundreds of kilograms of bone, muscle, and cooling flesh. Then he looked at the grave he had spent hours digging.

It was three meters to his left.