The morning sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows of the meeting hall of the Order of Knights of Eurasia, painting the floor in colors that contrasted with the room's cold formality.
Drake stood firm, back straight and arms crossed behind him, just as he had learned from his first day of training. His standard-issue armor, though functional, showed signs of wear at the edges—small scratches that told of battles few had witnessed.
In front of him, Captain Valerius, a man in his mid-forties, weathered by decades of service, held a parchment with the broken royal seal.
His gaze was fixed on the paper, as if reading it over and over might change what it said.
"Drake," the captain began, looking up with an expression that mixed seriousness with something resembling shame.
"I regret to inform you that, effective today, you are officially dismissed from the Order of Knights of Eurasia."
Silence settled into the room. Drake blinked once.
Then again. His face, sharp-featured but pleasant, remained impassive for a few seconds. His dark brown hair fell messily over his forehead, and his eyes, of the same earthy color, reflected a flash of confusion before regaining their calm.
"Why?" Drake asked, his voice calmer than he expected. Inside, a knot was beginning to form in his stomach.
Captain Valerius sighed and set the parchment down on the oak table. He ran a hand to the back of his neck—a gesture Drake had learned to recognize over the years serving under him: it meant he didn't like what he was about to say any more than Drake would.
"Lack of funds," he finally replied. "The kingdom is going through a drought in the southern farmlands, trade routes have been disrupted by bandits, and the royal treasury... well, there isn't enough to keep all the knights on active duty.
They've decided to reduce the order to the personnel with the most years of service."
Drake frowned. It wasn't an angry gesture, but an incredulous one. His jaw tightened slightly, and his fingers, still crossed behind his back, clenched harder.
"Is that all?" he asked, a trace of bitterness in his words, though his tone remained measured. "They're firing me because the kingdom is short on coins?"
"Drake..."
"With all due respect, Captain," he interrupted, stepping forward. "I've been in this order for two years. I've completed more missions than most knights with twice my experience. I've trained recruits, patrolled the northern borders when it was cold enough to freeze your breath mid-air. You can't fire me just for that."
Captain Valerius looked him in the eye, and for a moment, Drake saw something he hadn't expected: recognition. The man nodded slowly.
"You're right," Valerius admitted, placing his hands on the table.
"You're one of the best in the order. You have great potential, Drake. More than you probably realize yourself. But the world doesn't always reward merit. Sometimes it only rewards seniority and the stability that time brings."
Drake felt those words pierce his chest. Not because he didn't understand them, but because he understood them all too well.
The captain continued, straightening his back and regaining a more professional tone, though without losing all warmth.
"You're young. Only twenty years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. You could join another order of knights in another kingdom. I've spoken with the commander of the Silver Order in Valdris, and he'd be willing to accept you with a recommendation from me. If you want, I can write it today."
Drake let out a long, tired sigh and lowered his gaze to the polished stone floor.
For a moment, he let himself feel: a lump in his throat, a burning behind his eyes that refused to become tears. It was unfair. All of this was deeply unfair.
But he looked up again and, with a serenity bordering on resignation, nodded.
"I understand," he said simply.
Valerius opened his mouth as if to add something, but in the end, he only nodded as well. He pulled a leather pouch from under the table and slid it toward Drake.
The jingle of coins inside was the only sound for several seconds.
"Your final pay," the captain explained. "For two years of service. It's not everything you deserve, but it's all the treasury authorized."
Drake took the pouch. It weighed less than he expected. He tied it to his belt without comment.
"Leave your armor before you go," Valerius added, this time in a lower, almost embarrassed tone. "It's property of the order."
That was the drop that nearly made the cup overflow.
Drake felt a flash of heat in his chest, a sudden urge to shout, to pound the table, to demand they give him something more than a few coins after two years of risking his life.
But he forced himself to breathe deeply. Three times. He counted to ten in his mind.
"Fine," he finally replied, with a calmness that cost him effort.
He turned and walked toward the door. His boots echoed on the stone floor with each step. When his hand touched the bronze handle, the captain's voice stopped him.
"Drake."
He turned slightly, not fully.
"Good luck," Valerius said. "Truly."
Drake didn't answer. He opened the door and left.
In the training yard, the sun shone brighter. Some young knights practiced with wooden swords, unaware of what had just happened.
Drake walked to the stables, where there was a small changing booth, and began removing his armor piece by piece.
First the pauldrons, then the breastplate, then the greaves. Each piece he let go rang with a metallic clank—a cold, empty echo.
When he finished, he wore only his leather underclothes and a loose shirt. The breeze touched his skin directly for the first time in months. He felt strangely vulnerable.
He took the coin pouch and weighed it in his hand. With this, he could survive a few weeks if he was careful.
A month if he ate sparingly.
But it wasn't enough to reach another kingdom, to travel to Valdris or anywhere else where he could resume his life as a knight.
"In short," he muttered to himself, with a crooked smile that held no joy, "I'm no longer useful. So leave without making much fuss."
The words tasted bitter on his tongue.
He left the barracks at a slow pace, without looking back. The streets of Eurasia were as lively as ever: merchants shouting their wares, children running between adults' legs, the smell of fresh bread mixing with horse manure. A world that kept spinning while his had stopped.
He sat on the edge of a fountain in the central plaza and watched the people pass by. For a moment, he let the anger take over.
How could they fire him like that, just like that? He had given everything for that order. Blood, sweat, sleepless nights, wounds that still ached when the weather changed. And his reward was a pouch of coins that would barely cover a month at an inn and armor that was no longer his.
But the anger faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by a dull, heavy sadness.
Drake rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
"It's okay," he told himself, looking up at the clear sky. "It's okay. I'm not the first or the last to be fired. I just have to... explore. See what work I can find now."
He stood up with determination. His stomach growled discreetly, reminding him he hadn't eaten since dawn.
He headed to a nearby tavern, ordered a bowl of stew and a piece of dark bread, and ate in silence while watching a bulletin board covered in scrolls