The wind was kind for once in the billowing low lands of Morania, but it still managed to carry a small tint of frost and bite in the late afternoon. Hills and big massive rocks, a lonely tawny bush, and the occasional tree dominated the landscape. Besides the sharp plains grass of course, yellow after the hardships of Summer, the Sun hadn’t been kind. Scorched and torn, hard on man and beast alike, it was all over the lowlands.

In this landscape a lone man rode on a big dark horse. The man’s frame, his squared shoulders and proud posture made it clear, had he had any onlookers, that this was one of highlander breed. That, and a warrior, for besides the sword that hang by his hip, a mule trailed after him, carrying a crude lance for jousting, a shield with crackling paint, and a slightly dented helmet.

This wasn’t a normal sight in this part of Morania, the kingdom feared on the battlefield for its proud knights, but it wasn’t as uncommon as you might think. Many a knight were sent out in the wilderness, to make their Ceremonial Stand in a pass, on a bridge, or someplace else where a traveller had to pay due, or challenge the knight. Three honorable challenges had to be won, then the knight could return in glory to his family and court, to be truly knighted and initiated in the Noble Brotherhood of the Moranian Knighthood.

This was the case, as the well-versed in such matters would have guessed, for this highland-bred warrior as well.

His name was Stiel of the Uthrom highlands, and he was proud, strong, and noble. He was also sent out here to die.

He had green hair and emerald eyes, with the forest people’s fair blood coursing through his veins. Hated by the establishment he came from, forced to make a Ceremonial Stand far from the ways where noble knights might traverse, closer to robbers, killers and highwaymen. Farther still from a likely honorable challenger as well.

But Stiel didn’t mind much. This was his task, the Stand chosen for him. It was not his place to question the Academy’s decision. He’d learned that much at least, he smiled for himself, when contemplating such matters.

The Academy years hadn’t been nice on him. His family was disgraced, and most nobles engaged in the Moranian War Councli didn’t want him to become a knight in the first place. But Stiel had persisted, and so had his mother. Not his actual mother of course, he had never met the fair one that had enticed his father, and then left a baby with emerald eyes by the estate’s servant’s entrance. There had been no doubt what he was, nor who the father was, but around his family’s land they soon didn’t care much. Besides his sometimes peculiar calmness, he was like any other kid.

His father didn’t take his arrival well. He died before Stiel saw his fifth birthday, and everything went downhill from there. At times he thought that his stepmother only had one thing that kept her going after the family’s falling from grace, and that was to salvage what was left and make a knight of her son. Even if he wasn’t hers by birth.

So Stiel’s years at the Academy had been hard, with other Knights-in-Waiting doing their best to dissuade him of his notions of glory and honor, but he had matured early and stood fast on principles. And no matter what, he still had the knightly birthright, the blood of the first king of Morania, in him. However tainted, his long-bearded weapon master had sneered viciously.

Upon his leaving the Academy to take his Stand, his mother – birth or no – had said that this is the final test, and he had readily agreed, and marveled at how old and torn she’d been. It wasn’t hard to understand why. Most of the estate were falling apart, and the treasure chest that his father had kept locked with seven silver keys was open and empty. They had sold most of their furniture, and although she wouldn’t tell him, Stiel knew that it was partly his fault. It had cost her a small fortune to get him an admission to the Academy, and they charged handsomely for the pupil’s training. It was fitting and normal, though, since a commissioned knight was paid handsomely at even the most remote count’s table. And a famous, strong and successful knight, could expect titles and land as well, something that would restore the family treasury, and – dare he dream – also the value of the name Uthrom.

He knew this, and so he held his head up high, focusing on the task at hand. No small feat, given that if he wasn’t a knight on his twentieth birthday, he’d be disgraced, his mother would be devastated, and all the family’s sacrifices would be in vain.

* * *

Stiel was nineteen years old, and his Ceremonial Stand was a day’s ride beyond the village of Qaiel, a small settlement consisting of mostly hunters, shepherds, and the occasional outlaw, he was sure. A sad place, he’d past it some hours ago, asked around and resupplied. The twenty or so houses were mostly mud and rocks, small patches of hardy turnips and other vegetables the only thing besides the plains sheep and the well, that was anything to see. There had been a surliness to the village, one that seem to be common in the lowlands as far as Stiel had seen. As if these people, beyond the Fenian River, didn’t have the will to stand up straight, he thought.

He knew he’d see more of Qaiel. His supplies would last him until Autumn turned to Winter, he’d hunt small game to make sure of that, but when the cold northern winds brought the snow, he’d have to resupply again.

It was a hopeless quest for the green haired Knight-in-Waiting, it should be at least, that was why they sent him out here. The forest spawn, the false knight, the green devil. They called him a lot of things.

That’s why he took it in stride. That was the only thing he could do.

He would see it through.