The sun had already set, and a chill wind caressed the Moranian lowlands, making the sharp plains grass lay low. It was a cold night, and a night for contemplating.

Stiel of Uthrom, the green-haired Knight-in-Waiting, hardly felt the cold. It was partly due to his heritage, the highlands were a harsh place to grow up in, but also because his mind was far away from the present. He sat on one of those rocks, said to be the scattered remains of the giants’ big mountain, gazing into the starry sky, not caring nor noticing that the fire had faded into glowing embers, biding their time or gasping for wonderful air to flare yet again.

The Knight-in-Waiting thought of his mother, of the Noble Brotherhood, and the stupid tradition of a people who really didn’t have the luxury of turning away a strong warrior. Stiel was honest with himself, he had excelled at the Academy, and should he only be able to prove himself in this, his Ceremonial Stand, he’d be on his way to greatness and glory. He didn’t doubt that.

The green-haired young man did, however, doubt that it would ever come to that. His resolve was there, but the despair of impeding failure crept into the back of his head, chilling his spine in a way that the cold wind never could. It was but half a moon left of his time at the Stand, and had he not proved himself by the time the full moon glared at him yet again, the Stand would be a failure, and his future as a knight would be at the mercy of the Noble Brotherhood’s council. He knew what they would say, knew that his chances of being permitted to join the Moranian knights were not even slim, they were non-existent.

His brush with the rogues of Qaiel counted as one Ceremonial Stand, one of three needed, but that was it. No knights passed through here, no one challenged him, and there was no one arriving to challenge either.

At this time, when things were as they were in the world, Stiel felt that it was a foolish old tradition. When he was younger he’d had another point of view, but with the great shadow in the west, the continents greatest force - the Empire - clearly amassing its armies for war yet again, Morania should be taking good care of its strong sword arms.

The Knight-in-Waiting didn’t doubt the rumors that war was on the kingdom’s doorstep, Morania being the last strong western nation of old not to fly the Imperial banner, surely a thorn in the eye for the all-powerful mysterious Emperor.

Neither did Stiel doubt that he would not fight in this impeding war, but he didn’t want to do it on foot, with the commoners. He wanted to lead, and he wanted to gain fame and glory with the Moranian knights, a legendary force on the battlefield, feared and powerful.

Stiel sighed. Half a moon left, and not a challenge in sight.

It would take another hour or two with his mind lost in the cold dark night before he would let his dreary contemplations go, and get his rest.