The Knight’s Vow

By the time Yorn had been in Snowdrift Bay a few weeks, he had developed a useful habit.

When he heard shouting in public, he no longer assumed it was an emergency.

This had improved his life considerably.

In most places, a cry of alarm meant danger. In Snowdrift Bay, it might mean danger, but it was just as likely to mean a pricing dispute, a failed festival rehearsal, a goose with strong opinions, or Mayor Llama unveiling some new initiative no one had requested and everyone would regret.

So when Yorn stepped into Cobblestone Square that afternoon and heard the metallic clatter of armor somewhere off to his left, he did not panic.

He was, admittedly, curious.

The square was busy in a pleasant way. Snow still clung in powdery banks along the edges of the streets, though the cobblestones had been mostly cleared. Shop awnings brightened the winter light. Fairy lights were strung overhead despite it being broad daylight, because Snowdrift Bay had the sort of civic aesthetic that refused to acknowledge when enough was enough. People moved in and out of shops with parcels tucked under their arms. Children in scarves pelted one another with snow near the fountain while two older women watched from a bench and offered tactical advice.

Yorn, hands in his coat pockets, had been enjoying the simple luxury of walking nowhere in particular.

He had paused outside a shop window full of snow globes—dozens of them arranged at varying heights, each containing some tiny idealized winter scene. Miniature houses. Miniature carolers. Miniature deer. One globe appeared to contain a tiny skating rink where the skaters had somehow been captured mid-argument. Yorn leaned slightly closer to inspect it.

That was when a voice split the square like a trumpet blast with delusions of grandeur.

“STAND FAST, FOUL CREATURE!”

Yorn closed his eyes briefly.

Then he turned.

Charging toward him from the mouth of a side street came a knight.

Not a metaphorical knight. Not a man with knightly energy. A full, actual knight in shining armor, complete with tabard, sword, heavy boots, polished breastplate, and the kind of determined expression usually worn by men about to rescue someone who had not requested it.

His armor clanged alarmingly with each stride. His cape flew behind him with a commitment the weather did not warrant. He looked like a heroic oil painting someone had accidentally released into a functioning municipality.

“Thy rampage ends here!” the knight bellowed.

Yorn stared.

He looked behind himself once, just to be sure there was not in fact a bear, bandit, or eldritch abomination somewhere directly over his shoulder.

There was not.

The knight was, impossibly, addressing him.

Yorn pointed at his own chest. “Me?”

“Yes, thee!” the knight cried, bearing down at full speed. “Snow-beast! Wretch! Alpine menace!”

Yorn frowned. “I am literally standing outside a snow globe shop.”

The knight did not slow.

“I have seen thy kind in carvings and cautionary tales!”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Prepare thyself!”

At this point several people in the square had stopped to watch.

None of them appeared especially concerned.

A fruit vendor leaned on his cart and sighed, “Oh, Sir Reginald found someone new.”

One of the women on the bench squinted at Yorn and said, “Well, at least this one’s big enough not to get bowled over.”

Her companion nodded. “Mm. Better odds than the magician.”

Yorn had exactly enough time to process none of that before Sir Reginald reached him with a heroic shout and swung his sword downward in a flourish so dramatic it looked less like combat and more like he had been practicing entrances in private.

Yorn stepped aside.

Not even quickly. Just enough.

Reginald’s blade cut through empty air. His momentum carried him half a stride too far. Yorn, acting entirely on instinct and a lifelong aversion to being stabbed during errands, reached out, caught the knight by the wrist, and redirected him with one firm shove.

Sir Reginald staggered.

His boots slipped on a patch of packed snow.

Then, with a hideous and protracted symphony of metal on stone, he went down.

The sound was extraordinary.

Not one clang. Not one clean impact. A whole sequence of clatters, bangs, rattles, and offended armor noises, as though a kitchen full of cookware had been thrown down a staircase with noble intent.

The square fell silent for one beat.

Then someone said, “Oof.”

Sir Reginald lay on his back in the middle of the square for a moment, staring up at the winter sky through the open slit of his visor.

Yorn looked down at him.

“…Are you all right?”

The knight sat up abruptly.

“Yes!” he declared.

Then he stopped.

Very slowly, he looked up at Yorn.

Not with anger.
Not with humiliation.
With awe.

Yorn knew that look only in the sense that he had seen it on people who had just witnessed something they intended to describe badly to others later.

Sir Reginald rose to one knee with effort and a great deal of clanking.

“My God,” he breathed.

Yorn blinked. “What.”

The knight removed one gauntleted hand from his sword and pressed it to his breastplate.

“Such restraint,” he said.

Yorn stared at him.

“Such strength,” Reginald continued, voice thick with reverence.

“I shoved you.”

“Exactly.”

“You tried to hit me with a sword.”

“And yet you chose mercy.”

“I chose convenience.”

Sir Reginald rose fully now, though a little less gracefully than he had attacked, and looked Yorn up and down as if reassessing an ancient prophecy.

“What is thy name, mighty one?”

Yorn considered lying.

But the whole square was already listening, and he suspected several people knew him by now anyway.

“Yorn.”

Sir Reginald inhaled sharply, as though this confirmed something tremendous.

“Yorn,” he repeated. “A powerful name.”

“It’s just my name.”

“A name fit for saga.”

Before Yorn could object further, Sir Reginald did something much worse than attack him.

He dropped to one knee.

In the middle of the square.
In public.
Loudly.

Gasps rippled from exactly zero surprised people.

Sir Reginald bowed his head and planted the tip of his sword against the cobblestones with solemn grandeur.

“Hear me, people of Snowdrift Bay!” he cried. “I, Sir Reginald of steadfast blade and righteous purpose, do pledge my sword, my shield, and my undying loyalty to Yorn, conqueror without cruelty, giant of uncommon virtue, and clearly the mightiest being in the square!”

Yorn looked out at the crowd.

A child clapped.

The fruit vendor muttered, “There it is.”

One of the women on the bench leaned toward the other and said, “Faster than I expected.”

Her companion nodded. “He usually waits until after lunch.”

Yorn looked back at the kneeling knight.

“Please don’t do this.”

Sir Reginald looked up. “It is already done.”

“No, I mean—generally. Please don’t pledge yourself to me.”

“I must.”

“You absolutely do not.”

Reginald’s expression softened into what he probably believed was noble sincerity but read more like emotional siege warfare.

“My liege,” he said.

Yorn recoiled. “No.”

“My champion—”

“No.”

“My noble yeti of the northern—”

“Stop building titles for me.”

Sir Reginald rose in one fluid burst of enthusiasm and sheathed his sword with a flourish.

“As you wish,” he said. “I shall simply serve through action.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It will be glorious.”

“It won’t.”

But Sir Reginald was already moving to Yorn’s side with the brisk readiness of a man who had just found a purpose and was determined to stand beside it at all times.

Yorn began walking, mostly because standing still seemed to invite escalation.

Reginald followed instantly.

Armor clanked with every step.

Yorn went three paces before glancing sideways.

Sir Reginald was there.

Not near him. There.

Keeping perfect pace, chin lifted, one hand resting meaningfully on the hilt of his sword as if expecting assassins to emerge from a bakery at any moment.

Yorn looked ahead again.

“This is not necessary.”

“On the contrary,” said Reginald. “It is my solemn duty.”

“You made that duty up thirty seconds ago.”

“Duty often arrives suddenly.”

“That is not comforting.”

They crossed the square like this: Yorn walking with the stiff, resigned posture of a man who had lost control of his own afternoon, and Reginald beside him scanning rooftops, windows, alleys, carts, and passing dogs for threats to a giant creature who could likely throw a carriage if properly annoyed.

People noticed.

Of course they did.

A woman exiting the florist took one look at them and smiled. “Oh, good. He’s adopted someone durable.”

A man outside the café nodded to Yorn and said, “Best just let him tire himself out.”

“I can hear you,” said Reginald.

“Yes,” said the man. “That’s how advice works.”

As they passed the bakery, the smell of fresh bread and butter hit Yorn with such force that he slowed without meaning to.

Reginald immediately misread the pause.

He stepped in front of Yorn with alarming seriousness and surveyed the street.

“What is it?”

“What is what.”

“You halted.”

“Yes, because something smells good.”

Reginald narrowed his eyes at the bakery window as though it might be a trap.

“Could be a lure.”

“It’s bread.”

“Exactly. A classic tactic.”

“That is not a tactic.”

The baker, who had clearly been watching from inside for at least the last minute and enjoying himself, pushed open the door with a grin.

“Well now,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a knight.”

Yorn exhaled through his nose. “That appears to be the situation.”

Sir Reginald drew himself up with pride. “I am his sworn protector.”

The baker nodded as though this were a normal statement to make before noon. Then he picked up a warm loaf from a tray and handed it over the counter to Yorn.

“Here,” he said. “On the house. Consider it compensation.”

“For what?”

The baker’s smile widened. “For suddenly having to live like this.”

Even Yorn had to laugh.

He accepted the loaf with thanks, and beside him Reginald remained alert, suspicious, and painfully earnest.

The knight leaned closer and murmured, “I shall inspect it first.”

Yorn turned very slowly. “You are not going to inspect my bread for treachery.”

“I would be remiss not to.”

“It is a loaf.”

“Appearances deceive.”

“It’s still warm.”

“Some poisons are served warm.”

The baker stared at him. “Sir Reginald, I made that with my own hands.”

“A likely story.”

Yorn closed his eyes briefly, then took a deliberate bite of the bread while maintaining eye contact with the knight.

Reginald gasped. “My lord!”

“Do not call me that.”

“You are courting danger.”

“I am eating bread.”

“And yet.”

Yorn chewed. Swallowed. Then held up the loaf slightly.

“See? Fine.”

Reginald watched him for another moment, visibly relieved despite himself.

“Very well,” he said. “But should the loaf turn against you, I’m already in position.”

They continued on.

Past the square. Past the bookshop. Past the fountain. Through streets dusted with snow and lined with warmly lit windows and citizens who all, Yorn now realized, seemed to know Sir Reginald well enough to find this development both deeply funny and entirely plausible.

At one point Reginald hurried ahead to open a door Yorn wasn’t even planning to use.

At another, he stopped an elderly man with a cane because the man had “approached too briskly.”

The old man stared at him and said, “Reginald, I’ve lived here forty-one years.”

“Longevity does not preclude villainy.”

“It strongly argues against the effort.”

Yorn, meanwhile, found his own annoyance slowly being eroded by a more complicated feeling.

Sir Reginald was absurd.
Completely.
Dangerously.
With no apparent upper limit.

But he was not malicious. Nor was he stupid, exactly. Overcommitted, yes. Theatrical to the point of civic concern, certainly. But beneath all the armor and declarations and public kneeling, there was something almost embarrassingly sincere about him.

He believed in service.
In loyalty.
In honor.
He was simply applying all of it at entirely the wrong volume.

By the time they reached the edge of the square again, Yorn had stopped trying quite so hard to shake him.

He turned at last and faced the knight directly.

Reginald straightened at once.

“Yes, my—”

“No,” said Yorn.

Reginald nodded. “Understood.”

There was a pause.

Then Yorn said, “If you insist on following me around, I need you to understand a few things.”

Reginald’s face lit with the intensity of a man being handed sacred law.

“I am ready.”

“First: stop trying to challenge strangers on my behalf.”

“A prudent beginning.”

“Second: do not inspect my food.”

Reginald looked pained, but nodded.

“Third: I do not need protection from bread, pedestrians, or normal civic movement.”

Reginald hesitated. “I may need time with the pedestrians.”

“Work on it.”

“I shall.”

Yorn studied him for a moment.

Reginald stood as still as his armor allowed, waiting with all the solemn obedience of a knight receiving battlefield commands from his chosen lord, which was unfortunately still how he seemed to understand this.

And somehow, despite the entire absurdity of it, Yorn felt himself smiling.

A little.

Not much.
Just enough.

“There,” said Reginald softly, as if witnessing sunrise. “A sign of trust.”

“Don’t make this weird.”

“It is far too late for that.”

Yorn laughed despite himself.

And that, more than anything, seemed to seal it.

Reginald’s whole face brightened beneath the polished steel and knightly fervor. He placed one fist over his heart and bowed—not the full dramatic kneel this time, mercifully, but something smaller. Earned.

“As you wish,” he said. “I shall endeavor to be a worthy companion.”

Yorn shook his head.

“I didn’t say companion.”

“No,” Reginald agreed. “But I sensed it.”

“That’s not better.”

“No,” said Reginald. “But it is true.”

Around them, Snowdrift Bay carried on in its usual winter brightness. Shop bells rang. Children shouted over snowballs. The fountain splashed despite the cold. Somewhere in the distance, someone was arguing with a delivery cart. The town looked exactly as it had an hour earlier, and yet Yorn felt, in that small and inconvenient way Snowdrift Bay often managed, that his life had subtly changed again.

He had set out for an ordinary walk.

Instead, he had been challenged, nearly stabbed, publicly knight-adjacent, and assigned an armored companion by fate, idiocy, or both.

And as Sir Reginald fell into step beside him once more—still clanking, still vigilant, still absurdly sincere—Yorn found that he no longer minded quite as much as he should have.

Which, in Snowdrift Bay, was usually how friendship began.