As Antoine and his companions' gazes fell upon him, Logan felt a thick layer of sweat coat his palms, pressed uncomfortably into his skin by the leather of his gauntlets. Flexing his fingers, he felt his heartbeat thrum uncomfortably, yet familiarly, inside his rapidly tightening chest.

He knew this feeling well – the tension that threatened to crush his ribs from both pressure within and pressure without.

He looked over the Hammer of Taureau, basking for a moment in the raw power that he could feel pulsing from the mighty, seemingly divine weapon. And knew that he wouldn't be leaving here with a clean conscience and his family's pride intact if he didn't get this thing off the ground.

The eyes of bystanders were upon him – if he sought honour House Galehaut, he would need to show them proof that he was a worthy knight. And right now, there was only one way to do that.

The sweat clinging to his fingers, Logan winced and reached to free his hands. As his gauntlets were thrown to the floor, a few cheers went up from the crowd, and as he gazed upon the hammer, another pulse of magic seemed to radiate across the cobblestones...

'Challenge accepted...' the weapon seemed to say.

Bracing his foot against the floor, Logan bent over and moved to close his hands around the enormous haft. As he did so, his fingers didn't reach his thumbs due to how thick the handle was around – a fact that made his large, strong, sun-bronzed hands seem to shrink right before his eyes.

He could lift a bale of hay with one arm and knock an orc to the floor with one swing of his shield... but even just touching the hammer, he knew that this was going to be a load beyond anything he had ever moved. And so, he took a deep breath, bent his legs, flexed his fingers... and heaved with all his might.

To his amazement, within seconds of him pulling back, he was suddenly yanked forward again, as though something invisible had shoved him forward. He twisted around to see if someone had shoved him for a laugh, but there was a good ten feet between him and all those watching.

The sight of all those faces, goggle-eyed as they gazed upon him, made his heart pound so hard he could feel it in his skull, smashing at the bone so hard he felt his head might burst. Looking back at the hammer, he gave another yank, this time with his arms and back instead of his legs.

But again, he felt as though he was pulled sharply forward, and as crazy as it sounded, the yanking sensation seemed to be coming from the hammer, though it stood completely stationary before him, planted firm as a tree within the warped, melted stone that held it in place.

It was like the weapon itself was... resisting him.

Logan shifted his arms several times, trying to find a better way to get leverage on the hammer. But no matter how he tried, or how hard he tried, the damn thing wouldn't budge. His arms and shoulders burned, first like his veins were full of molten metal, and eventually like they were full of boiling acid, and then finally his strength gave out.

A few dissatisfied murmurs reached his ears, but as he bent over in sheer exhaustion, most of those watching simply strode off in silence, seeming to forget about him completely...

Only Antoine, Romain and Finnan remained.

"Tough luck, sir..." Antoine said, Logan's chainmail rattling as the halfling patted him on the back. "But chin up; as I said, no-one has managed to lift the hammer yet."

It was all Logan could do to keep himself from lashing out in anger at his own inadequacy; the agony in his arms hurt almost as much as the agony of his failure.

But he had publicly shamed himself already. He would not do it again.

"It's alright..." he lied, forcing a smile as he rose, took a deep breath, and turned to the halfling. "I have a magic weapon of my own already." As he said that, he reached across his torso and slid Sacrifice a few inches out of its scabbard and showed it to Antoine. "My family blade, Sacrifice..."

As the silvered blade glinted in the sunlight, its glare flashing across faced throughout the district, a few heads were turned as blacksmiths looked upon the blade. Notes of admiration flared in their eyes that restored a little of Logan's pride.

"Very nice..." Antoine remarked, his eyes running over the handle as a smile played on his lips. Meanwhile Romain stepped forward from nearby, eyes wide and mouth opening a little in shock.

"Sacrifice is magical?" he asked.

"Yes. But for now, it's inert," Logan explained. "The sword was forged by Byron Galehaut, the founder of our house, who decreed that only a true hero of his blood would know its true power. In the hands of anyone else, it's just a longsword."

As he spoke, hand resting on the ornate golden hilt, Logan could feel that power. It smouldered beneath the cold surface of the silvered steel and burnished gold, like fire buried beneath a frozen lake. Sleeping, yet always there, waiting to be unleashed.

Just like the Hammer of Taureau, wielding Sacrifice and unlocking its true might was a test of your worth. And in both cases, he had failed.

Not surprising, given the many shortcomings he knew he had.

He felt his right hand clench into a fist at his side. 'But I will change that,' he told himself in his head. 'I will prove myself worthy of knighthood, of my family name and blade... of my uncle's legacy.'

As the word 'legacy' echoed in his head, a thought occurred to Logan.

"So are King Charles and all the other Dukes of Milisevre descended from the original Knights of the Platinum Dragon?" he asked aloud, looking between both Romain and Antoine.

Antoine pulled a face, his expression one of uncertainty. "The original ones were," he replied. "But now... well you know how it is. Sons aren't born, claims get disputed, titles change hands. The Duchy of Taureau, Gregor's original duchy, is presently held by the crown, for example." As he spoke, he gave a rather slimy smirk. "It is one of the prizes for lifting the hammer, unless another wins the right to it through... other means."

Regrettably, Logan did know what the man meant; politics. Just as horrible a scourge on the world as dragons, mind flayers and devils. The activity that meant the ruthless and unscrupulous prospered while the honest and noble were swept away, often into an early grave.

Men like Percival de Taureau, who had stood against the dragon Gorthalon until the bitter end. But from his experience, the machinations of lords and lordships could be just as dangerous and were just as wicked as any fire-breathing monster. Toadying for favours, backstabbing friends, worming your way through the courts... it was all so sickening.

That was why he left it behind back home; so he could do good without being hampered by such things.

But, judging by the hammer still planted in the ground and the sword resting at his side, it seemed he still had much to do...

He was then about to ask Finnan if he wanted to try lifting the hammer, but the druid had already gone wandering off again; he could see his ragged mess of yellow hair weaving through people across the district, visible and eye-catching as a rabbit's white tail.

The tuft quickly picked up speed, zooming between those in the crowd and bobbing up at down as its owner ran like the hyperactive child he clearly was at heart.

Oh...

A massive mountain of bronze and iron barred the halfling's way, breathing pipes hissing as a familiar figure turned his two mismatched eyes down towards the figure at his feet. Steps that sounded just like the hammering of the blacksmiths at their anvils then sounded on the ground, some of the cobblestones even cracking under his mass as Technus approached them.

Before anything else could be said, Finnan rushed in and bellowed, "Look who I found, everybody!"

An icy sensation gripped Logan as Technus scanned each of them, not saying a word as both his mechanical and organic eye seemed to narrow spitefully.

Only Antoine broke the silence, telling his fellow halfling "That's... quite a find you've got there, kinsman..."

Finnan looked at Antoine, his head cocked like a dog. "I'm not related to you!" he declared. "And anyways, we know this man! This is Technus, of the Order of the Turning Cog!"

"No, I meant-" Antoine was about to speak again, but then Technus took a step forward, loomed over him, and as ever, failed to comprehend the concept of courtesy.

"What is meant is what is said," the cyborg interrupted. "Speak plainly, organic, or do not speak at all."

Antoine backed off, looked both offended and scared. "I'll speak how I damn well please, you... you..." the word either escaped him, or he suddenly got cold feet about insulting the cybernetic giant before him. Meanwhile, Technus' head rotated around, tilted down to see Finnan knelt down looking at ants scuttling across the road, and then turned to Logan and Romain before saying:

"Inform the druid that I can introduce myself in future..."

Logan smirked and folded his arms. "Tell him yourself; he's right there."

"Affirmative. But his attention span is insufficient. Proper implementation of protocol must be observed."

Hearing Technus drone only put Logan in a worse mood. "Nice to see you too, Technus! It's a pity you wandered off without saying goodbye!" he remarked icily.

Technus' response was a silent, flat gaze of utter contempt. However, when Romain then said to him "I thought you had business in the Temple District, monsieur. With your Order, or what have you..." and in that moment, Logan saw Technus' brow rise, and for the barest of instances, his face seemed to soften.

He glimpsed a brief moment of... was it insecurity?

However, the cyborg's harsh, callous stare returned as quickly as it had vanished, and he gave his explanation for his unexpected appearance.

"The Tech-Cleric I was sent to meet, Brother Ruberix, is engaged in other business presently. I am to return to the chapel tomorrow."

Logan had to admit he was surprised. He thought that Technus' abrupt departure earlier would be the last time they'd see him.

"Other business?" Logan asked him. "Is it still to do with this 'Age of Iron' prophecy?"

Technus looked his way, but a terse response of "Affirmative," was all he got in response.

Truth be told, Logan was concerned about this 'Age of Iron' idea – the way Technus described it made it seem like paradise, but the concept sounded utterly horrifying.

A world of nothing but machinery, where life itself was ground into the dirt until nothing remained... would that be a world worth living in? And what kind of secret lay at the heart of that meteor which was capable of bringing such a future to fruition.

As he thought about that, Technus continued to drone on. "There appear to have been some delays in our plans... and not only that, but was accosted by bureaucrats during my passage here," he said flatly, a spark of irritation flaring in his living eye. "Apparently, due to my cybernetics, I require something called a 'heavy goods vehicle license,'"

"A license?" Logan asked, the word catching his attention. "To do what?"

Technus' facemask then hissed in what appeared to be a sigh of frustration. "To walk down the street, apparently," he explained. "Under Milisevran law, the level of augmentations I have means I am legally classed as a heavy goods vehicle, which ones requires a license to operate."

Beside him, Romain stifled a laugh. But Technus didn't seem amused. "It would have been beneficial if I was informed of this beforehand, Sir Romain..." he said in his crackling voice.

"My apologies, monsieur..." Romain managed to say. "It just... didn't occur to me that... that you might be legally considered a vehicle!" His voice then broke down into a fit of snickering, his hand on his chest as he wheezed for breath.

Logan also couldn't help but laugh too. "Well, if the Age of Iron comes about, we'll all need licenses, won't we?" he asked around, his joke making Romain laugh all the more, Finnan giggle, and Technus look like steam was going to blast out of his ears... until he abruptly leaned to one side, his mechanical eye rotating as if to focus... on something behind Logan. Turning, the paladin saw the Hammer of Taureau, and realized that Technus was inspecting it.

And Logan wasn't the only one to notice this.

"Ah, another contender, I see!" Antoine suddenly declared effervescently as he saw Technus inspecting the hammer.

'I wouldn't be so eager, Antoine...' Logan thought to himself, watching as Technus moved past him, gaze never leaving the massive weapon that was stuck into the earth. Again, a hint of emotion appeared in Technus' human eye; this time, there was a glimmer of appreciation, admiration and awe.

"Such a magnificent work..." the cyborg's voice croaked dryly, his words coming out as little more than a whisper. "What is it designated?"

Antoine arched an eyebrow, looking quizzical. "It... it's the Hammer of Taureau, good sir. Wielded by Ser Gregor de Taureau, the man who forged it." He then launched into his explanation of who Gregor was, with Technus surprisingly listening for the whole thing right up until the halfling told him, "It is said that it can only be lifted by one who has earned the favour of Bahamut, or one of the other gods of good."

The moment this was said, Antoine and some of the other members of the crowd gasped in shock when Technus' head rotated like an owl's to look straight at Logan. "Were you able to lift it, Sir Logan?" Technus asked him.

There was a hint of conceit in his static-like voice as his eyebrows lifted – one that made Logan grind his teeth in frustration as he remembered his failure.

"No," he admitted dejectedly, hanging his while Technus raised a hand...

~~~

'Time to prove the supremacy of the machine...' Technus thought as he flexed his metal fingers, feeling a rush of pride as he did so.

Nothing in his body moved or changed its course unless he commanded it otherwise. The organics gathered all around him, standing like mindless sheep in a barren field, would never know that strength, that sensation. Parts of them were constantly decaying in ways they were too lazy, too weak or too fearful to notice. Spasms and twitches, imperfections of all kinds, happened even in the young, and only grew more frequent until the old and grey were no more than quivering wrecks.

It was not so with the machine; Technus body was honed like a razor's edge beneath a microscope. He could feel the pistons, gears and gyros in his limbs, each one carved and tuned to perfection. And if a place was ever damaged or dared to rust, he could simply replace it.While he had been augmenting his arms for increased speed after their battle with the chimera, he had taken care to ensure his strength was not reduced.

Every segment was tinkered to perfection, meticulous iron workings clad in sacred bronze. In the eyes of Erathis, he was holier than all around him. He knew it, and now he would demonstrate it.

Taking two paces forward as Logan, Finnan, Romain and Antoine and everyone looked on, Technus ran his eyes over the item of exquisite craftmanship that was the Hammer of Taureau - each rune and gem on the head had been cut and shaped with such unerring precision that, in that moment, strangely, he found himself having respect for the organic who must have made it. But one glance up at the towering metal statue of Sir Gregor de Taureau, who the halfling Antoine had informed him of, set his head back on straight.

Gregor's strength, cast in bronze and shown in the Hammer, even when his flesh was gone. For the flesh was weak.

As hushed, anticipating whispers filled the crown around him, Technus stepped up to the foot of Gregor's statue and prepared to undertake the task before him. The wires and gyros beneath his armour whirred and clunked as he bent forward, one hand gripping the Hammer just under its head and the other midway up the handle. As he felt the material beneath his skin, a sense of comfort filled his body. He was dealing with something he could understand here – workmanship of metal, wood and stone.

As he heaved his shoulders upwards and pulled with not even half his might, a sound like the crackling of pastry sounded from beneath the hammer, followed by a few gasps from the crowd. Technus felt his pistons strain and groan, working hard to raise the mighty weapon... only to jar to a halt and stop all work as his body was suddenly driven forward.

Confusion coursed through Technus then. He didn't tell his body to do that – why had it happened?

He attempted to lift again, creaks and rattles surrounding him as his arms tried to prise the hammer free, using all of his strength this time. But then it happened again – his body surged forward and doubled over, the scales of his carapace scraping against each other with a tooth-grinding shriek as the sheer force shoved him over again.

No, wait; not shoved him over.

It was yanking him down. He could feel it.

As he strained to lift a third time, he paid closer attention to what happened. He felt the gears and cogs in all his joints, from his wrists to his shoulders and from his knees to his spine, rotate in perfect unison as he lifted himself back upright, and felt them grind together slower and slower the further up he angled himself. With all his might, he bent his elbows, tearing them upwards with such force that brief spurts of orange light flared from under his armour and a few sparks clattered onto the cobbles beneath his feet.

A raspy grunt sounded from behind his mask as something shot through Technus' body that he wasn't familiar with. Not anymore.

As his mechanical parts scraped and strained against themselves to fulfil his commands, he felt an aching sensation slice through every bit of his body, passing from his augmentations right into whatever flesh remained within his form. Was this... pain?

And then he felt something else.

Something slithered through the workings of his arms as he continued to try and raise the ancient, revered weapon of an ancient knight, worming its way between every piston, gear and joint like a serpent. And for the first time as far as he could remember, Technus felt another sensation – one reserved for the organics.

Cold. He remembered it instinctively as it settled upon his carapace, chilling him right down to his wiring, and in that instant, he felt every ounce of control and strength being sapped from his limbs. The ghostly serpents of chill turned into grasping arms that hooked their invisible claws inside his mechanics and then pulled, yanking him downwards for the third time with a force that made him feel puny in comparison.

Like an organic.

Technus let go and staggered back for a moment as the chill sensation burrowed right into his heart. The hammer remained still, but even as no visible effects surrounded it, the Tech-Cleric could still sense the power radiating from the ancient weapon and feel the freezing presence slicing into his still-living heart, the sound of its pumping deafening to him.

What was that? Was it Gregor's spirit? Or something else? Something more powerful than every hero, organic or mechanical, living or dead?

~~~

Logan watched in amazement as, despite a small noise and a few cracks breaking in the stone that fused the Hammer to the ground, even Technus couldn't make it budge. And that amazement turned to alarm when, just as when he'd tried to lift it, Technus seemed to be continually yanked forward whenever he strained to raise the weapon, his mechanical body creating tooth-numbing noises whenever he was thrown, twisted or turned against his will.

Logan could still feel the Hammer's power pulsing like a heart, and when Technus staggered backwards and he saw the skin on the Tech-Cleric's was as pale as milk and his still-living eye was wide, he knew his companion had sensed the same.

Whatever was keeping the Hammer in place, it was more than just fused stone; that much was certain.

'So much for machines being closer to the gods...' Logan remarked in his head, though he kept himself from saying such out loud. After all, it would not befit him to insult the one who had gotten the closest to claiming victory in this task. Clearly, he himself still had to do better...

After Technus failed, the crowd gathered began to disperse, their grumbles of disappointment and excited chatters about the latest few attempts at this seeming impossible tasks fading into the distant streets with them. As Logan scanned around, he saw only two people who hadn't made an attempt, so far as he knew.

"Are you going to give it a try, Romain?" Logan asked him, flicking his head towards the hammer.

"Oh, non non..." the Milisevran replied, lifting both his hands as if in surrender and shaking his head. "I already know I'm not worthy of such a weapon..." he said humbly. And Logan was about to ask Finnan when something cut him off.

"None are worthy these days..." came another voice; a low, harsh, growling one that Logan hadn't heard before now.

He, Romain, Technus and Finnan all spun about in alarm as they heard this, and their collective gazes settled upon a man who was standing behind them, about ten feet away and propped up on a wooden crutch that was tucked under his left arm.

The man himself looked like a gnarled tree root with two arms and a single leg, his skin rough and dry and wrinkled, as though callus was forming upon every inch of his flesh. A few wisps of silver hair trailed down from his both his bare, spotted scalp and his lopsided jaw, but surprisingly, those were the least ugly parts of him to behold; a ragged black patch hugged the right half of his face, strapped about his forehead to cover the eye on that side. While the remaining eye was still good, and bright blue in colour, the rest of his face was a reddened, poxy mess of scar tissue focused around a great gouge of a scar that split his face from forehead to chin, giving him four lips and incisors that were little more than smashed shards of bone. Said scar encompassed his hidden eye as well.

The silence the man's words brought upon the crowd, including Antoine, soon devolved into looks of derision and disgust. The halfling overseeing the hammer walked away, and everyone else quickly dispersed, the old figure seeming to have sobered the joy right out of them.

The only Milisevran to look the old man in the eye was a certain blonde knight.

"Ser Porthos," Romain said. "Bonjour. I trust you're having a good day?"

Ser Porthos shuffled on his crutch, mumbling "As well as can be expected," in reply, his tone sour as a rhubarb. "And yourself, monsieur?"

Despite speaking in the dialect, the Milisevran words didn't sound flowery and fanciful when they came out of Porthos' mouth. Instead, they sounded irascible, cantankerous... and fearsome.

Logan found his interest piqued against his better judgement. "Who is this gentleman, Romain?"

The blonde Milisevran turned their way, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards. "Friends, this is Sir Porthos du Valons, an acquaintance of my grandfather's," he explained, his voice calm and measured, though his smile was a little too wide to be one of genuine pleasure. Meanwhile, Porthos ran his single eye over each of those before him before grunting and making a remark.

"You're an eclectic lot, aren't ya?"

Grandfather...

The last word Romain said caught Logan's attention for a moment, his lack of focus on Sir Porthos' comment meaning it didn't hit him as hard as it might have. The one-legged man looked almost disturbingly ancient, but aside from his injuries, he seemed surprisingly able. Even as he hobbled forward on his crutch to get a closer look at the party, there was no sense that he was in pain or even struggling.

His injury was just another obstacle to overcome to him – that was clear, and Logan couldn't help but respect that.

"Well, Sir Porthos, we're actually not from Milisevre," Logan explained. "This is Sir Finnan Greatsurge, Brother Technus of the Order of the Turning Cog, and I am Sir Logan Galehaut."

Porthos gave them each a once over, his expression of disinterest unchanging before he asked, "You're Romain's team for the tourney, I take it?"

Logan nodded before he realized that wasn't entirely true. "Well, Finnan and I are, sir. Technus is here for his own reasons, but he travelled with us. The third member of our team, Stalk, is... elsewhere at present. Visiting his family."

Porthos pursed his broken lips. "Stalk..." he said aloud. "Odd name."

"He's a kenku..." Logan replied.

A sound like a mule braying suddenly burst from the old man's throat as he chuckled unpleasant. "A kenku?!" he wheezed before looking up at Romain. "That's the best you can do, boy?!"

Romain seemed to let the comment roll of his back – which made Logan concerned.

This man had just insulted him to his face, and yet he wasn't standing up for himself... something knights were supposed to do to protect their honour.

But Logan would not let his friend be humiliated in such a manner.

"That kenku is a knight of Milisevre, Sir Porthos. Same as you," he told Porthos firmly, taking a step forward. "As is Sir Finnan Greatsurge. So I suggest you show some damn respect."

That challenge only seemed to bolster the old man's twisted sense of humour. He then turned his gaze up to Logan and remarked. "Bold words, boy. And yourself? Were you knighted with them?"

Logan felt whatever cordiality he had left drain from his face, his brow furrowing deeper and his voice growing sharper. "No, sir. I was knighted by my uncle, Sir Oren Galehaut in my homeland the kingdom of Cormyr." He paused before continuing. "Perhaps you have heard of Sir Oren the Unyielding?"

"I have not." Porthos retorted, his reply snappy as it was scathing. "And even if I had, what would it mean to me, boy Back in my day, knights fought their foes with swords and shields, not with their ancestor's names."

Logan's hands smashed into fists at his sides, and even as Finnan tugged at his arm and whispered 'Logan, please don't...' to him, he would not be dissuaded.

"My family, House Galehaut, has a long tradition of serving the Platinum Dragon, sir," he said to Porthos, his voice taut and one step away from shouting. "Some of the greatest paladins in the realms have arisen from my bloodline... my uncle included."

Porthos arched the brow above his one good eye. "Is that so?" he asked, his hideous mouth twisting snidely.

"Do you doubt my word?" Logan asked, feeling his chest expand and push out as he looked down upon the old man.

Porthos blinked. "No... for now."

To Logan's relief, Romain then took a pace forward and spoke up for him. "Sir Logan saved my life just yesterday, Porthos. When I tried to kill the chimera that was roaming my lands, he and his comrades jumped into save me. And I'm not ashamed to admit that without them, I would have been shredded to pieces!" A surge of pride and gratitude filled Logan when he heard that, and as Romain favoured him with a smile, he smiled in turn. "And now..." Romain continued "... we have come to compete in the tournament for the Lake of-"

"Bah!" Porthos' four lips twisted, and he spat upon the floor as he made his interruption. "This tournament is a farce! Barely any have arrived to compete, and the knights that have are unfit to even look at a sword, let alone wield one!"

Finnan backed away at his words, his face forming into a look of fear. "Is he talking about us, Logan?" the halfling asked, looking up at him. "Is he right?"

Logan placed a hand on his little friend's shoulder, feeling the leaves of his clothing between his fingers and forcing a smile to comfort him... simply because in truth, he didn't want to break Finnan's heart.

The old knight probably was including them in those he was ranting about, and if Finnan knew that... he would probably swear off being a knight. And then who would compete with them in the tournament?

"Will you ever be pleased, Porthos?" Romain's voice then filled the air as he asked his fellow Milisevran a question. "Come now. You rode with my grandfather in the Battle of Cendrefeu Pass. You earned your knighthood there, and are one of the few veterans of that war still with us. You're a living legend."

"A legend?" Porthos asked with a snort, looking offended as his brow lowered. "There are no legends anymore, boy. Only the ashes of glory and the maggots squirming in their ashes."

Hearing that, Romain sighed and folded his arms as a knowing expression crossed his face. "Here we go again..." he muttered.

Porthos' eye flared with aggravation. "We've fallen from grace, Romain, and you know it. There's a darkness in this kingdom, and it's sapping us of our greatness like a stomach that has no end. Where once we had knights who were true champions, men of honour and strength, now we've... these."

He swung his free arm in a wide gesture toward the gate to the Craftsman's District, where in the streets beyond, knights in their fine armour could be seen riding about, turning a blind eye to beggars who were no more than ribs and bones in rags or knocking aside playing children in the streets like they weren't even there. And when they did dismount from their horses, it wasn't to help those in need – instead, they visibly strutted about like roosters, noses held pompously in the air.

Logan even noticed one of them, the knight whose armour was shaped like roaring flames, speaking a scantily-clad woman on a street corner, a coin pouch clutched in his gauntlet. Then, in the corner of his eye, he saw Porthos look his way.

"That's all knights are these days! Green boys and soft yellow cowards! Each one an arse in armour, riding whatever horses their daddies gave them... You see, don't you boy?"

He was reluctant to admit it at first, but eventually, Logan couldn't help but agree.

For a nation that was literally founded by great knights, Milisevre's present stock of chevaliers didn't seem up to scratch. He had dared to hope that Milton and his lot were just a few bad apples, but from what he had seen with his own eyes, the sole knight who seemed to be worthy of the honour of knighthood was Romain.

His eyes then quickly glanced over to the Hammer of Gregor de Taureau, remembering what Antoine had said about how no-one in the past few decades had managed to lift the hammer, even with an entire duchy as a prize to be won along with the weapon itself.

There was a long silence as the young paladin felt Porthos' eye bore into him expectantly.

"I see what you mean, sir..." Logan eventually replied. "And more than that, I feel. I know what it is to lament lost glories, sir. To see something so beloved, so revered, crumble before your eyes..." he paused, Sacrifice feeling heavy at his side. "But if Sir Romain has taught me anything, it's that there must be a few out there aside from him who are worthy of Milisevre's rich history and legendary status... people who can carry the torch."

While Logan might not have heard of Milisevre until today, it was plain to see how much this all meant to the people of this kingdom. Or at least seemed to mean...

"Oui, but what good will that do?" Porthos retorted. "Will those few knights be able to fight off all our enemies for us? Will they be able to ride out against every outlaw, poacher and bandit skulking our highway, or hold off the Hendrigal raiders from the north, should they come crawling back?"

A few smirks and titters of contemptuous laugher from passersby sounded as the old man said that. One was particularly loud – a pimpled teenage squire with a yellow arrow on his jerkin and a shrill hiccup of a laugh - which made Porthos shoot him a glance and bark, "You got something to say, boy?" He then hobbled toward the youth, cantankerously shouting, "Do you want a piece of me, you warty little waxworm?!" as the young man scarpered with his tail between his legs.

Watching this, Logan had to stifle a laugh; both because he didn't want the prickly old man to hear him and because this was like a scene out of a comedic play. But also, he couldn't help but admire Sir Porthos' attitude. That no-nonsense, always-speak-your-mind kind of blunt honesty had its flaws, but he could always respect a man who not let his thoughts be known to all, but had the charisma and force of will to make others accept it.

"Well, sir... maybe this period of complacency won't last much longer. Maybe if the Lake of Virtue is found, the spirit of knighthood will resurge in your people..." he suggested.

Looking back at him, Porthos scoffed. "And you think you'll be the one to find it, boy? I wouldn't get your hopes up."

Logan felt his features lock into a glare, his pride raging inside him. "What are you saying?" he asked, voice suddenly breaking into a snarl.

"I'm saying that, speaking as a veteran of half a hundred battles and a man who earned his knighthood at the Battle of Cendrefeu Pass, you've got a long way to go." He then added insult to injury by making his parting words "See you around, squire," as he hobbled off.

Logan's store of good will shrivelled like a raisin, and his immediately went from respecting Porthos' character to loathing it. Watching the old man limp away on his crutch, he felt a sense of defiance rising in his chest – a burning anger mixed with a desire to prove Porthos wrong, and that he did have what it took to be a knight.

But Romain stopped him by placing a hand on his chest, even though Logan rattled his chainmail to get around him.

"Pay him no mind..." Romain said, his voice as gentle as the hand he placed on Logan's shoulder. "Even if he has a point, he's a sour old sod and always has been."

After a few second, the fury inside Logan simmered down, mixing with confusion as he turned Romain's way. "About what?"

'Did Romain agree with Porthos? That Logan wasn't worthy of knighthood?'

The young Milisevran met his gaze. "About the state of this nation. I regret to say it, Sir Logan, but he is not wrong. Many of my countrymen are... not what we once were." There was a resignation in his gaze as he said that, as though the very words tasted bitter upon his lips.

Looking around again, even though he hated it, Logan felt a dreadful feeling sinking into his heart and could not keep it out any longer.

He had hoped that the Knights of Milisevre would be as noble as Romain, and of the Knights of the Platinum Dragon. But if none had yet proven worthy to lift the Hammer of Taureau, even though every knight in the kingdom had seemed to try at least once, and if the sacred Lake of Virtue's location had been lost until now... then what did Bahamut think of his chosen people?

What did Bahamut think of him?

The fingers on both of Logan's hands seemed to burn, all the more now than after he had tried to lift the hammer. Immediately, he wiped them against his cloak, as though the realization was clinging to him and he was trying to rub it off.

"I am not a Milisevran..." he thought, both fear and hope swirling in his heart. "And yet I might be the worst one of all..."