The noon sun beat down mercilessly on top of George's head. Stuffed inside of a suit of second-hand armor, he felt like a chicken roasting in a metal pot. His heart hammered in his chest as he readjusted his grip on the unwieldly sword in his right hand, hoisting a heavy shield in his left.

Several yards in front of him stood his opponent, covered from head to toe in finely-made chainmail and iron armor. His sword glinted dangerously in the sunlight.

On all sides of them stretched an enormous, empty field, the grass scorched and yellow from the summer heat. There was nobody else in sight. Crickets and cicadas whirred loudly from the grass and trees nearby, and George thought bitterly that they would be the only witnesses to the travesty that was about to unfold.

"Defend yourself or die!" his opponent roared, his voice muffled through the helmet.

George grit his teeth and widened his stance. "Come on then," he yelled back, cursing himself as he heard his voice waver, and waited for the inevitable.

All at once, his opponent raised his sword and rushed him, moving fluidly, as though the weight of his armor meant nothing at all. George heaved his shield up in a last-minute block of his opponent's first strike and swung his sword in a wide arc his opponent easily parried, shoving him backwards. His opponent struck him once more on the shield, then lunged for his right side; George managed to bring his sword up in a block, but the impact knocked him back a half-step so that he wobbled for a second, off-balance.

Seizing the moment, his opponent feinted to the right and then brought his full weight against the shield that George tried to bring cross-body to block the blow, successfully knocking him onto the ground. George hit the earth with an oof, the heaviness of the armor worsening the impact, and brought his shield up against another strike of the sword. Frantically, George tried to swing his weapon from the ground, but the other man kicked it from his hand.

George's attacker planted a foot on his chest, swung his sword in an arc and aimed the point at George's heart, and for a moment, George felt his magic instinctively spark to life in his hands, showing him everything he could do to defend himself: twist his arm, knock him back, let the earth swallow him whole...

"Do you yield?" came the metallic voice and George closed his fist, stifling his magic and letting his head fall back in annoyance.

"Alright, fine, I get it already," he shouted in exasperation, "will you let me up, please?"

Rather than remove his foot, his attacker brought his hand up to remove his helmet and threw it to the side. Prince Clay grinned down at his servant, sweat lining his brow and plastering his hair to his forehead. "Come on, George, it's no fun if you don't yield," he said, his eyes glinting mischievously.

"Are you kidding me, Dream?" George groaned, but Dream didn't move his foot, raising an eyebrow in expectation. "I yield, I freaking yield, you dolt, get off me!"

Dream chuckled and stepped back and George pulled himself up from the ground with as much dignity as he could muster. "This is servant abuse, you know," George grumbled, tearing his own helmet off.

"Hey, you agreed to come out here with me," Dream reminded him, and George sighed because it was true. An afternoon spent training with Dream beat sitting around the castle mending tunics any day, no matter how many bruises he ended up with afterwards.

Dream returned to his initial position and turned again, sword in hand. "Okay, one more round. Best out of five."

"Dream, come on," George complained. "We've been out here for hours."

"I have to train, George! Do you want me to fail at the Tournament?"

"If you actually wanted to train, you should have found Sapnap," George retorted, throwing down his shield. "At this point, you're just beating me to make yourself feel better."

At this, Dream looked sort of guilty. "I told you, Sap was busy," he said in defense, but he dropped his stance. "We have been out here for a while. We should probably head back."

"What a great idea, where'd you get it?" George said sarcastically, earning him a punch in the shoulder that rattled his armor.

Their horses had drifted across the wide field they had chosen to practice in, and as George and Dream started trudging their way across it, George snuck a glance at his friend. Though they had both grown taller, Dream maintained his nearly half a foot-high lead, to George's great chagrin. His constant training had filled him out so that he was strong and moved capably in his heavy armor. But he was still young, and in the way he looked down in his feet as they walked, George could sense anxiety about the upcoming competition Dream had spent months practicing for.

"You're not nervous about the Tournament, are you, Dream?" George said, and then immediately regretted the way he phrased it as Dream looked sharply at him, put on the defensive.

"Of course not," he snapped. "Don't be stupid."

George raised his palms. "Sheesh, sorry."

After a pause, Dream sighed. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't snap. I'm just..." he trailed off.

"...nervous about the tournament?" George finished dryly, and Dream rolled his eyes but shrugged his shoulders once.

"I guess," he said as they reached their horses. Dream grabbed his horse by the reins and started packing away his things without much fanfare, but George had to take his horse by the halter and coo to her a bit at first, saying "had a good afternoon, did we, Daisy? Ready for a nice ride back, yes you are..."

Dream really rolled his eyes at this. "You named your horse Daisy?"

"Well, what's yours named?" George asked as he brushed some twigs away from Daisy's mane. She was a gray speckled mare who he loved very dearly, and who secretly got a forbidden apple from the kitchens every now and again.

"He doesn't have a name, he's a horse," Dream replied, planting his right foot in its stirrup and swinging himself up onto the saddle with ease. "Giving him a name would be demeaning." His horse, a black stallion with a white stripe down his front, whinnied and dipped his head as though in agreement.

"You just don't understand animals," George said dismissively as he clambered on top of Daisy. Dream laughed at this as though George had made a joke, but George secretly believed it to be true. He patted Daisy as they started walking and she snorted (happily, in George's opinion).

"Maybe shoveling their poop all day gives a man a better appreciation for them," Dream joked and George glared at the back of his head.

They started the ride back, retracing their steps through the worn path in the forest. George was grateful for the shade the woods provided, the great oaks and maple trees stretching overhead and relieving some of the summer heat. He was still in his armor and felt stifled by it. He spent considerable parts of his day cleaning armor, but never had a reason to wear it unless Dream pulled him along for one of his little training sessions. Riding a horse with armor on was a distinctly unpleasant experience.

Dream looked unfazed, as usual, looking just as comfortable in full armor as he did in his night clothes every evening. Noting this while looking at the prince's back led George to return to their previous conversation.

"You know you're literally going to win the Tournament, though, right?" he said as he urged Daisy on a little faster so that he and Dream were riding side by side. "You'll be great, like you always are."

Dream glanced at him but then looked away with a sigh. "Maybe," he said.

Though there was clearly something bothering Dream he wasn't saying, George basically understood his worry. Next week's tournament was nothing like the monthly jousts held for fun by the Camelot court, which Dream had won several times. The Tournament, capitalized, was held once every five years, and it invited competitors, and crowds, from across Albion. Participants were placed through a series of grueling events designed to test their strength, skill, and bravery, and everyone participated with exactly one goal in mind: to secure an invitation to join the Knights of Camelot. At the end of the Tournament, King Daniel would stand in front of the entire crowd and announce the names of the men he was most impressed with to invite them to join the Knights. He could choose as many or as few as he liked. Rumor had it that one year, he did not accept a single contestant, and the entire population went home disappointed.

Though Dream had been in training to join the Knights since the day he was born, this year was the first he was old enough to participate – to officially earn a seat as a knight in his father's court. And it had been his sole, obsessive focus for months. As it grew closer and closer with each passing day, Dream had become even more laser-focused and slightly neurotic.

"Dream," George said as he ducked under a particularly low-hanging branch, "even if you don't win an invitation tomorrow, your father will make you a knight as soon as you turn eighteen. It's not the end of the world."

"Yeah, I know," Dream said dismissively, but he didn't seem comforted. "Hey, you think I can make that jump?" he asked suddenly, pointing at a large ditch in the road, which they had skirted on their way out.

"No," George said immediately. The ditch was practically twice the size of an average jump. "Absolutely not."

"I think I can," Dream said, and suddenly dug his heels into the side of his horse, shouting "yah!" and snapping his reins. His horse whinnied and took off in a gallop, leaving George to watch in terror as Dream and his horse barreled recklessly towards the gap.

"He's not gonna make it," George mumbled under his breath, and as Dream's horse neared the gap, he took in a breath and held out his hand, summoning wind.

A small ball of wind appeared behind Dream's horse, and as it launched itself up from the earth, George pushed it forward with as much force as he could muster without it becoming suspicious. He could feel it push them along a few inches at least, but even then, Dream's horse faltered at the opposite edge, his hind legs only barely finding purchase in the soft soil.

Dream whooped obliviously and threw a fist in the air. "Good horsey!" he yelled, patting his horse on the flank, who George thought looked distinctly windblown and confused.

"So you did give your horse a name," George said as he and Daisy climbed carefully around the ditch.

"What, horsey? That's not a name," Dream argued, narrowing his eyes.

"Well, it's not a word," George said with a grin.

"You're just mad cause we proved you wrong," Dream said, patting Horsey again and turning away haughtily. "I keep telling you not to doubt me, George."

George rolled his eyes behind his back and they forged on.

They filled their ride with easy, mindless chatter as they continued on the long road home. They took long rides like this every now and then, whenever George had finished with his chores and Dream wanted company, and they knew the sights and sounds of the Camelot countryside quite well.

Which is why they both fell silent as they started to pick up on something that sounded very, very wrong.

"Do you hear that?" George said finally and Dream nodded immediately, picking up his reins and urging his horse into a trot. George followed close behind, and they rode towards a nearby hill, towards the sounds of shouts and crashes that were growing ever-louder.

"It's that village," George realized suddenly, "that village we saw on the way here," and Dream didn't respond, just urged his horse on a little bit faster until they finally crested the hill and saw it for themselves.

The village, no more than a dozen houses and a few acres of farmland in the middle of a large meadow, was burning. The villagers ran from their homes, shouting in panic, as various men dressed in dark garments barged into house after house, leaving laden with food, weapons and other valuables.

"Pillagers," Dream muttered and George went pale. Pillagers, the name commoners had assigned to dangerous, organized groups of thieves, had been increasing in number in recent months, and the wreckage they left behind was always horrible: innocent people murdered in cold blood, children left orphaned, whole villages pillaged and burned to the ground. And for no reason, it seemed, other than the scant amount of money they could rip from common people.

Suddenly, George realized Dream was grabbing his sword and gave a start. "What exactly do you think you're doing?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch.

"I'm helping the villagers," Dream said shortly, putting on his helmet.

"Dream," George said, panic rising in his chest, "there's a dozen of them, at least! We can't just --,"

"George, what else do you want to do? Ride away and leave them here?" Dream shouted, turning towards him, and George could actually feel the glare even through the helmet. "These are Camelot citizens, and I'm helping them!"

And then Dream lashed his horse's reins and took off into the village in a gallop.

"Son of a --," George threw his head back and bit back a scream. "Why does he make everything so difficult?"

Then he swung off of Daisy and grabbed his sword and shield, running in after him.

By the time he reached the village, Dream had already cut down a few pillagers from his perch on his horse and was clashing with another who held a broadsword. George swiveled his head from left to right, looking for a way to help, until he noticed a woman screaming at her burning house. He ran to her side.

"My baby," she said, and George heard a sharp, piercing cry from inside, and yep, that would do it. George dropped his things and ran into the burning building.

The smoke immediately stung his eyes and burned his throat, but he forged on, searching for the source of the cries. He reached a room on the second floor and found a makeshift wooden crib, where a toddler stood and screamed, tears streaking through the ash on his cheeks.

"Come here," George said, rushing to grab the child in his arms. "That's it. You're okay."

Suddenly, he heard a great creak coming from above him, and looked up just in time to see a burning ceiling beam come loose from its bearings and hurtle directly towards them.

The baby screamed as George instinctively threw a hand in the air over them, holding the beam up with a surge of magic. Shaking, he slowly let the beam tip over so it crashed into the floor next to them, gasping for air as he dropped it.

The baby stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth.

"Let's keep that between you and me, eh?" George said hoarsely before hearing another creak from the ceiling and making a dash for the door.

After depositing the baby with his tearful mother, George scanned the village for signs of Dream, and found him on the other side of the small village, holding off three pillagers at once. Horsey was gone, and Dream's helmet had somehow fallen off at some point, but he was grinning maniacally, parrying and dodging blows like he was the lead in some sort of psychotic dance. When one of the pillager's swords glanced off Dream's armor just a little too closely, George's heart caught in his throat, and he scrambled for his sword and shield, racing to reach him and help.

But a dozen yards or so away from Dream, he was intercepted by a pillager who rose from the smoke of a nearby building like some kind of phantom apparition – an apparition with a very real, very deadly sword, which he swung at George's head like had had been born to decapitate him. George pulled his sword up and blocked the blow, feeling the shock waves travel down his arms, and realizing with panic that maybe he should have paid more attention during his training with Dream.

"George!?" he heard Dream shout, and unwilling to distract him, George shouted back, "I got it!"

The pillager leered at him. He had a tattooed mark around his right eye that made it look slightly larger than his left, and it gave him a deranged look as he lunged at George again and again. To George's credit, he parried and blocked with his shield well enough, and one of his own swipes even cut across the pillar's arm successfully – but it wasn't enough when, just like earlier, a particularly good hit knocked George off balance and suddenly he was pinned against the wall of a smoldering building, their two swords clashing and putting him up close and personal with a sweaty man with very yellow teeth.

"Who are you supposed to be, the court jester?" the man snarled, pressing closer to George.

"Oh, god," George couldn't help himself from saying, "your breath is terrible --,"

Something over his assailant's shoulder caught his attention, although his entire body was consumed with the effort of keeping the pillager's sword away from him. Dream had successfully brought his fight down to a two-against-one, and was standing on the high ground on a small hill, fending off two pillagers at once. But what he couldn't see was that behind him, a third pillager was racing up to meet him on a mangy-looking horse, a sword held high in the air, and as he reached Dream he brought it down in a clean arc towards his head –

George screwed his eyes shut and summoned up the last bit of magic energy he had left in him, praying it would be enough – and suddenly heard that mangy horse practically scream. When he opened his eyes again, he saw it doing exactly what he had asked it to do, which was to buck up in the air, toss its rider, and flee into the nearby forest. Dream's would-be assailant smashed his head on the ground and went still, while Dream went on fighting, having never registered the danger he was in.

George exhaled in relief –

and then felt the sword pierce through his shoulder.

George shouted in shock, having for a moment forgotten that he was being attacked himself, and then used the pure adrenaline from the pain to heave the pillager away from him in a single motion and then run him through with his sword. He and his attacker stared at the sword in mutual shock before the pillager collapsed.