Sir Gaston approached Remy late in the morning, when the courtyard of the Buda inn was still caught between quiet and noise. Merchants were only just beginning to unload crates near the stables, and the smell of damp straw lingered from the night. Remy had been preparing to step back inside, intending to sort his instruments again, more from habit than necessity, when Sir Gaston’s voice cut through the mild bustle.

  “Master Valois,” the old knight said, his tone carrying that familiar blend of warmth and authority. “A moment of your time.”

  Remy stopped. He lowered the strap of his satchel from his shoulder and nodded once. “What is it, Sir?”

  Gaston lingered for a breath, scanning the courtyard. His eyes flicked toward the knights scattered around the area, Raimund tightening his saddle straps, Bernat sharpening a short blade, two others arguing softly in Occitan. When he seemed satisfied no one stood close enough to listen, he folded his hands behind his back.

  “I admire that you are a man of healing, Master Valois,” he began, voice lowered. “But the Company is wondering how long we intend to stay in Buda. Serbia waits. The Balkans wait. Yet here we are, lingering in this city as if the road beyond it has shrunk.”

  Remy exhaled faintly. “Is that their concern?” He studied Gaston’s face for any hint of accusation but found none. Only patience. And worry disguised as diplomacy. “Sir Gaston, you know I did not need the company.”

  “Now, now, my friend,” Gaston said, lifting a hand lightly. “I understand. But these men chose to follow you. Whether you adore it or not, they are bound to you. Wanderers, warriors, men who have roamed half of Christendom in the service of Our Lord.” His gaze softened. “They praise your skill. Truly. But they lament that their legs have begun to rust.”

  “It has been a few days,” Remy said, almost incredulous.

  “Indeed,” Gaston agreed. “But they are not the sort who rest in a single place without complaint. They have a mission, Master Valois. One they swore to long before we ever crossed your path.”

  Remy did not need it explained. He could see the truth of it in the restless way the knights moved, in the coiled stillness beneath their calm, men eager to press on toward the East, toward that distant fire they convinced themselves was destiny. He could not blame them. Idleness gnawed at soldiers worse than hunger.

  “I see,” Remy said quietly. “But Buda has grown… fond of my presence. There are sick who need tending. And I have sworn to treat those I can. If the Company is concerned about funds, they shouldn’t be. There are many things I lack, but coin is not one of them.”

  Gaston laughed, one of his large, unrestrained laughs that startled a pigeon off the stable roof. “Of course. We have been living like kings, and it bothers them. They do not like feeling indebted. They pay for their meals, their beds, their repairs, and their purses grow thin. Their pride rebels at the thought of leaning on your generosity.”

  Remy clicked his tongue. Prideful men indeed. “They should not be concerned about that, Sir Gaston. I would have gladly paid for their meals and lodging. Not because I think less of them, but because it is decent. I owe them at least that much. Jesus and Mary… politeness over this? I am a doctor.” He shook his head, irritated. “Do they believe me so poor? I could fund an army, take the crown of France, and still have enough left to buy Lisbon.”

  Gaston grinned. “If anyone other than you said such a thing, I’d have thought him mad. But you… you have a way of pulling gold from the very dirt. I’ve told the men this. But they are not used to such things. It bruises their pride. And they fear staying too long will dull them.”

  “Astonishing,” Remy muttered. “Truly astonishing. Men who have crossed half the continent fear losing their edge after a few days of rest.”

  “Please, Master Valois,” Gaston said with a light sigh. “They are not as virtuous as you think. But seeing your deeds, and your refusal to rest, they say you shame them. They call you a good Christian.” His mouth twitched. “Some even say you would treat Saracens with the same care.”

  Remy groaned and pressed a hand over his face. He lowered it slowly and let his gaze drift across the courtyard.

  Jehan stood at the far end, her stance steady, her expression sharper than the weapon she held. She had set up a target, a simple circle carved into a plank, and was reloading her crossbow with stubborn, exacting precision. A quiet rhythm surrounded her, bolts thudding into wood with measured spacing, each shot a little closer to the mark.

  Remy watched her for a moment. Her focus, her unspoken discipline, she had no interest in gossip, pride, or the knights’ self-inflicted indignities. She simply worked and practiced as of late.

  “Tell them this,” Remy said finally. “I do not mind. If they think well of me, then let them accept my hospitality. There is no shame in it.”

  Gaston seemed as though he wanted to say more, something cautious, something gentle, but he abandoned the thought. He nodded slowly instead.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will speak with them.”

  Remy returned the nod, though a faint heaviness tugged at his shoulders. Not irritation, not truly, just the familiar ache of being misunderstood in a century that measured worth in ways he found maddening.

  Gaston stepped away, moving with the calm authority of a man accustomed to quelling soldiers and children alike. He crossed toward the other knights, who shifted subtly when he approached, their conversation halting, their posture straightening. Remy watched him for a moment, then turned his attention back to Jehan.

  She had already loosed another bolt. It struck the target just off-center. She clicked her tongue once, displeased, and reloaded.

  Remy approached her, stopping a respectful distance away.

  “You’re improving,” he said.

  She didn’t look at him. “Not enough.”

  Her voice carried that steady, quiet frustration she rarely allowed anyone else to hear. She lowered the crossbow only long enough to wind the string again, her fingers deft.

  “Accuracy comes with consistency,” Remy said.

  “I know.” She lifted the weapon, sighted down its length, exhaled, and released. The bolt struck even closer to the center this time. A thin smile ghosted across her lips before vanishing again.

  Remy let the silence settle between them for a handful of heartbeats. The courtyard had grown livelier, more voices, more footsteps, but around Jehan, there was always a pocket of stillness.

  “Was Sir Gaston scolding you?” she asked without turning.

  “Not scolding,” Remy said. “Merely informing.”

  She fired another bolt. It hit the outer ring.

  “He should scold the others,” she said, frowning slightly. “Complaining after a few days. Knights are strange.”

  Remy huffed a quiet laugh. “They fear dulling more than dying.”

  “I do not understand that,” she replied.

  “Neither do I,” Remy said. “But it seems to matter to them.”

  Jehan finally lowered the crossbow and faced him. Her gaze held that blunt honesty he valued in her, that lack of pretense so rare in adults.

  “They want to move on,” she said simply.

  “They do.”

  “You don’t,” she added.

  Remy hesitated. “There is work to be done here.”

  Jehan studied him, not with judgment, but with the careful consideration of someone assembling pieces to understand a puzzle.

  “You mean the sick,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we stay.”

  Her certainty surprised him. “You don’t mind?”

  “I chose to follow you,” she said. “If the others wish to leave, they can leave. But they won’t.”

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  “No,” Remy murmured. “They won’t.”

  Jehan returned to her stance. She raised her crossbow again, but paused halfway.

  “You heal because you want to,” she said. “Not because it is safe. Not because it is wise.”

  Remy didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could put it into words. He watched her instead, the way she steadied her breath, the way her fingers flexed.

  “You are a strange man, Sir Remy,” she said softly. “But not a bad one.”

  Before he could think of a reply, she fired.

  The bolt struck the center of the target -- clean and perfect.

  Jehan smiled, small but real.

  Behind them, Gaston’s voice carried across the courtyard as he addressed the knights, the cadence of his tone both firm and reassuring. Remy couldn’t hear the words, but he could guess the shape of them.

  Patience. Duty. Hospitality. Pride set aside for a greater purpose.

  A good man’s persuasion.

  Remy closed his eyes briefly, let the sounds of the courtyard settle around him.

  The thud of Jehan’s bolts, the creak of saddles, the distant chatter of merchants beyond the gate. Life continued here, loud and earnest, indifferent to the ambitions of any one man.

  When he opened his eyes again, Gaston was walking toward him.

  “It is done,” the knight said simply. “They understand.”

  Remy inclined his head once.

  Gaston clapped a hand to his shoulder. “We follow your pace, Master Valois. Rest assured.”

  They had formed a ring around him in the courtyard, barrels dragged aside, benches pushed back, a rough circle of packed dirt and bootprints. Someone had shouted for a proper brawl, and the Company had agreed with too much enthusiasm. Remy found himself standing in the center, cloak and armor off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, facing Sir Eamon first of all men.

  He settled into a southpaw stance the way another man might settle into prayer. Right foot forward, weight light on the toes, hips angled, left shoulder tucked in to guard the jaw. He lifted his right hand only slightly, keeping the lead hand loose and low, ready to snap upward. The knights watched him with curious confusion, none of them accustomed to a stance that broke every rule they knew.

  Sir Eamon cracked his knuckles. “Ready then, Master Valois?”

  Remy only nodded.

  The Irish knight lunged with a wild swing that would have knocked the head from a lesser man. Remy dipped under it easily. No wasted motion. His boots stayed planted, pivoting only at the ball of the foot, body slipping in a smooth line. He let Sir Eamon’s fist sail over his shoulder, then came up again with his guard relaxed, almost bored.

  A second punch came, heavier than the first. Remy leaned aside, letting it pass. He could feel the wind of it brush his cheek. Another blow, Remy rolled beneath it, shoulder brushing along the inside of Sir Eamon’s arm before he slid back into position. Bob and weave, light sway, nothing wasted. He looked more like a dancer than a fighter.

  Sir Eamon grew redder with each miss. His breath quickening. His curses growing thicker with the Irish rolling in his tongue.

  “Oh come now,” someone shouted from the ring. “Hit the man!”

  Sir Eamon, frustrated, abandoned fists entirely and lunged for a tackle, arms wide, ready to scoop Remy and slam him into the earth back-first.

  Remy met him with a short, sharp pivot.

  He drove a left-hand jab straight into Sir Eamon’s liver. Clean, precise, aimed with the merciless accuracy of a man who knew exactly where the body hurt and broke. Remy felt the impact travel up his arm, and heard Sir Eamon grunt as his ribs caved inward around the blow.

  Before the knight could fold fully, Remy snapped another punch into the side, just above the floating ribs, where the nerves screamed the loudest. Sir Eamon staggered back two steps, bent over, hands clutching his side as he tried to gather breath that wouldn’t come.

  “Fuck me,” Sir Eamon wheezed, voice thick with pain. “You hit so badly!”

  The men roared with laughter. Remy simply said, “Next.”

  Sir W?adys?aw Grzyma?a stepped into the ring, cracking his neck. Taller. Longer reach. Cautious where Eamon had been reckless. He raised his fists in a style more familiar to the Company, elbows high, arms ready to crush.

  He tested Remy with probing jabs. Remy slipped every one, weaving under the long reach, letting the punches whistle past. When Grzyma?a tried to corner him, Remy pivoted on the lead foot and vanished from the knight’s line like smoke drifting out of a hunter’s grasp.

  Remy peppered Grzyma?a’s arms with sharp jabs, snapping at the meat of the biceps, the tendons of the forearm. Not meant to break, but to deaden. To make the arms slow. Heavy. Painful to lift.

  Grzyma?a grunted with each sting. “You fight like a devil,” he muttered.

  Remy didn’t answer. He circled left, always left, forcing the larger man to turn, to adjust, to waste strength in the simple act of facing him.

  When Grzyma?a grew frustrated and pushed forward in a burst of strength as well, Remy stepped inside the reach. Too close for the big man to use his long arms. A perfect place for a boxer.

  He drove a left-hand hook into the kidney. Grzyma?a’s back muscles shuddered under the blow. Before he could retreat, Remy shot a second jab straight to the liver. Harder this time. Enough to make the knight’s knees buckle.

  Grzyma?a staggered, gasping, arms dropping without consent. Remy followed with two more jabs, light, almost gentle, the way one tapped a shoulder to remind someone of a promise but did not hurt less.

  That did it. The knight raised his hand. “Enough!”

  The Company roared again.

  One after another came the rest.

  Sir Aldred, who swung like a man trying to kill a boar. Remy made him miss eight times in a row, then tapped him under the ribs until the man fell on one knee, laughing breathlessly.

  Sir Raimund, quick with his feet and faster with his temper. Remy let him dance around for half a minute before clipping his jaw with a tight uppercut that made him bite his tongue and concede.

  Sir Marco, who tried to grab Remy outright. Remy slipped out of reach, snapped his head back with a clean straight punch, then immediately caught the man’s arm and twisted it lightly enough to avoid injury but firmly enough to end the match.

  Sir Henri, who simply did not stop swinging. Remy weaved through the flurry, ducked under the final wild blow, and tapped his nose with a jab so precise it drew a single bead of blood. That ended that.

  Even Sir Gaston stepped forward at last with a grin. “You’ll not humiliate me too badly, I hope.”

  Remy gave him the same southpaw stance.

  Gaston tried to bully him with sheer presence, wide strides, heavy steps, trying to force Remy back. But Remy stayed rooted, slipping around the blows with such effortless economy that it almost looked disrespectful.

  When Gaston finally opened his guard in frustration, Remy punished him with a brutal left hook to the body. Gaston froze, eyes wide, breath stolen from him as if he’d swallowed a stone.

  He raised a hand. “God’s wounds… I yield.”

  Throughout it all, Remy never broke a sweat. His footwork stayed crisp, his stance steady as a seasoned boxer, each motion stripped clean of anything unnecessary. His southpaw style confused every knight who stepped forward, none of them could read the angles, none could predict the placement of his fists or the rhythm of his steps.

  He was faster than them. Smarter in the ring. More disciplined. More technical. And he knew where to hurt best. They weren’t used to a man who didn’t just brawl like a knight but fought like someone who had trained in a discipline none of them had ever seen.

  By the time the last knight fell back into the circle, clutching some bruised rib or limb, the Company burst into loud, good-natured chaos.

  Sir Gaston, still rubbing at his side, lifted both arms and bellowed, “Master Valois is our champion!”

  The men cheered. Some pounded shields, some clapped, some shouted wagers they had clearly lost. Remy rolled his shoulders, feeling only a faint ache. Nothing more.

  He raised a hand and waited until the noise quieted.

  “When your bruises heal,” he said plainly, “we cross Serbia.”

  The men erupted again, cheering, shouting, banging their fists against their body. Energy roared through them, excitement rekindled like a fire fed fresh wind.

  Gaston laughed and slapped Remy’s back. “You could have told them sooner.”

  Remy only shook his head. “They wouldn’t have listened.”

  “Fair,” Gaston admitted.

  As the Company descended into celebration, men comparing bruises, arguing over whose defeat was most embarrassing, demanding ale to ice their pride, Remy stepped back from the ring.

  He flexed his hands once, checking his knuckles. A faint sting, nothing more.

  Jehan approached from the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “You enjoyed that.”

  Remy shook his head. “I tolerated it.”

  “Your face says otherwise.”

  He didn’t deny it. There was something satisfying in dominating so cleanly, in controlling every exchange, in watching trained men struggle to understand the techniques of the future. A small, sharp satisfaction, not pride, not boastfulness, simply the familiar comfort of competence.

  Jehan studied him for a moment longer, then said, “They will follow you anywhere now.”

  “They already were,” Remy said.

  “Not like this,” she replied. “I think they will think twice before they have opinions again, Sir Remy.”

  “Maybe,” Remy said.

  He looked back at the ring, at the laughter, the excitement, the respect in their eyes. Men who had seen the measure of him not as a healer, not as a scholar, not as the quiet man they struggled to understand, but as a fighter. Their kind of fighter.

  He exhaled.

  “Serbia, then,” he murmured.

  Jehan nodded once. “Serbia.”

  The sun dipped lower over Buda, the Company lifted their cups, nursing bruises they earned with a strange sort of pride from bruises given by the man who was usually the one who treated bruises. Not inflict them.