Philip turned sixteen at the beginning of spring. Over the past several years, he had become a familiar sight in the training yard of the Montserrat estate. At first, the guards had assumed it was simply the pastime of a bored young noble, but after seeing him appear regularly through many winters and summers, they gradually accepted that Philip was genuinely serious about training.

  That morning was not much different from the days before it. Philip was practicing with his sword when the captain of the guard stood nearby, watching for quite some time. Eventually, the man spoke.

  “Young master, lower your left foot a little.”

  Philip adjusted his stance.

  “Like this?”

  “Yes. Keep it that way when you turn.”

  After repeating the movement a few more times, the captain gave a small nod and walked away. The conversation had been brief, but it was enough to show that the soldiers had begun to see him as someone who truly trained—not a child playing with a wooden sword.

  Baron Montserrat had received several similar reports over the past few years. No one claimed Philip was a natural swordsman, but they all mentioned the same thing: he never skipped training, and he never complained when practice became difficult.

  One evening in early summer, the baron summoned the captain of the guard to his study.

  “What do you think of Philip?” he asked.

  The soldier considered the question for a moment before answering.

  “The young master isn’t a natural warrior.”

  The baron said nothing.

  The soldier continued.

  “But he trains. And he doesn’t panic during sparring.”

  The baron nodded slightly.

  “And if he were on a battlefield?”

  “Hard to say,” the captain admitted. “But I think the young master wouldn’t run.”

  That answer was enough to give the baron something to consider seriously.

  Montserrat was a small territory. If war broke out, the entire force they could muster was only around fifty farmers carrying spears. With numbers like that, every experienced fighter mattered. Philip was the third son, with no inheritance of land, and without a clear role he would eventually become a burden on the family.

  Knighthood was the most reasonable choice.

  Three weeks later, Philip was summoned to his father’s study.

  The baron looked at him for a moment before asking,

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  Philip straightened his posture.

  The baron continued.

  “I have decided to knight you as a knight of the Montserrat family.”

  Philip was slightly surprised, but he still bowed his head.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  The baron folded his arms.

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  “Don’t be too quick to thank me. Knighthood is more than a title.”

  He opened a map of the territory on the table.

  “You will need your own men.”

  Preparations took place over the next few days. Because Montserrat was small, the baron could not assign too many people to Philip. After discussing the matter with the captain of the guard and the steward, they agreed on a number: ten men.

  The knighting ceremony took place in the courtyard of the estate. There were no guests from other territories, only the family, the guards, and a few village elders.

  Philip knelt before his father.

  The baron placed a sword upon his shoulder.

  “Philip Montserrat,” he said slowly. “From this day forward, you are a knight of House Montserrat. Do not fear your enemies. Be brave and honorable. Be a shield for those who cannot defend themselves. Be the sword that carries out justice and righteousness. Keep your heart pure and your will steadfast.”

  The sword lifted from his shoulder.

  “Rise.”

  Philip stood.

  The soldiers struck the butts of their spears against the ground in congratulations.

  Morning had only just begun, and dew still clung to the wooden rooftops of the town of Montserrat. The early sunlight stretched across the small square, where quite a crowd had already gathered. Most of them were boys from the surrounding villages. They stood in groups, talking among themselves while glancing toward the baron’s estate.

  Today, Philip would choose his attendants.

  In small territories like Montserrat, a knight rarely traveled alone. Armor needed maintenance, warhorses required care, and weapons and supplies had to be carried. A noble could perhaps manage everything alone, but in the eyes of others it would seem rather… strange. For that reason, a knight almost always had several followers.

  For farming families, the position was not insignificant. Becoming a knight’s attendant meant learning how to use weapons and taking part in military training. If war broke out and fortune favored them, they might even receive rewards or be promoted to full soldiers.

  Of course, the battlefield was dangerous. But many of the boys in the square that morning were likely thinking in practical terms: if war came, farmers would be called to fight anyway. At least by serving a knight, they would stand near the commander instead of being crowded somewhere in the rear ranks.

  In other words, their chances of survival might be slightly higher.

  Philip arrived at the square when the sun had risen a little higher. Beside him stood Baron Montserrat and several guards.

  The baron looked at the gathered youths and said simply,

  “Begin.”

  Philip stepped forward.

  He observed the crowd for a moment. To be honest, he did not recognize many faces. Though he had lived in this territory for years, his memories of the villagers were rather vague.

  If he began questioning each person, the selection would probably last all day.

  So Philip chose a simpler method.

  “I need ten men,” he said.

  The boys immediately fell silent.

  Philip pointed toward an open field at the edge of the town.

  “Anyone who wants to follow me—run to that field and come back.”

  One boy asked,

  “That’s it? Just run?”

  Philip shrugged.

  “Run first.”

  No one objected. Nearly all of them sprinted away immediately.

  The square became half empty within seconds.

  Standing beside him, the baron watched the scene and murmured,

  “That method is rather simple.”

  Philip replied,

  “But it’s quick.”

  The baron said nothing more.

  The first boys returned after a short while. They were breathing heavily but tried to maintain composure in front of the baron.

  Others came back later, clearly exhausted.

  Philip observed them carefully.

  Not everyone who ran quickly could keep their breathing steady. Some of the early arrivals nearly collapsed upon returning. Meanwhile, a few who arrived later still stood upright, breathing evenly.

  When everyone had returned, Philip counted quickly.

  “Thirty-four.”

  The baron raised an eyebrow.

  “Still too many.”

  Philip nodded.

  He turned toward the boys.

  “Running was only the first round.”

  A few sighed in relief, but that feeling vanished when Philip continued.

  “The next round—you fight each other.”

  One boy asked cautiously,

  “Fight… for real?”

  “No weapons,” Philip said. “Only your hands.”

  The crowd began murmuring.

  Philip went on.

  “Each match ends when one side can no longer continue.”

  The baron watched him for a moment before asking quietly,

  “Are you sure about this?”

  Philip answered,

  “At least this way we see who is willing to stay.”

  The method might not have been perfect. The strongest person was not always the smartest, and the quickest was not always the most loyal. But in a small territory like Montserrat, standards sometimes had to be practical.

  If war came, the first thing that mattered was not who was the most intelligent.

  It was who stayed standing when everyone else began to step back.

  The matches took place right in the town square.

  After nearly an hour, the final result became clear.

  Ten boys remained standing in the middle of the square. Some were scratched, others bruised, but all of them still stood upright.

  Philip looked at them one by one before speaking.

  “From today onward, you train with me.”

  One boy asked,

  “We… really got chosen?”

  Philip nodded.

  “Yes.”

  He paused for a moment, then added,

  “But don’t think of this as a reward.”

  No one answered.

  Philip glanced toward the distant Montserrat estate.

  “This is going to be hard work.”