Gilly

You choose Gilly.

Hilda may be beautiful, may flutter her lashes and laugh a little too loud, but she is Farlen’s wife. Your mentor. The man who taught you to wield a sword, who believed in you when no one else did. It would be dishonorable, unheroic, to betray that trust. And you are no longer just a farm boy. You’re something more now. You have a name, and names come with weight.

So you ignore Hilda’s flirtations. You turn your attention to Gilly.

She is close to your age, perhaps a year or two older, but unmarried, a virgin, and unlike her stepmother, she carries herself with quiet dignity. Where Hilda flirts, Gilly works. Her hands are always busy: kneading dough, sweeping ash, hauling water, chopping roots. Her hair braided. Her gaze steady. Her laughter, when it comes, rare and real.

At first, she barely speaks to you. Only nods or grunts in passing. But you don't mind. You help her when you can. You carry buckets. Peel potatoes. Chop wood. Not because you're trying to impress her, but because you want to. Slowly, the silence between you changes. Grows lighter. You exchange a few words. Then full sentences. Jokes. A shared glance. A shared smile.

And then one evening, after supper, as the fire burns low and the others have gone to sleep, you ask her quietly, “You don’t get along with your stepmother, do you?”

Gilly stiffens. Her hands freeze mid-motion, scrubbing a pot. Then she sighs and sets it aside.

“How can I?” she mutters bitterly. “She’s a month younger than me.”

You blink. Younger?

“And she’s such a flirt,” Gilly continues, voice low but hot with old anger. “After they got married, I had to hear her moaning every night. Sometimes even during the day. You can’t fathom it, walking into your own home and finding your father, my father, naked in bed with someone your age. The way she looked at me after. Smug. Like she wanted to be caught. Like she was proud of it.”

You don’t know what to say. You sit in silence for a moment, staring into the fire.

“Well,” you offer finally, “they seem to be doing it less since I arrived.”

Gilly grimaces. “Only because Father’s getting old. If he could still go like he did when he was younger, she’d be all over him. What they have isn’t love. He’s over fifty. She’s barely twenty. She’s obsessed with knights, with swordsmen. Father was the closest thing she could get in Dunford. She used to brag to me about giving me a little brother. I’d wake up in the morning and she’d say that to my face.”

Her voice cracks. She clears her throat and turns away, busying herself with the pot again.

“She hasn’t propositioned you yet?” Gilly asks after a beat, trying for casual.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “She flirts non-stop. But I always turn her down.”

Gilly looks up, curious.

“I’m not interested in married women,” you say. “Especially not the wife of my mentor. Besides… I prefer serious, hard-working girls over flirty, lustful ones.”

She flushes. Her eyes drop, but her lips twitch faintly, fighting a smile.

From that night forward, something changes.

The air between you feels different: warmer, more open. She seeks you out more often. She laughs more freely. She starts to bring you bread she’s baked herself. You find yourself looking forward to the quiet moments between chores and sword drills, when you and Gilly sit under the eaves, sharing a mug of cider and watching the clouds drift across the sky.

You’ve never held her hand. You’ve never kissed. But something’s blooming between you. Something that might one day grow into more.

The six months pass in a blur.

You train harder than you ever thought possible. Every morning, before the sun rises, you’re out in the yard, sword in hand, sweat running down your chest. Farlen drills you without mercy, pushing you past your limits. Your muscles harden. Your stance sharpens. You learn to read your opponents, to fight with precision and speed rather than brute ****.

You live for the blade.

And now… the day has come.

The tourney is upon you.

The village gathers at dawn to see you off. Farlen fastens your sword belt. Gilly stands nearby, holding a bundle of food and a flask of water. Her eyes meet yours: steady, calm, proud.

“You’ll win,” she says, and you believe her.

Because you are not just a farm boy anymore.

You are a hero.

And today, you fight to earn your name.

You arrive at the tourney grounds of Caerleon Vale, a city of stone spires and high banners fluttering in the spring wind. The field is surrounded by pavilions of silk and velvet, each one bearing the crest of some noble house: lions, gryphons, crossed lances, and golden suns. Music drifts from distant lutes, and hawkers call out their wares: roasted nuts, boiled wine, fine cloth, and painted shields.

This is not Dunford.

This is a world of lords and ladies, of prestige and pageantry. Tourneys are sport to them, a nobleman's game: entertainment with blood. You feel the stares as you register for the melee. A farm boy. No armor. A plain steel sword at your hip. Your name means nothing here. Your village, less.

They smirk. They whisper. But they let you enter.

You feel their laughter vanish in the first round.

The knight in polished plate charges you like a boar. You sidestep, let his momentum carry him forward, and land a strike to his helm. He stumbles. You take the match.

Gasps. Silence. Then murmurs.

The second match is harder. A grizzled knight with years of experience. He nearly breaks your guard, but you recover, duck low, and strike at his legs. When he falls, the crowd erupts.

By the third round, you're no longer a joke.

The nobles begin to watch with real interest. Lords and ladies lean forward in their seats, whispering, pointing, asking where you’re from, whose son you are. No one knows. That only makes them more curious.

Each duel is harder than the last, but Farlen's lessons carry you. Grit, timing, precision. And your strength, your farmer’s strength, never fails you.

And then, the final.

Your opponent is Sir Renaut of Langwynde, a knight from distant coasts, famed for his speed and elegance with the blade. His armor is silvered steel, his sword encrusted with sapphires. He bows before you like you are an equal.

You bow back. Then the duel begins.

It is like dancing with ****. Fast, brutal, dazzling. You nearly fall, twice. But you hold. Endure. You wait for the opening.

When it comes, you strike.

Steel meets flesh. Ser Renaut goes down.

Victory.

The field roars with applause. Nobles rise to their feet. The herald proclaims your name, Cedric of Dunford, and throws open his arms: “The Champion of Caerleon Vale!”

A servant of the Crown brings forth a heavy bag of gold, more than you've ever dreamed of. Your hands tremble as you take it.

And then she approaches.

The crowd parts for her.

She wears a velvet dress, embroidered with silver thread. Her eyes are violet. Her hair is silver, her eyes cold and calculating.

“I am Lady Yseldra of Greyhaven,” she says, voice smooth as silk. You've heard of her. She is the Widow of Lord Mavron, who had died young after six months of marriage. She is one of the highest and richest nobles in the realm and her lands in Greyhaven are tenfold the size of Lord Addam’s.

You bow low. “Milady.”

“You fought like a true knight today,” she says, studying you with sharp interest.

“I’m not a knight,” you admit. “Only a swordsman.”

“Is that so?” Her lips curl into a thoughtful smile. “Still, I have a proposal. I am in need of skilled men, men who can defend my lands and uphold my banner. Come serve me, live in my castle at Greyhaven. I will have you knighted. You will have land, gold, title. Comfort.”

She pauses, watching your face.

“You have proven your worth. Let me raise you to where you belong.”

It is more than a generous offer. It is the offer of a lifetime.

But you feel a weight in your chest. A memory.

Dunford. Gilly. The quiet evenings beneath the eaves. The soft blush on her face when you said you liked hard-working girls. The way she watched you go.

She never kissed you. Never held your hand. But she waited. And you never made any promises, but… she waited.

This is your choice now.

Go to Greyhaven. Become a landed knight. Live in Lady Yseldra’s castle with gold, glory, and land.

Or return to Dunford. To Gilly. To the village that first believed in you.

You must choose.

Love or Glory?