The tourney grounds were even more grandiose up close, rivalling even the most outlandish stories that Logan had heard in his youth. Nestled in an open field of rolling grass, the stands stood as tall as houses, hammered together from polished beams and planks of wood and decorated with overhangs and awnings that were dyed scarlet, sapphire, emerald and gold, the colours so bright they seemed to shine like the very gemstones and metals he thought of. The air was just as thick with chatter out here as it was within the city walls, though the smells and feels were much different – instead of the chalky, clustered tang and warmth of the packed urban sprawl, there was a stiff breeze out here that carried the rich scents of grass, flowers and pollen.

As they passed between the multiple arenas, including the jousting lists, an oval racetrack and a fenced-off square ground that looked like one built for a melee, they saw a menagerie of different sights - jesters tumbling, jugglers juggling, food vendors hawking meat on sticks and cooled jugs of beer... and of course, knights!

Riding atop mounts as magnificent as Romain's Elodie, the knights who passed them by looked the part of noble heroes, their gear vibrant and eye-catching to the point of being ostentatious. Every one of them wore a suit of fine, spotless plate, many exquisitely shaped and decorated in the form of whatever matched or complimented the coats-of-arms on their shields. Even Romain's armour paled in comparison to theirs: one knight with a black stag on his shield wore pure onyx plate with a pair of jagged antlers protruding from the top of his greathelm, while another was garbed in silvered steel with branches of solid gold clinging to the pauldrons and breastplate, flowers made of jewels blooming from each bough. One even had twisting coils of orange and smoke-grey rising from his crimson helm and shoulders in the shape of roaring flames, and another a helm shaped like an apple to match the green apple on a field of yellow that was his sigil!

As Logan watched all of this, a sliver of self-consciousness wormed its way inside him, and as he looked down at his own armour, that sliver burst and flooded his body with a sense of inadequacy and self-loathing.

He had done his best to make his chainmail, along with the greaves, gauntlets and gorget of plate he did have, look as grand as possible. However, despite all the polish and repairs he'd given it, if he looked closely, he could still see the remains of old dents where his plate had been battered and bashed in battle. And the only finery he possessed was the hooded navy cloak that hung down from his shoulders. He had no helm to speak of, and he knew his cloak was fraying in places at the ends and sides.

He had come here hoping to represent his family, but now he stood in the tourney grounds, he feared he looked a scruffy sight. And the side-eyed glances that groups of knights all seemed to give him, Romain and Stalk and Finnan made that fear all the worse as the four companions strolled through the crowds, carrying their shields after Romain reminded them earlier to bring them.

He didn't know for sure if they were looking at him, but something inside him continued to twinge every time he noticed his fellow nobles in the tail of his eye. Some of them chuckled and whispered to those around them, gesturing his way as inaudible quips slithered from their smirking mouths. Others just turned up their noses as he passed, paying him no more mind than they would have paid the slinking of an alley cat.

Just as Milton had done when they first met him. And that made Logan bristle all the more, displeasure burning in his golden eyes.

Thankfully, neither Milton nor his lackeys were anywhere in sight as they approached the gamemaster's tent – a large rectangle of cloth-of-gold stamped with the royal seal, decorated with bookshelves and other pieces of furniture placed right upon the grassy ground of the meadow. The man inside, sat at an ornate desk and poring over piles of papers as tall as lances, was a thin fellow in a feathered cap and plush yellow doublet, his pinched and chinless face giving him a weaselly demeanour as he glanced up from his work.

"Yes, Sir Romain?" he asked in a thin, nasally voice, eyes flicking to the shield on Romain's arm and immediately flashing with acknowledgement.

Romain smiled and bowed. "Good day, Phillipe," he replied with his usual amiability. "I take it entries for the tournament are still open?"

"Would I be here if they were not?" Phillipe asked sourly, slapping the document he was presently reading into a nearby basket full of crumpled papyrus. He then put his elbows on his desks and wrung his hands before asking "I presume you have found enough knights to take part? Know that you must have four, including yourself."

Romain smiled. "Two are not knights yet, but I do have that number," he explained proudly as he gestured to those beside him. "Sir Logan Galehaut, Finnan Greatsurge, and Stalk of the Seekers of Flight."

Logan turned just as Phillipe was eyeing him and his companions curiously, running his bitter gaze up and down while his sneering expression remained unmoving. "Very well..." he said at length before opening a drawer in his desk and pulling out a fresh stack of forms, which he swiftly divided into three piles that were all still an inch tall.

The relief Logan felt at being permitted to enter sank in his chest when he saw the paperwork. Meanwhile, as he felt this, his golden eyes rose to see Stalk take the fore, approaching Phillipe's desk. "Let's get this over with..." the kenku remarked, sounding just as beleaguered as Logan himself felt.

The paper-pushing then began as Phillipe started asking Stalk various questions, including his name, birthplace and such. When the steward asked "Does the kenku have a knightly sigil?", Stalk lifted the shield he was carrying under his arms, and as Phillipe saw it, he muttered, "A black raven on a white field..." while he wrote that down on one of the documents.

Stalk's inauguration took a good while, and Finnan's took even longer, given that the answers the halfling gave to some of the questions were things like "Banana unicorn" and "In the belly of a whale." Pressing a hand to his forehead as he listened, Logan felt embarrassment burn within him, and peered over the top of Finnan's curly corn-yellow hair to see that Phillipe was putting 'N/A' in most of the boxes.

Dread began to rise within him as he watched this, but when the man asked to see Finnan's sigil and wrote down a description, the paladin let out a sigh of relief. And then, as the halfling sat down inside the tent to 'chat with the grass', as he put it, Stalk made an inquiry.

"So, how is this going to work, with us being knighted and such?"

Phillipe didn't look up from his writings as he replied in a rather scripted, stilted manner that reminded Logan of Technus for a moment. He said:
"If Sir Romain wishes to dub you two presently, it is within his rights as a landed knight of Milisevre. After I have completed my writings, we will travel up to the Temple District and I will bear witness to the ceremony to ensure it is valid."

Stalk's eyes widened. "The Temple District?!" he asked in alarm. "Can't we just do it here?"

Phillipe glanced up, then picked a blob of sticky orange wax from his ear before returning to writing. "All dubbings must take place within a temple of Bahamut, as is tradition. The Grand Cathedral of the Platinum Dragon is the nearest place of His worship, so we shall go there." He paused. "Unless the kenku wishes to forsake his part in the tournament..."

Stalk grumbled and folded his arms, looking away for a moment in grudging silence before he asked another question. "Will it take a long time to do?"

"It is customary to stand an overnight vigil after one has taken the oaths of a knight..." Phillipe replied, still working away. "However, it is not compulsory – I would understand if monsieurs have other business to take care of..."

"Good to know," Stalk replied.

The bloodhunter's words made Logan narrow his eyes. From the way Stalk spoke, treating this entire thing like a grumpy teenager treated being told to take the bins out, angered him. And it was on a far deeper level than the looks he had received from the Milisevran knights outside.

Since his very first breath in this world, Logan had been taught that knighthood was not an empty title for those who merely wanted riches and power. It was a sacred calling, a pledge to protect the innocent, uphold honour and be an exemplar of all that one could wish to be in the world. To be a knight was to be eternally selfless, thinking only of others and defending them without question.

That was why he had stood a vigil after taking his own oath years ago, on the same day his uncle was buried – to demonstrate through action how much that duty meant to him.

Stalk seemed to just be viewing this sacred charge as a means to an end... though what this end was he didn't know. Though the kenku's secretive demeanour didn't exactly do him any favours...

Eventually, Finnan had been processed, and Phillipe turned his piercing eyes upon Logan. "You must be the one who is actually an anointed knight..." the pen-pusher remarked.

Hearing his tone, Logan lifted his chin a little. "I am," he said. "Sir Logan of House Galehaut, the lords of Frostpeak. Firstborn son of Lord Josef Galehaut... and protégé of Sir Oren Galehaut, the Knight of the Griffin." His chest filled with pride as he said that last part, heart pounding in his chest.

Smacking his thin lips as he listened intently, Phillipe replied with "Very well," before asking "The Galehaut sigil is a white griffin rampant on navy, correct?"

Logan nodded and said "Yes," before lifting his left arm where his shield was strapped and displaying the sigil. Phillipe scribbled a line describing it, and then asked the same questions he had been asking the others... until a different one caught Logan off-guard:

"Who performed your dubbing, sir knight?"

A breath caught sharply in Logan's chest, his muscles shuddering as he replied. "Sir Oren, my uncle. He fell in battle, and in his last moments, bade me kneel and recite my vows..." he explained quietly as the shock in his chest began to turn into sorrow. Hoping to avoid any more questions, he then knelt, removed his pack, and pulled out a scroll of fine vellum bound with navy ribbon from inside a leather-wrapped cylinder.

As a shudder went through his hand from the weight of the situation, Logan forced himself to calm before undoing the ribbon and placing it on Phillipe's desk. The scroll was one of pedigree, also called a patent of nobility – a legal document showing his identity and status as a noble, including his family tree.

Logan hoped that would be enough for the bureaucrat, but if it wasn't he had his signet ring and his family sword.

Formalities were not going to stop him, least of all here and now.

The sound of quill-tip on paper continued to scratch the air. "I see..." the pinch-faced Phillipe replied as he scanned the scroll of pedigree. And after some more writing, he pushed a form with a dotted line at the bottom across his desk towards Logan. "Very well – I shall permit you to compete. Chiefly because without you four, we actually do not have enough teams for the tournament to run."

Logan and Romain were of one mind in that moment – their eyes bulged in alarm and they cried out "What?!" in unison.

Phillipe lifted his gaze. "You heard me right. The turnout has been less than expected. Many of the knights who have arrived came onto the spectate, it seems. I have not seen their faces, nor written their names on the list of competitors..."

The steward didn't even seem to bat an eye at this – the complete opposite of how Logan felt. How could a nation that held Bahamut so dear have so few interested in competing to find such a sacred site to Him?!

Still, he signed the document with Phillipe's pen, declaring his intent to take part while also asking "How does the tournament work?"

Thankfully, there was no condescension in the response he got from the steward, who adjusted his hat before saying. "There are four competitions – namely horse racing, archery, the mounted joust and the melee. You must choose amongst yourselves which one of you will take part in each competition. Your cho-"

"I wanna do the horse racing!" Finnan suddenly cried out, and every looked his way to see him listening again as he bounced up off the floor like a spring lamb.

However, Phillipe truly seemed to despise being interrupted - judging by the venomous glare he fixed upon Finnan and the snarl the rumbled in his throat. These made the halfling suddenly go all sheepish as he sank back to the floor and lowered his head, as if in shame.

The gamemaster's actions rankled Logan, making him flex his fingers inside his gauntlets. 'That was uncalled for...' he thought, angered at the contempt that Phillipe was showing his companion, and soon, teammate in the tournament.

Phillipe lifted his gaze and continued. "Your chosen knight's performance in each contest will earn you points, and at the end of each contest, the team will the lowest number of total points will be disqualified. By the end of the tournament, only one team will remain, and they shall be the champions who shall go on the quest for the Lake..."

Scanning each member of the party, the weaselly man than added, "Also, I hope I need not remind you that any kind of cheating or trickery, including the use of any sort of magic, will lead to outright disqualification..." His look then settled on Romain before he said, "All know you are a paladin, Sir Romain, but I trust you will remember your vows of honour..."

"Without a doubt, monsieur..." Romain said, bowing to him again.

Meanwhile, remembering his own vows, Logan recalled what he had promised two days ago in the Cockatrice. Within seconds, he was thinking of Elsa in the half-destroyed inn, worrying if she was still there and knowing that if she was, she was still waiting. "Pardon the question, Master Phillipe, but I have heard that the King of Milisevre will be overseeing this tournament. Is that true?" he asked.

Only at this mention of the monarch did Phillipe's face bring forth an expression other than boredom or contempt; his eyes lit up in their sunken sockets, flaring with the light of reverence and respect. "He will indeed..." the man told Logan. "But if you wish for an audience, you will only win such an honour if you win the tournament. King Charles the Wyrmslayer is a generous man, but as per the tourney rules, the champions are the only ones who shall stand in his presence and be given the quest for the Lake of Virtue."

"Wyrmslayer?" Logan inquired when the man was finished speaking.

That made Phillipe react more violently - he shot up from his work, surprise and offense making his complexion turn the sickly colour of a tallow candle. Glaring at Romain, he asked sharply "Have you not told them about our monarch's achievements, sir?"

For the first time since he'd met him, Logan saw a look of deepest shame on Romain's face. The only other time he'd seen him sad at all was during their dinner at his castle, but even that paled in comparison to the sheer consternation and abashment that flooded his face in that moment.

"I suppose it... slipped my mind," the knight of Chateau Toussaint mumbled quietly.

Phillipe shook his head, his expression heavy with disappointment. "Then I suggest you correct that error."

Logan looked between the two men as they had their terse exchange, eventually settling on Romain. Meanwhile, Finnan looked up from talking to the grass they stood on and asked "Why did he slay the worm? Did it get into his garden?"

Romain gave a stifled chuckle as he looked upon the halfling, tousling his hair. "Not a worm, Finnan. A wyrm. A dragon."

Logan felt his heard miss a beat in his chest. "A dragon?"

"Oui," Romain replied. "You see, sixty years ago, Milisevre came under attack by a terrible red dragon – Gorthalon, the Red Fury. Claimed to have been sent by the dark goddess Tiamat herself, he devastated our lands and decimated our people. Villages and towns were scorched to cinders, and even the capital was not safe." He paused. "The reason the city looks so new is because Gorthalon razed much of it to the ground – the royal castle was smashed like no more than a pile of matches and the previous King, Anton the Grey, last in direct line from Garahel the Righteous, was eaten by the dragon before all who watched."

As Romain narrated his story, the wind rose through the tent, and Logan could swear he heard faint, ancient screams carried through the air. The Milisevran then finished his story with a foreboding "That time is one we now know as Gorthalon's Slaughter."

Finnan listened as solemnly as a child being schooled, while even Stalk's snarky demeanour softened, albeit briefly before he asked, "Why the hells did Tiamat send him? I thought you guys worshipped dragons."

Logan turned to him and said in a flat tone "Only metallic dragons serve Bahamut, Stalk. Chromatic dragons serve Tiamat, his wicked sister. She is the goddess of greed, and red dragons are among her greatest servants..."

"Aaaaah..." the kenku replied as he stood with his arms folded.

Romain nodded and remarked "No doubt Tiamat saw a nation dedicated to her brother as an affront to her existence..." His tone was grim, his eyes darkening as he seemed to stare right back into the past. He was too young to have been there himself, if this was sixty years ago, but clearly the stories resonated with him.

"But soon the beast met its vile end!"

To Logan's surprise, it was Phillipe who said that, suddenly speaking with such excitement and reverence that it was like he'd become possessed for a moment. But he watched as the steward continued to narrate, saying "The dukes of Milisevre, the nobles just beneath the king, rode out together to battle Gorthalon within his lair - the volcano in the far east known as the Tainted Mountain. And, after a fearsome battle, King Charles struck the dragon down and brought its rein of terror to an end!"

"King?" Stalk then asked, returning to his usual mannerisms. "I thought you said he was a duke?"

Phillipe looked his way, the man's expression souring once more. "Well, you see, following his victory over the wyrm, Charles was elected to become the next King of Milisevre..." he explained in a slow, patronizing manner. "Forgive me, master kenku, but I thought that would have been obvious..."

Logan noticed Stalk's eye twitch, his talons flexing from where his arms were folded. And it was obvious why.

Part of him sympathised – Phillipe's condescending tone of voice had grated on his own nerves as well. But he could only hope the kenku wouldn't do anything rash.

They were on the cusp of a journey to greatness here. All of them.

Meanwhile, absent-minded as ever, Finnan asked "Wouldn't that be 'Sir Kenku' if he's a knight now?"

Sighing loudly, Phillipe rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"There's no need for that, master steward," Against his better judgement, Logan spoke out. "Finnan doesn't know the rules of knighthood as of yet, but I will teach them to him." Taking a step forward, he offered his hand to the halfling druid, and gently eased him to his feet before patting him on the shoulder. "I promise you that, beyond all doubt."

Phillipe wrinkled his nose. "I hope you do, sir. Cleanliness and conduct above all..." he retorted. Then, extending a hand to pull some documents and a writing slate from the top of his desk, he said, "If you wish to have me witness your dubbing ceremonies, I suggest we leave now. The paperwork will take time after that..."

Romain nodded, then turned to the others and bade them follow. Stepping out of the tent back into the blazing sun, now even closer to its resting place in the west and already starting to dim, Logan, Finnan and Stalk followed behind the two Milisevrans as they went back into the city by a different road. Weaving between clusters of people, Logan fought to both not lose their guides in the crowds, and to keep Finnan's hand held in his.

When they found an open spot for a few moments, Logan glanced down at Finnan to make sure he was alright, and was greeted by a pleasant "Thanks for sticking up for me, Logan..." as the halfling smiled shyly up at him.

After dealing with Phillipe, who was as pleasant as a cheese grater, that was just what Logan needed. Grinning back, he reached up and patted the halfling comfortingly on the head. "Anytime, Finnan. And let that be your first lesson – a true knight defends others, wherever he can and whatever the risk to himself..."

That had been the first lesson his uncle had given him, and Logan had hammered it so hard into his own skull that it was now impossible for him to unlearn it, much less forget it.

Logan knew by now that Finnan was rough around the edges, but he had a good heart. He had the makings of a knight in spirit, although getting around how he, a druid, was going to work in a tournament without using magic hadn't escaped him.

Still, he had potential.

Meanwhile, looking to Stalk, Logan still wasn't sure what to think about him. Instead of resembling a bird, the kenku's motions through the crowd instead brought to mind the languid, slippery grace of a serpent. That already made Logan feel uneasy, not to mention that, as he peered closer, he could swear that he saw taloned hands patting other people's pockets as Stalk passed them by.

Nothing was taken that he saw, and while he fought to reserve both his actions and his judgement, a dark feeling was undeniably looming inside Logan.

Stalk had the opposite problem to Finnan – he could fight without using his blood magic, no question. But keeping him from using said magic in the tourney, along with his potions and dirty fighting tactics, was another question entirely.

The Seeker of Flight had a lot to learn about chivalry, and Logan could only pray that he would learn it sooner rather than later... or at all.

And just as he thought that, they reached the right place for a prayer.

Beyond its grand exterior of blue-grey stone trimmed with veins of gold and silver, beyond the great doors of ebony wood that bore a hundred shimmering platinum studs in their surface, the Grand Cathedral of the Platinum Dragon was everything Logan hoped it would be and more. Inside lay a vast central hall with vaulted ceilings, held up by solid stone columns embedded within a floor of black marble so polished that as he looked down, Finnan was startled by the sight of his of reflection and waved to it cheerfully. The whole room was bathed in light streaming through the stain-glass windows, outlining wisps of smoke that wafted through the air from incense burning in the mouths of dragon-headed gargoyles gazing down from the tops of the columns, all around which the faint sounds of choir singing echoed down like the voices of angels.

Alcoves down either side of this hall each contain reliquaries, carved of red gold and polished blue glass that revealed their sacred contents – items that drown Logan's mind in divinity as he sensed their holy power, and before whom peasants, priests and pilgrims alike were all knelt in prayer. Copper plaques that bore traces of green rust at the corners described the contents; the shield of Sir Calenhad, his sigil a bronze sunburst on a field of purple, and the winged silver helm of Ser Artas the Swift, among others.

And then, upon a dais at the far end of the hall, surrounded by a sea of burning beeswax candles, loomed a mighty statue, its horned head, lithe body and widespread wings silhouetted by a screen of white light that poured in from the setting sun through a gallery of white crystal. Five metres tall, it commanded the room with an unequalled presence, and as Logan drew closer, he could see it was carved of purest platinum with ribbons of light dancing across its surface and through its unblinking eyes.

As though the metal were alive.

Logan's entire being seemed to tremble as he gazed upon such a magnificent depiction of his deity. He had seen altars, shrines and statues of mighty Bahamut before... but nothing this glorious. Nothing this imposing.

As he drew near, a bulky figure in cloth-of-gold robes, a crest of what looked like five horns protruding from the back of his long, low and wide head. At first Logan might have assumed it was a headdress, until the figure's face emerged from between the rays beaming in from behind Bahamut to reveal a sharp-toothed snout, orange eyes with black slits for pupils, and skin that was a coat of rich emerald green scales.

A dragonborn!

The robed figure's teeth gleamed as he gave Logan a grin, and as one hand rose to grasp the platinum chain about his neck that ended with a dragon-head pendant, the other made a sign of blessing. "Blessings of Bahamut be upon you, child..." he said in a soothing voice.

Logan repaid him with a smile and made a sign of blessing in turn. "Praise be..."

Something blurred his sight, but his golden eyes blinked it away just as he saw Phillipe stand beside him, scribbling away at a piece of paper that was resting on the solid slate he was using as a writing surface while his gaze was fixed in the centre of the room.

At the foot of the dais the statue of Bahamut rested upon, Romain stood before Finnan and Stalk as he reached to his waist and pulled his rapier from his scabbard. The blade was a scintillating shard as purest white in this holy place, the sides flickering and sending lines of light dancing along the Cathedral walls. Logan, Phillipe and the cathedral's cleric looked on as Romain said:

"Kneel."

Finnan bent the knee first, with Stalk looking to Logan and Phillipe as if to ask if this was necessary before finally doing the same. Holding his blade aloft before his face, Romain stepped towards them and began the ceremony, starting with Finnan.

"Finnan Greatsurge..." he said in a commanding voice "... do you swear to conduct yourself with honour and integrity, in line with the laws of the fair kingdom of Milisevre?"

"I swear," Finnan replied with surprising dignity.

"Do you swear to safeguard the innocent, show courage in the face of adversity, and fight for the right no matter the risk to yourself?"

"I swear."

Do you swear to live by the code of chivalry, and all its virtues, until your dying day?"

Finnan looked Romain in the eye, smiling as he made his final vow. "I swear."

Romain grinned, then tapped Finnan on either shoulder with the flat of his blade; once on the right, then on the left, and then on the right again.

'One tap of each pledge...' Logan thought as he watched, smiling himself as the ceremony came to an end and Romain declared:

"Arise, Sir Finnan Greatsurge, knight of Milisevre!"

Finnan didn't just rise – he leapt to his feat and punched the air with both hands as he shouted "Yay!", his eager squeal of a celebration echoing down the entire cathedral. Those in prayer looked up and turned his way, which made Logan turn scarlet and step forward.

"Finnan..." he said, his voice a hiss of a whisper. "Quiet down..."

The halfling stopped bouncing off the walls for the moment, but it wasn't hard to tell from the lively, mischievous look in his big green eyes that the moment they got outside, he would start all over again. Thankfully, the dragonborn cleric didn't take issue with his actions, and while Phillipe scribbled down that he had witnessed the dubbing, Romain moved to Stalk.

"Stalk, do you swear to conduct yourself with honour and integrity, in line with the laws of the fair kingdom of Milisevre?"

"Mhm..." the kenku replied, completely unenthused as he let his head hang loose.

"Do you swear to safeguard the innocent, show courage in the face of adversity, and fight for the right no matter the risk to yourself?"

"Yup."

"Do you swear to live by the code of chivalry, and all its virtues, until your dying day?"

"Oh for the love of..." Logan heard Stalk mutter under his breath. "Fine. I do."

Romain smiled and tapped Stalk on each shoulder just as he had Finnan. "Arise, Sir Stalk, knight of Milisevre."

The moment the sword was free of his person, Stalk suddenly stopped acting like a grumpy adolescent and jumped up to his feet. "Good. We done?" he asked as he looked between Romain and Phillipe. "'Cause I got places to be!"

Phillipe, as one might have expected, didn't raise his head from his work. "All is laid out in full, sirs. You will be expected on the tourney grounds tomorrow at dawn." Reaching into his pocket, he then took out four yellow scarves and said "Tie these about your wrists after you don your armour tomorrow, and may the Platinum Dragon look kindly upon you... Yellow Team."

And with that, it was over. Stalk dashed off to leave the building, his feet pattering on the marble and his body a black blur as he sped out the doors, almost knocking a bystander over in the process. Meanwhile, Phillipe trudged away, Finnan looked like he was about to explode, and Romain sheathed his rapier and put an arm about the druid.

"Shall we go, Sir Logan?" the Milsevran asked.

Any other time, Logan would have accepted without pause. But as he turned toward the statue of Bahamut, and felt its gaze upon him, his legs stiffened and froze, as though they were trapped in ice all of a sudden.

Nothing came from the statue, however. Instead, the feeling came from within. He would not dare leave this place without speaking some words.

"I'll be with you in a moment." Logan replied as he tied the yellow scarf, his mark of position in the tourney, about his belt. "I would... affirm my vows," he said with a gulp as pressure built up on his shoulders and in his chest.

As his own eyes glanced at the statue of Bahamut, Romain's expression immediately became one of understanding. Nodding to the Galehaut and before turning to walk outside with Finnan, congratulating him all the way, Logan looked back to the tower likeness of his god, knelt before it and drew Sacrifice from its scabbard.

Then, planting the tip into the marble floor as rested both hands upon the hilt, his face reflected back up from below him, he closed his eyes and recited his oath.

The oath he had sworn years ago, before a shrine of Platinum Dragon on the day of his uncle's funeral...

"I give my body, heart and soul to this duty I have sworn. No plea for help shall find me wanting. No obstacle shall stand before me. No evil shall taint the land so long as I draw breath, and the moon shall look upon me twice in the same place, lest I be judged idle."

He bowed his head even lower, daring not rise against his deity. He was no equal to Bahamut, nor even worthy to be in His presence.

"When the clarion call is sounded, I will ride out and fight in the name of the Platinum Dragon. That which is sacred, I shall preserve. That which is innocent, I will protect. That which is wicked, I will destroy, for my holy wrath will know no bounds."

His fingers closed tighter around Sacrifice's hilt, the leather of his gauntlets burning his palms as he did so.

"Honour is all, chivalry is all. And I, Logan Galehaut, do swear to give my all. By Bahamut's guidance, I hereby pledge to live as a true knight from this day until my dying day..."