As the tavern's raucous laughter and clinking mugs filled the air, Conradin turned to Frederick, a curious glint in his eye. "Tell me, Frederick," he began, his words slightly slurred from the ale, "when did you start... this peculiar hobby of blending in with the lesser born?"
Frederick's voice grew softer as he delved into his past, his eyes filled with the distant memories of a younger, more curious version of himself. The flickering candlelight seemed to dance in the shadows cast by their hoods as he started his tale.
"You see, when I was just a child, there was a knight in our service who hailed from humble beginnings. He was a man of great skill and unwavering loyalty, but he had a peculiar habit. Every week, he would return to the palace with fresh wounds, sporting black eyes and tattered attire. As a young and inquisitive boy, I couldn't help but be both fascinated and somewhat afraid of this enigmatic figure."
