11 : Butt-kicking Squire -

"You... you kicked it?" Roderick asked, his fork hovering mid-air.

Barnaby wasn’t your average squire. While his peers spent their afternoons polishing shields and learning the delicate art of "not dying in a ditch," Barnaby was busy redefining the chivalric code. His philosophy was simple: why poke someone with a pointed stick when a well-placed boot to the backside achieves the same moral victory with significantly more flair? 11 : Butt-Kicking Squire

Barnaby grinned, already eyeing the next set of doors. "Just 'Squire' is fine, sir. But keep the boots polished. We’ve got a giant to see about a beanstalk tomorrow, and I’ve got a feeling his shins are wide open." While his peers spent their afternoons polishing shields

Roderick sighed, finally dropping the mutton. "I suppose I should update the scrolls. 'The Squire of the Swift Foot' has a certain ring to it." "Just 'Squire' is fine, sir

Barnaby shrugged, adjusting a leather greave that had seen better days. "Didn't need it, sir. Turns out, if you kick a dragon hard enough in the soft spot right behind the left haunch, it loses all interest in pillaging and develops a very sudden interest in finding an ice pack."

Sir Roderick looked up from his mutton, blinking in surprise. "Dealt with? You didn't even have a sword, boy. I forgot to give you the key to the armory."

The Hall fell silent. The knights exchanged looks of bewilderment.