11 : Butt-kicking Squire Direct

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."

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

The Hall fell silent. The knights exchanged looks of bewilderment. Barnaby shrugged, adjusting a leather greave that had

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

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

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall didn't just open; they groaned under the weight of destiny—or perhaps just the sheer force of Barnaby’s oversized boots.

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."