The letter sat untouched through supper.
Elira had made stew from beans and carrots, thick with herbs. The smell should have filled Shithead with warmth, but every spoonful tasted of parchment. The wax seal burned in his pocket like a coal. He barely heard Maren's questions about the fields, barely noticed the crackle of the hearth. His mind stayed fixed on the paladin's eyes, on the weight of his words: The Order of the Silver Sun has need of those who try.
When the bowls were empty, Elira gathered the dishes, humming softly as she always did. Maren sharpened his blade, the scrape of stone on steel steady as a heartbeat. Shithead stood and set the letter on the table.
Both parents paused.
Maren's eyes narrowed. Elira set the bowl down carefully.
"He came back," Shithead said quietly. "The paladin. The one from the wolves."
Maren's jaw worked. "And?"
"He gave me this." Shithead's fingers brushed the seal.
Elira's breath caught. She reached out but stopped short of touching it, as if the letter might bite. "What is it?"
"A summons," Shithead said. "An invitation to train with the Order."
Silence fell, heavy as stone. The fire crackled. Outside, a night bird called.
Maren set his whetstone aside. "And what do you think of it, boy?"
Shithead looked at his father, at the lines carved deeper in his face over the years. "I think… it's what I've dreamed of since that day. To stand like him. To be more than whispers and stares."
Elira stepped forward, her hand finding his cheek, just as she had when he was small. "And to leave us," she said softly.
The words cut sharper than Garrick's insults ever had.
"I'd have to," Shithead admitted. "He said it would take me from Greystone. From everything."
Maren's gaze was steady. "A man cannot carry every world on his shoulders. You'd have to leave some things behind to carry others."
Elira's hand trembled against his face. "But not your heart. Promise me, Shithead — if you go, you carry us with you."
"I will," he whispered.
She pulled him close, tusks pressing against her shoulder, her arms tight around him. For the first time, he felt taller than her, but never larger.
Maren stood, resting a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "It will be hard, lad. Harder than anything here. But you've been walking hard paths since the day you were born."
That night, Shithead lay awake with the letter on his chest, staring at the beams above. He could not sleep. He didn't open the seal. Not yet.
The next morning, he sought the willow.
Alan was there first, hammering dents out of a scrap of metal he'd "borrowed" from the smithy. Mira lounged on a root, tossing a stone in the air. Tomas had a pastry half-eaten, crumbs on his tunic. Lysa wove a chain of grass, humming.
When they saw him, all talk fell away.
"You've heard," Mira said. Not a question.
Shithead nodded. He set the letter on the root between them.
Alan whistled low. "So it's true. The Order."
Tomas' mouth fell open. "A paladin? You? I mean—not that you couldn't, but… you?"
Mira smirked faintly. "He's been practicing since he was eleven, idiot."
Lysa reached for the letter, fingertips brushing the seal. "Will you go?"
Shithead swallowed. "I want to. But… I don't know what it means. To leave. To be gone."
Alan leaned back, arms crossed. "Means you'll miss out on Mira cheating at races. Means I'll finally win for once."
Mira threw the stone at him. He caught it, grinning.
Tomas wiped crumbs from his chin. "Means no one to haul me out of rivers when I fall in again. Saints save us."
Lysa's voice was quiet, but steady. "Means we'll miss you. But it also means… you'll be more than this place. More than what Garrick calls you."
Shithead stared at them — his friends, his family of choice, his pact. The willow's branches swayed above, whispering like voices too old to understand.
"I don't want to lose you," he said.
"You won't," Mira said firmly. "We'll still be here. When you're done shining swords and swearing oaths, you'll find us."
Alan grinned. "Or we'll find you. Not like we'll sit quiet while you go off having all the adventures."
Tomas groaned. "Speak for yourself. I'll be sitting quiet with pie."
They laughed, though the sound carried a crack. Beneath it, sorrow threaded sharp.
Lysa tied her chain of grass around Shithead's wrist, beside the frayed festival ribbon he still kept. "Wherever you go, you'll carry us."
He looked down at it, at the letter still unopened. "Then I'll go," he whispered.
The days that followed blurred. Villagers whispered openly now. Some praised him — "Imagine it, one of ours in the Order!" Others scowled — "Mark my words, they'll train him to fight, then he'll turn that blade on us." Garrick spat in the dirt whenever Shithead passed. Widow Tamsin pressed two sweets into his hand and said, "The world's larger than Greystone, lad. Don't forget to come back to the small places."
Elira wept quietly when she thought he didn't see. Maren worked longer hours, though his hands lingered heavier on his son's shoulder when they passed.
At night, Shithead finally broke the seal. The letter was brief, formal, but the words burned bright. He was summoned to the Chapterhouse of the Silver Sun at Westmarch, a week's travel away. Training would be harsh, discipline absolute. Few completed it. Fewer still rose to full oath.
He folded it, heart hammering. Tomorrow, he would leave.
Tomorrow, the boy of Greystone would begin the road to becoming a paladin.