The leader lunged.
Kaelen slid from the saddle in a single motion, cloak sweeping as his boots struck mud. His sword hissed from its scabbard — but instead of striking, he angled the blade down, catching the bandit's swing and twisting it aside. The man stumbled, his knife skittering into the grass.
"Leave," Kaelen said, voice calm even in the clash. "This is your last chance."
The other three bandits hesitated. Rain dripped from branches overhead, pattering on steel, on leather. The family clung together by the wagon, eyes wide.
Then one spat. "Kill 'em both!"
They charged.
Kaelen moved like a tide breaking stone. His blade flicked left, knocking a club aside; his shoulder drove forward, sending the man sprawling into mud. The second swung wide — Kaelen stepped inside it, hilt cracking against ribs, the man gasping as he collapsed. The third came from behind, only for Kaelen to pivot, cloak flaring, blade tracing a line that kissed the man's throat without cutting. He froze, weapon trembling in his hand.
It was over in heartbeats.
But not for Shithead.
One bandit had circled wide, knife flashing toward the merchant's boy. Shithead didn't think — he dropped from his horse, mud splashing his boots, and charged. His father's blade felt heavy in his hand, but his arm was strong. He swung clumsily, deflecting the strike meant for the child. The shock of steel against steel rattled up his arm.
The bandit snarled, pressing. Shithead braced, tusks bared, heart hammering. He remembered sparring with Alan, remembered Kaelen's stave knocking him down, remembered wolves in the thicket. He shoved hard, blade locking with the bandit's, and for the first time he wasn't pushed back.
The man cursed, jerking free. He slashed again, catching Shithead's sleeve, drawing a shallow line across his arm. Pain flared hot. Shithead roared, drove forward with all the strength of his shoulders, and slammed the bandit into the wagon. The knife clattered to the ground.
The man's eyes widened, fear flashing where cruelty had been. He tore free, stumbling back. Kaelen was suddenly there, sword point raised — not striking, not killing, only poised.
"Go," he said.
The man bolted. The others, groaning in the mud, scrambled after him. In breaths, the road was empty but for the family, the wagon, and the two riders.
Shithead stood panting, blood trickling down his arm, rain plastering hair to his forehead. The boy clutched his mother tighter, eyes fixed on him with something between awe and fear.
Kaelen lowered his sword, then slid it back into its scabbard. "You fought."
Shithead wiped rain from his face. "I had to."
"You chose to," Kaelen corrected. He stepped closer, gaze sharp but not unkind. "And you showed strength. But you also showed haste. If you had slipped, the boy would have died. Do you understand?"
Shithead swallowed hard. The weight of what might have happened sank into him like a stone. He nodded. "Yes."
Kaelen's hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "Courage is fire. But fire without care burns all it touches. Learn to master it, or it will master you."
The words cut deeper than the wound in his arm.
The merchant stepped forward then, voice shaking. "Thank you, Ser. And you, lad. Saints bless you both." He pressed a pouch into Kaelen's hand, but the paladin shook his head.
"Keep it. Feed your family."
The man looked at Shithead, then pressed a copper coin into his palm. "For saving my boy. May it bring you luck."
Shithead stared at it — simple, worn, but heavier than gold. He tucked it into his pouch beside Mira's lockpick.
They left the family with their wagon, riding on through the dripping forest. Shithead's arm throbbed, but he held the reins steady. Kaelen said little more that day, yet his silence carried weight. Shithead turned the words again and again in his mind: Courage is fire. But fire without care burns all it touches.
Days Five and Six
The land shifted as they rode. The hills rolled out into plains, wide and green, where herds of cattle grazed under the watch of shepherds. Villages dotted the horizon, each larger than Greystone, with inns and shrines and markets bustling with strangers. Shithead drank it in, every sight new: glass beads strung at stalls, minstrels singing in squares, banners snapping from watchtowers.
At each stop, whispers followed. Some pointed openly at his tusks. Others avoided his gaze. Yet not all were unkind — a boy near his age asked about his dagger, a girl sold him apples with a smile. For the first time, Shithead felt that the world beyond Greystone might hold more than suspicion.
Kaelen remained the same: disciplined, steady, never wasting words. But in small ways, he taught. How to ride without jarring his back. How to strike flint properly in rain. How to listen for movement in underbrush. Shithead soaked it all in, each lesson a stone in the foundation he longed to build.
Day Seven
On the seventh morning, they crested a ridge as the sun broke the horizon. Below, the city stretched wide — Westmarch.
Its walls rose gray and tall, banners flying from towers. Smoke curled from chimneys, bells rang across rooftops, markets already stirring. And at its heart, shining brighter than all else, stood the Chapterhouse of the Silver Sun. White stone blazed in dawn's light, towers rising like spears, the crest of the Order flying bold against the sky.
Shithead reined his horse, breath catching. The beads at his wrist pressed into him, grounding him, reminding him of the willow and the friends he had left behind.
Kaelen rode ahead a few paces, then turned. "Welcome to Westmarch. Your training begins here."
Shithead's chest swelled, half with pride, half with fear. For the first time, the dream was no longer dream.
It was road.
It was oath.
And it waited for him beyond the gates.