The great doors of the Chapterhouse groaned as they opened, spilling light into the noise of Westmarch. Shithead followed Ser Kaelen inside, boots striking stone. At once the clamor of the city dulled, replaced by the hush of a place that breathed with discipline and prayer.
The entrance hall stretched long and high, its vaulted ceiling ribbed like the inside of a cathedral. Sunlight streamed through windows of colored glass, painting the floor in shifting blues and golds. Incense drifted faint in the air, sharp and clean. Along the walls stood statues of paladins long past, each carved in marble, their blades upraised in silent oath.
Shithead slowed, craning his neck. Never in Greystone had he seen a hall so vast. His mare had felt small beneath him on the road; here, he felt small. The beads at his wrist pressed into his skin, grounding him.
Kaelen did not linger. He strode down the aisle toward a set of wide doors, past acolytes who swept and polished until stone gleamed. Shithead hurried after, his boots echoing.
The doors opened into a courtyard. Here, the Chapterhouse revealed its true heart. Training yards stretched wide, divided by low stone walls. In one, pairs of armored men and women sparred with blunt blades, shields ringing with the crack of wood. In another, initiates knelt before a priest in white, chanting prayers in unison. Beyond, archers loosed arrows at straw targets until shafts bristled like porcupine quills.
The air smelled of sweat, steel, and oiled leather. The sound was constant — grunts, barks of instruction, the clatter of weapons.
Shithead's chest tightened. This was no dream. This was the forge.
Kaelen led him toward a gathering at the far end of the courtyard. Dozens of boys and girls stood in a nervous cluster, some whispering, others staring wide-eyed like him. Most looked near his age — sixteen, seventeen, maybe eighteen. A few older, their faces already weathered by hardship.
A voice barked, "Form ranks!"
The initiates jolted and scrambled into lines. Shithead found himself near the back, his height giving him a view over most heads. Kaelen stepped aside, folding his arms, his presence watchful but silent.
From the hall strode a knight in full plate, his tabard bearing the silver sun. His hair was iron-gray, his face stern, scarred across the cheek. He moved with the weight of command, each step steady as a hammer.
"I am Ser Aldren," he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard without effort. "Master of Initiates. For two years, you will answer to me and to those I set over you. You will eat when told, train when told, pray when told. You will rise before the sun and sleep after the bells. You will learn what it means to stand, and you will learn what it costs."
Silence answered him, thick with held breath.
"Look around you," Ser Aldren said. "Some of those you see will not be here in a year. Some will leave by choice. Some will be dismissed. Few of you will stand at the end of this road. Fewer still will be chosen to swear the final oath. This is no shame. It is the way of the Order. Strength is nothing without discipline. Courage is nothing without wisdom. Only those who prove both will endure."
Shithead swallowed, the words cutting deep. He thought of wolves, of Garrick's sneer, of Kaelen's quiet lessons. Endure, he told himself.
Ser Aldren lifted a hand. From the side of the courtyard stepped a smaller group — perhaps eight or nine in all. Older youths, their armor better kept, their eyes sharper. They carried themselves with confidence that came only from surviving what the new initiates had not yet faced.
"The senior initiates," Aldren said. "They have endured their first year. They will guide you, correct you, test you. Some will be your harshest trials. Learn from them, or you will not last."
The seniors spread among the lines. One clapped a boy too slow on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. Another leaned close to a girl, murmuring something that made her stiffen. Their presence was like fire among kindling.
A figure stopped before Shithead.
He was tall, though not as tall as Shithead, with dark hair tied back and eyes sharp as knives. His expression was calm, unreadable, as he studied the half-orc. He said nothing. He did not sneer, did not smile. Only looked, long and steady, until Shithead's skin prickled. Then he nodded once, as if a judgment had been made.
"Each of you," Aldren continued, "will be placed into a company. Five groups of five or six, each with a senior to oversee you. You will train, fight, and live together. You will learn to trust those you would not break bread with. This is no accident. The Order does not care for your birth or your station. Only what you become."
Names were called, groups formed. Shithead's name came late. "Shithead of Greystone."
The word stirred murmurs. A few snickers. One boy coughed to hide a laugh. Shithead kept his face still, though his jaw ached. He stepped forward.
He was placed with four others:
A wiry boy with ink-stained fingers and the look of someone who had read more books than he'd swung swords.
A broad-shouldered girl with calloused hands, a farmer's strength in her arms.
A sharp-eyed youth with fine boots and a sneer that spoke of noble blood.
A quiet, watchful lad with hair like straw and eyes that missed nothing.
And above them all, the senior initiate who had already fixed Shithead with that unreadable gaze.
"This is your company," Ser Aldren said. "For two years, they will be closer than brothers and sisters. Or your undoing. Time will tell."
When the last names were called and the groups arranged, Ser Aldren lifted his voice once more. "Paladins of the Silver Sun do not walk alone. You will be guided. You will be judged. You will be taught."
From the archway stepped three more knights.
The first was tall and lean, his tabard neat, his expression hard as iron. His voice cut like a whip. "Discipline is the root of strength. I will break you down until only what is true remains."
The second was broad, with a scar down one arm and laughter lines at his eyes. His tone was steady, almost kind. "But you will not stand on discipline alone. Faith must carry you when flesh fails. I will teach you prayer, and the weight of vows."
The third was blunt, practical, his armor worn but well-kept. He spoke with the air of a man who had no time for foolishness. "And you will learn the body's limits. How to strike, how to stand, how to endure hunger, cold, and pain. These things will not be theory. They will be your daily bread."
Shithead's chest swelled and sank in equal measure. This was no festival contest, no ribbon on his wrist. This was a road of stone and fire.
The initiates were dismissed to the dormitories. The building was long, rows of bunks on either side, the air thick with the mingled scent of fresh hay, soap, and nervous sweat. The new recruits jostled, laughed, whispered. Some sat silent, eyes wide with fear.
Shithead found his assigned bunk. The farmer's daughter flopped onto hers with a sigh. The noble polished his boots with a cloth. The scholar already had a book open, scribbling notes. The quiet lad leaned back, watching without comment. The senior sat apart, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes, his gaze occasionally lifting to rest on them — unreadable, heavy.
As night fell and the noise of the barracks ebbed, Shithead lay on his back, staring at the rafters. He touched the charm at his wrist. The beads pressed into his skin — hammer, braid, pie, flower, tusked grin. His friends, his pact, his home.
He whispered to himself, so soft no one could hear.
"I will not break."