The bells rang before dawn, and for seven days, they did not relent.
Each morning dragged Shithead from uneasy sleep into the same rhythm: cold water that bit like knives, a hasty march into the yard, then drills that ground body and spirit until neither felt like they belonged to him.
Day One was chaos. New initiates stumbled through their laps, wheezing, shields slipping, swords dropped. Aldren's barked commands lashed harder than any whip. Shithead's chest burned, his muscles screamed, but he clenched his jaw and pressed on. When Calder tripped, Shithead dragged him up, half carrying him across the finish. That night, he collapsed onto his bunk and dreamt of running still, breathless in the dark.
Day Two taught humility. Paired against Brina, Shithead's shield shook under her furious strikes. She grinned through sweat, fearless, while he floundered to match her rhythm. The drillmaster's voice thundered: "Strength without control is nothing! Find balance, or fall!" That night, bruises bloomed across his arms.
Day Three was endurance. Stones, heavier than calves, carried from one end of the yard to the other. Calder nearly dropped his. Dorian sneered until his own arms trembled and his stone slipped, earning a bark of laughter from Brina. Shithead bore his load with teeth clenched, sweat dripping into his eyes, but his legs did not give.
Day Four brought prayer. Not kneeling passively, but woven into action. One of the instructors halted sparring to speak as Shithead and Dorian circled each other. "Mercy is not pity," the knight said. "It is restraint — the wisdom to stay your hand when striking would serve only pride. Justice is not cruelty. It is the act that ends harm without sowing more." Dorian faltered, his blade dipping. Shithead pressed his advantage — but stopped short of striking. The knight nodded. "That is Aureon's truth. Learn it."
That night, Shithead lay awake, rolling those words over and over.
Day Five was hunger. Their meal was cut short, their training doubled. Laps until their legs shook, shield drills until arms quivered, sparring until they could barely lift their swords. Calder wept quietly in the corner, too tired to hide it. Brina dragged him back to his feet. Dorian scoffed, but his hands shook too much to polish his boots afterward. Shithead dropped into his bunk without a word and dreamt of bread.
Day Six was failure. Their company sparred against another. They fell apart — Brina charging ahead, Dorian strutting too far from the line, Calder overwhelmed, Shithead trying to cover all at once. They lost quickly, humiliated in front of the others. Their mentor, Ser Joren, watched in silence, his expression unreadable. That silence cut deeper than any rebuke.
Day Seven was truth. Their instructor gathered them after sparring, sweat dripping, bodies bruised. "Aureon does not measure perfection," he said. "He measures truth. Did you rise when you fell? Did you guard your brother's back? Did you act in pride or in service? Every choice is prayer. Every act is oath. Do not forget it."
Shithead clenched his fists. For once, he did not feel only doubt. For once, he wondered if Aureon's light could reach even him.
By the end of the week, they were no longer strangers staggering through drills. They were a company, unpolished and clumsy, but breathing the same rhythm. Bruises lined their arms, calluses roughened their palms, but when the bells tolled again, they rose together.
The first morning had nearly broken him. By the third, his legs remembered how to carry him through the endless laps. By the seventh, the ache in his arms felt less like pain and more like proof. He had endured.
And Shithead, sore and weary though he was, whispered to himself each night: I will not break.