The bells rang on, day after day, until a month had passed.
At first, the rhythm felt like drowning. Each dawn was nothing but sore muscles and dread for the next blow. But as the weeks rolled on, the training changed shape in their minds. Pain remained — bruises deepened, blisters split and hardened — yet it no longer meant only suffering. The aches became a kind of language, each mark proof they had endured one more day.
The company did not notice when they stopped floundering and started moving in time with each other. It was not graceful, but it was survival.
In the yard, Brina grew stronger, her strikes ringing against shields with the certainty of a hammer against steel. She laughed at her own bruises, daring the drillmasters to give her more.
Calder wavered at first, but his breathing steadied with each run. When others stumbled, he was the first to point out a better stance, a quicker step. What he lacked in muscle, he slowly made up for in observation.
Dorian's polish cracked under the weight of sweat and mud. He cursed at dirt on his boots, but his sword arm grew steadier, and for all his pride, he bled and endured beside them.
Eryk said little, but when Brina slipped in the mud, it was his hand that steadied her without a word. When Calder dropped his shield in panic, Eryk picked it up and pressed it back into his grasp.
And Shithead — his arms grew harder, his back broader, his endurance deeper. He was no more graceful than he had been, but he learned to stand fast. Where his strength failed, he clenched his teeth and bore through.
Their instructors pressed them not only in body but in spirit. Aureon's name threaded through every lesson, not as distant scripture, but as living rule.
One day, as they sparred until their knees buckled, Ser Aldren barked: "Mercy is not weakness! Mercy is the strength to stop the blow that pride demands!"
Another day, during endurance runs until their lungs burned: "Truth is not comfort! Truth strips you bare, even when you'd rather hide! Aureon sees you as you are — stand firm beneath His gaze!"
At night, those words lingered in Shithead's mind. He lay awake, staring at the rafters, whispering them like a litany. Not because he felt worthy — but because he wanted to be.
The days bled together. Pain, drills, and prayers. Yet between them, the threads of something stronger began to weave.
Brina teased Calder until his laughter sounded less like fear. Calder muttered advice under his breath until even Dorian grudgingly listened. Dorian sneered less and fought harder. Eryk's silence became something they leaned on, as solid as stone beneath shifting sand.
And Shithead — rough, weary, scarred by doubt — began to notice that when he faltered, they did not step away. They stepped closer.
It was in the dining hall that names finally broke through the wall of exhaustion.
Brina slammed down her cup. "If I have to haul one more stone, I'll throw it at Aldren's head." Her grin split wide. "Name's Brina, in case you lot forget who carried you to the finish."
Calder sputtered into his bread. "Carried me? I made it myself!" He pushed up his spectacles, smudging them worse. "Calder. For the record. Before you erase me entirely."
Brina laughed. "Hard to erase the one who groans loudest."
Dorian polished his spoon with a cloth, sneer sharp as ever. "Brina, Calder, Shithead… what a company of mud and noise. Remember my name — Dorian of House Veyne. At least one of us belongs here."
Brina nearly toppled from laughing. "Belongs? You nearly dropped your sword yesterday!"
Shithead hid a smirk. Even Calder chuckled behind his hand.
Eryk set his cup down, voice quiet. "Names are noise. Save your breath." He paused. "Eryk."
They all turned toward him. His eyes were steady, calm, as if silence itself had chosen to speak.
And with that, they were no longer strangers. They were Brina, Calder, Dorian, Eryk, and Shithead — bruised, exhausted, but bound together.
That evening, their mentor finally stepped forward.
For a month, Ser Joren had been no more than a shadow: correcting a grip, forcing a repetition, silent through every failure. Now, in the bleeding light of sunset, he spoke.
"I am Ser Joren," he said. His voice was quiet, yet it carried like steel. "I was set over you because you needed watching. You've survived a month. That does not mean you will survive two years."
He let the silence hang.
"My task is not to comfort you. It is to test you. To find whether you will endure — or break." His eyes swept them, pausing on Shithead just long enough for the weight to settle.
"Tomorrow, your first test beyond these walls. Be ready."
He turned, leaving them to the thundering of their own hearts.
The dormitory buzzed with nerves that night. Some initiates laughed too loud, others whispered prayers. Shithead's company huddled together, tension tightening their bond.
"A test," Calder muttered, wringing his hands. "Already? A month isn't enough."
Brina grinned, clapping his back. "Then we'll keep you alive, Calder. That's what companies are for."
"Wolves don't laugh at your courage," Dorian said dryly.
"Better than whining them to death," Brina shot back.
Shithead lifted his head. "We don't leave anyone behind."
Silence. Then Eryk gave a small, firm nod.
And the knot of fear loosened, if only a little.
At noon the next day, the gates of Westmarch groaned open. The wagon stood ready, oxen snorting, the driver pale but resolute. Ser Joren waited beside it, arms folded.
"This is no drill," he said. "This is the road. Prove yourselves."
The gates yawned wide. Sunlight spilled across the packed dirt.
Shithead shifted his shield, Brina at his side, Calder pale but upright, Dorian with chin high, Eryk calm as stone.
Together, they stepped forward.
The gates shut behind them.