The gates of Westmarch closed behind them with a weighty finality, their hinges groaning like tired giants. For the first time in a month, the noise of the city was cut away, replaced by open air and the quiet creak of the wagon's wheels.
The road stretched ahead in a pale ribbon of packed earth, bordered on either side by rolling farmland. Autumn had already touched the fields: stubbled rows of cut grain, withering vines heavy with the last of the season's gourds, and apple trees shedding red and gold leaves into the wind. Farmers paused from their work to stare as the company passed. Some bowed their heads in gratitude to the ox-drawn wagon, its cargo guarded by fresh-faced initiates. Others eyed them warily, as though wondering whether a handful of untested youths could really stand against wolves.
The oxen snorted and tossed their heads, harness leather creaking. The driver, a wiry man with calloused hands, muttered a greeting and little else. His eyes kept darting to the edges of the fields, where neat rows gave way to hedgerows and tangled brush.
Brina walked at the front, shield slung across her back, her stride bold as if daring the wild to come and test her. "Feels good, doesn't it?" she said over her shoulder. "Out of the yard, out of Aldren's shouting. Fresh air."
"Fresh," Calder muttered, adjusting his spectacles as he trudged beside the wagon. "Fresh with the smell of manure."
Brina grinned. "Better than the smell of you after drills."
Shithead walked a step behind them, shield on his arm, sword in hand. The road crunched beneath his boots, steady and grounding. The air felt different beyond the city walls — sharper, freer, but also heavier somehow, as if danger lay just out of sight.
Dorian walked near the rear, chin lifted high, every step measured. He had polished his armor until it gleamed, and even now, mud splattered on his boots made him scowl. "This is guard work fit for commoners," he muttered, loud enough for all to hear. "A noble's blade should be blooded on greater prey than livestock thieves."
"Better pray the wolves don't laugh at your boots before biting them," Brina shot back.
Eryk said nothing. He walked at Shithead's side, quiet and watchful, eyes scanning the hedgerows. His silence weighed more than any of Dorian's complaints.
By midmorning, they reached the first farmstead. A woman stood by the fence, apron dusted with flour, her face drawn with worry. She clutched the hand of a boy no older than six, his wide eyes fixed on the initiates' shields.
"You're from the Chapterhouse?" she asked, voice trembling with relief. "Thank Aureon. Wolves took three of our sheep last week. They come bold now, in daylight. My husband tried to chase them off with a torch — near lost his arm for it."
Her eyes lingered on Shithead. He shifted under the weight of her gaze but said nothing.
"We'll see to it," Ser Joren said from atop his horse, the first words he'd spoken since they'd left the gates. His tone was calm, unreadable. He did not look at the initiates as he spoke, only at the road ahead.
The woman pressed a charm into Brina's hand, a small wooden disc etched with a crude sunburst. "Aureon guard you."
Brina tucked it into her belt and nodded. "We'll keep watch."
As they moved on, the boy waved until they disappeared around a bend.
The farmland thinned as the day wore on. Fields gave way to scattered copses of trees, then to open stretches of heath where gorse and heather grew in clumps. The air grew cooler, the wind sharper. Shadows stretched long across the road though the sun was still high.
Tracks began to appear in the dirt: pawprints larger than any farm dog, pressed deep in the damp soil. Eryk crouched once, brushing his fingers over one. "Fresh," he murmured.
Calder swallowed hard. "Fresh as in…?"
"As in not more than a day," Eryk said, straightening. He did not look at Calder, only at the hedgerow swaying in the wind.
Brina cracked her knuckles. "Good. Let them come."
Dorian scoffed. "You speak as though you've slain beasts before. Wolves are not straw dummies."
"No," Brina said, her grin sharp. "They bite back. That's the point."
Shithead said nothing, but his hand tightened on his sword.
By late afternoon, clouds gathered, dimming the light. The oxen grew restless, tossing their heads at shadows that flickered between the trees. The wagon driver muttered to himself, urging them on.
The road narrowed as it wound through a patch of woods. Branches arched overhead, blotting out the last of the sun. Every creak of the wagon seemed too loud, every snap of twig underfoot sharp enough to draw blood.
A howl cut the air. Long, low, mournful. Another answered, closer. Then another, on the opposite side of the road.
The company froze.
Calder's face drained of color. "They're circling."
"Hold formation," Joren said. His voice was calm, almost soft, but it carried like iron.
Shithead raised his shield. Brina moved to his side without hesitation, grin gone now, eyes narrowed. Eryk took the other flank, silent as stone. Calder stumbled into place behind them, shield trembling on his arm. Dorian hesitated a heartbeat too long, then fell in, his jaw tight.
The oxen lowed in fear, the wagon creaking as the driver gripped the reins white-knuckled.
The undergrowth rustled. Eyes gleamed in the gloom, yellow and hungry. Shapes moved — low, swift, many.
The first wolf stepped into the road. Its fur was matted, ribs sharp beneath its coat, eyes fixed on the wagon. It growled, teeth bared.
Another padded out beside it. Then another. And another.
A pack, lean with hunger, closing in from both sides.
Shithead's heart hammered. The weight of his shield bit into his arm.
"Steady," Joren said. He did not move to join them. He only watched.
The wolves crouched, haunches tensing.
And then they leapt.