The morning after the attack dawned gray and cold. Mist clung to the road and fields, curling low around the wagon's wheels and the boots of the initiates as they stirred from restless sleep. The campfire had burned low to embers, its faint glow the only warmth against the damp chill.
Shithead sat up stiffly, every muscle aching. His shield arm throbbed, his knuckles were bruised raw, and his tunic clung damp to his skin with the memory of sweat and blood. For a moment, he thought he heard the wolves again, their howls circling in the dark, but it was only the wind moving through the hedgerows.
Brina stretched with a groan, rolling her shoulder, then grinned at the soreness as if it were a prize. "Now that's the kind of pain you remember," she said. Her shield, cracked and dented, lay beside her like an old friend. She picked it up and kissed the battered wood. "You kept me standing, didn't you?"
Calder stirred with far less bravado, blinking owlishly behind spectacles smudged with soot from the fire. He winced as he shifted, his thin arms trembling. "I… I thought we were finished." His voice cracked, but then steadied. "But we weren't."
Eryk, already awake, was checking the straps of his armor with calm precision. He didn't answer, but the faintest nod passed from him to Calder, like a stone shifting in the earth.
Dorian rose last, slower than the rest, his face pale but carefully composed. He polished his blade with deliberate movements, though his hands trembled faintly. When Brina teased, "Lost your polish out there, didn't you, noble?" he only pressed his lips thin and kept working. His silence spoke louder than his pride ever had.
The wagon driver approached them hesitantly, cap in his hands. His eyes glistened with gratitude. "I don't have words enough," he said, voice hoarse. "If not for you, the beasts would've torn the oxen apart, and me with them. Aureon bless you all."
He pressed food into their hands — bread, cheese, a flask of watered ale. "It's all I have to give, but take it. You've earned it tenfold."
Brina grinned, tearing into the bread with relish. Calder murmured a shaky thanks, while Dorian accepted the offering with a stiff nod that could almost have been mistaken for courtesy. Shithead only bowed his head, the weight of the man's gratitude heavier than the wooden sword in his hand.
They set off again, the wagon creaking along the mist-damp road. The land around them seemed changed. The same fields stretched out, the same scattered trees, but the air carried a different weight. Every rustle in the brush drew their eyes. Every birdcall set their shoulders tense. The road no longer felt like a simple path between farms — it was a boundary line between the safe and the savage, and they had crossed it.
Farmers gathered as they passed. Word of the wolves' defeat had spread quickly, carried on tongues eager for good news. Women pressed small tokens into their hands: a string of dried herbs, a bit of ribbon, a carved charm of wood. Children stared wide-eyed at their shields and swords, whispering to one another.
But not all gazes were warm. Some lingered on Shithead with unease, eyes narrowing at the tusks peeking past his lips, at the broad shoulders and the heavy stride that marked him different from the others. A boy whispered to his mother, who hushed him quickly but kept her gaze wary.
Shithead felt the weight of it, heavy as his shield. He clenched his jaw and said nothing.
Brina caught it too, her grin faltering for once. She bumped his shoulder lightly. "Ignore them," she muttered. "They don't know who stood between them and the wolves last night."
He gave her a small nod, though the knot in his chest did not loosen.
By midday, they had returned the wagon safely to its farm. The oxen were uninjured, the driver alive, and the farmers greeted them with tears and thanks. Chickens scattered underfoot as the company stood awkwardly, unused to such praise.
"We'll tell everyone what you did," one farmer said, clasping Shithead's arm. His eyes lingered, wary at first, then softened. "All of you. May Aureon guide your steps."
When they finally turned back toward Westmarch, the road seemed different beneath their boots. It was the same pale ribbon of dirt, but their steps were heavier now, laden with the memory of snarling jaws and flashing teeth.
They reached the city at dusk. The gates loomed tall and familiar, the clang of the portcullis rising to admit them. Beyond, the streets of Westmarch bustled as if nothing had changed — merchants haggled, children darted between stalls, the smell of baking bread drifted on the air.
Yet to Shithead, the city no longer looked the same. He had left as a trainee, untested and raw. Now, bruised and weary, he walked back as something else. Not yet a warrior, not yet a paladin, but no longer the boy who had flinched at every command.
The company trudged through the streets, drawing curious glances. Brina walked with her shield strapped proudly, Calder with his head high despite trembling legs, Dorian with his chin lifted, Eryk calm as ever. Shithead walked at their center, steady as stone.
Back at the Chapterhouse, they stood before Ser Joren. He regarded them with the same quiet, unflinching gaze he always had. He dismounted his horse, stepped close, and let the silence hang heavy.
"You held the line," he said at last. His words were few, deliberate. "Not clean. Not graceful. But you did not break."
His eyes swept across each of them in turn. Brina grinning despite her bruises, Calder pale but resolute, Dorian stiff with pride and shame alike, Eryk unreadable, and Shithead steady in his weariness.
"That is all Aureon asks," Joren finished. "Hold the line again tomorrow."
It was not praise, not in the way they might have longed for. But it was acknowledgment, and from Ser Joren, that was more precious than any applause.
That night, in their barracks, the company gathered around their bunks. The air smelled of sweat and oil, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling in. But something was different now.
Brina leaned back on her elbows, grinning at the ceiling. "Wolves. Real wolves. And we sent them running."
Calder laughed weakly, the sound trembling but genuine. "I thought I'd fall. But… I didn't. Not with you beside me."
Dorian polished his sword in silence, but his usual sneer lacked its bite. His eyes flicked toward Shithead more than once, something unspoken simmering there.
Eryk lay on his bunk, hands folded across his chest, silent as always. But his calm presence filled the space like mortar between stones.
Shithead sat on the edge of his bunk, beads warm against his wrist, the firelight catching their polished surfaces. For the first time, he felt they were not just tokens of the past, but part of a chain binding him to the others.
He bowed his head, whispering a prayer too soft for the others to hear. Not for strength. Not for victory.
Let me keep them safe.
The words settled like stone in his chest, steady and certain.
And for the first time since he had stepped through the Chapterhouse gates, Shithead felt the faint spark of something that might one day grow into faith.