The first frost of autumn laid its silver fingers across the stones of the Chapterhouse yard, and the breath of every initiate rose like pale banners as they stood in formation. The bells had not softened with the season's change; if anything, their iron call rang sharper in the cold. Summer had burned them into shape with sweat and dust, but autumn promised to test them with endurance — to see who could hold fast when warmth fled and the world itself seemed to conspire against resolve.
Shithead rolled his shoulders, the ache of half-healed bruises answering like old companions. His boots slipped a little on the crust of frozen mud as he stamped them for warmth. Around him, the others shifted in silence. Brina grinned through teeth that chattered like dice, muttering that the cold would make them swing faster just to keep warm. Calder rubbed his hands together, nose already red and streaming, though he clenched his jaw against complaint. Dorian tugged at his cloak as though noble bearing could command the wind to obey. Eryk stood as he always did: still, eyes narrowed against the morning light, as if he measured the cold itself.
The knights came in cloaks heavy with frost, mail clinking beneath. At their head, Ser Maela raised her arm.
"Today," she called, voice carrying like a struck anvil, "you will no longer be tested as yourselves. Today, you will be tested as companies."
The words cut sharper than the wind. Until now, they had fought solely— wood against wood, one shield against one sword. But this morning, seniors stepped forward with the authority of captains. They barked names, herded the initiates into groups of five and six, shoved them into ranks where friendship and rivalry alike were set aside.
Shithead found himself in the center of a rough knot: Brina to his left, Dorian to his right, Calder and Eryk bracing the rear. They were handed round shields, heavier than the ones used before, and told to lock them tight in a line.
"Hold the wall," Ser Joren ordered. His breath smoked in the air like dragon-fire. "You are no longer yourselves. You are one. Break, and you all fail."
The whistle blew.
The first impact rattled through Shithead's bones. Seniors slammed into their line with the weight of men twice their size, shields striking like rams. The formation buckled. Brina staggered, Calder yelped as his shield slipped, Dorian cursed, Eryk grunted — and Shithead felt the whole line pulling against him, waiting on his shoulders.
"Hold!" he shouted, voice breaking with strain.
They braced again, feet sliding on frozen mud, shields biting into their arms. The second impact nearly toppled them. Brina laughed — half fear, half exhilaration — as she slammed her shield back into place. Calder squeaked in terror but held. Dorian snarled at them all to keep step, even as his own knees shook. Eryk's silence was a weight steadier than words.
The wall bent, but it did not break. Not yet.
Then came the third strike, harder than any before. Shithead saw it — not just a strike, but a lunge. Karron, one of the older seniors, broke formation on purpose, bellowing as he slammed his shield into Calder's chest and drove him into the mud. Calder's breath whooshed out, his shield flying wide, the line collapsing.
"Again!" Ser Maela's voice cut the air — but she stopped mid-command, eyes narrowing.
Karron loomed over Calder, shield pressed into the boy's throat, lips curled in a sneer. This wasn't training. It was punishment.
"Enough!" Maela strode forward, cloak snapping in the wind. "On your feet, Calder. Karron—stand down."
Karron grinned, pressing harder. "If this whelp can't take it, he has no place here."
"Release him," Maela said, voice like a drawn sword.
For a heartbeat, Karron held her gaze, testing the edge of her patience. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pulled back, letting Calder gasp in the mud.
"Remove your tabard."
The words fell like stones. A ripple went through the yard.
Karron blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. You dishonor the shield wall, and you dishonor the Order. Strip your tabard and leave the yard. You are no longer an initiate of Aureon."
Gasps rose. Even the seniors froze. To be dismissed — cast out after a years training — was a fate worse than failing a trial.
Karron's face twisted from shock to fury. "You can't—"
"I can," Maela said, calm and sharp as frost. "And I have."
For a long moment he stood there, chest heaving, eyes blazing. Then, with a snarl, he tore the white tabard from his shoulders and flung it to the mud. "Your Order is blind," he spat, before stomping from the yard.
The initiates watched him go in silence. Calder still wheezed where he knelt. Brina helped him up, eyes wide. Dorian muttered a curse under his breath. Eryk's gaze followed Karron until he vanished beyond the gates.
Ser Maela's voice rose again, cold and clear. "Let this be lesson to all. The Order breaks the cruel before it breaks the weak. Remember it."
The whistle blew once more. "Reform the wall. Again."
The yard felt quieter after Karron's dismissal. Even though most initiates had loathed him, the sight of a senior stripped of his tabard lingered like a shadow across every bench and bunk. At supper that night, the bowls of stew steamed, but few spoke.
Brina broke the silence first, poking Calder's ribs as he hunched over his meal. "Still breathing?"
Calder gave a weak smile. "Barely." He rubbed his throat, still red where Karron's shield had pressed. "Thought I was done for."
"You would've been if Maela hadn't stopped him," Dorian muttered. "Savage."
"Savage, yes," Brina said. "But gods, didn't it feel good to see him marched out? First time I've believed this place has a soul."
Eryk, as ever, said nothing. He tore bread with slow precision, dipping it into the stew as if the dismissal hadn't shaken him at all. But Shithead had learned to read him by now — the tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze lingered on the doorway long after Karron was gone.
Shithead himself felt torn. Relief, because Calder was safe. Fear, because Karron had been stronger than any of them, and still it wasn't enough. If a second-year can be sent away, what hope do I have? The thought gnawed at him through the meal, leaving the bread heavy in his stomach.
When the evening bell tolled, the initiates filed back to the dormitory. The rows of cots stretched long beneath the rafters, each with its thin blanket, its straw mattress creaking whenever someone shifted. Normally, the dorm buzzed with whispers and laughter, but that night the only sound was the hiss of the wind sneaking through the shutters.
Whispers finally came, drifting from cot to cot. They spoke of the Winter Trial, of how groups were thinning, of how even the seniors would be forced to reform. Shithead lay awake, staring at the beams overhead, when the door banged open.
Ser Maela entered, scroll in hand, her cloak trailing frost.
"All companies are dissolved," she said, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. "From this night forth, you will be remade into new companies. These will stand until the Winter Trial, where you will be judged together. Fail, and you will be dismissed together."
The silence that followed was heavier than the snow-clouded sky.
Names were called one by one. Brina went to another group, her grin faltering as she realized she would no longer share Shithead's line. Calder's name followed soon after, placed in yet another company. Dorian stiffened when his name was spoken, pride masking his unease.
When Shithead's name came, he braced himself. "Shithead, with Eryk and Senior Mara."
Eryk rose without a word, joining him at the center of the hall. A tall, broad-shouldered girl stepped from the seniors' row: Mara, known for her blunt tongue and heavy strikes. Her eyes flicked over Shithead with little interest before she took her place.
Brina caught his gaze from across the room, raising her spoon like a sword in mock salute. Calder gave him a wan smile. Dorian lifted his chin, as though daring him to falter without noble support.
The reshuffling finished quickly, the neat rows of cots now divided into new clusters. The air felt different already — tense, unfamiliar. Where once there had been laughter, there was only the scrape of boots and the rustle of blankets as each initiate tried to settle among strangers.
"These are your companies," Ser Maela declared. "Eat with them. Train with them. Fail or pass with them. The Winter Trial comes, and you will face it not as children but as shields bound together."
The bells rang, and the Chapterhouse felt colder than frost.
The first dawn drill with the reformed companies began before the sun had crested the wall. Frost glittered on the training yard, and the air bit at their lungs as they lined up in their new groups.
Shithead's eyes flicked over the faces beside him.
Eryk: tall, stocky and straight as a pine tree, his dark hair bound back in a simple strip of cloth. He carried himself with the same quiet certainty as always, pale eyes sharp but unreadable.
Mara: broad and heavy-set, her rust-colored hair cut short against the cold, freckles spattered like embers across her cheeks. She stood squarely, shield on her arm as if she dared anyone to test her.
Talia: narrow-framed, wiry with restless energy. Her hair, a muddy brown, was braided roughly down her back, swinging like a whip when she moved. She carried a practice spear and rolled it constantly in her hands, impatient to use it.
Joren: lean and hard, perhaps a year or two older than Shithead. Scars striped his forearms, proof of drills endured, and his eyes had the sharpness of someone who had already stood where the juniors now trembled. He was not a knight — not yet sworn, not yet fully proven — but the respect of survival clung to him, and the juniors called him Ser Joren half out of mockery, half out of awe. He accepted the title without correcting them, as though already preparing for the day it might be true.
Shithead shifted his shield against his arm, trying not to let the weight of the moment crush him. This was no longer a circle of friends thrown together. This was a company remade by the Order's hand, and it would stand or fall by whether he could hold himself steady.
"Wall up," Joren said, his tone sharp. He didn't bark like the knights, but he didn't need to. His voice carried the authority of one who had endured the first year and lived to tell of it. "You're not scattered children anymore. You're a wall. Move as one, or you'll break as five."
The whistle blew.
The seniors hit them like a wave. Shithead staggered as the impact thundered into his shield. Mara growled beside him, boots biting into frozen ground. Eryk bent his knees and leaned in silently, shifting just enough to steady the line. Talia surged forward with her spear, overexcited, nearly leaving a gap wide enough to break them.
"Back in line!" Mara barked, slamming her shoulder into Talia's to force her back.
The next strike came harder, the line bending again. Shithead's shield slammed into his ribs, pain blooming under the bruise. He gasped, nearly faltering — but Eryk pressed closer, lending silent strength. Mara snarled curses under her breath. Talia bit her lip, face red with strain. And Joren — Joren didn't so much as grunt. He held steady, shield firm, his sharp eyes fixed not on the enemy, but on Shithead.
He's watching me, Shithead realized. Not the wall. Not the gaps. Me.
"Step together!" Shithead shouted, slamming his shield forward.
This time Eryk moved with him like a shadow. Mara followed with a grunt. Even Talia steadied, her braid snapping across her shoulder as she ducked back into position. For a heartbeat, the wall held.
Then the whistle cut again, and Joren's voice was cold as the morning air.
"Better," he said. "Again."
The next impacts left Shithead's arms shaking, his lungs burning white in the cold. Mara cursed him when the line staggered, spitting words sharp as her strikes. Talia snapped back, pride wounded as much as her body. Eryk stayed silent, holding the shield-line like a hinge. Joren never flinched, never praised, never condemned — only watched.
By midday, Shithead's shoulders throbbed, his knees ached, and his palms were raw. When the drill finally ended, Joren turned to him, voice low.
"You've got strength, half-blood," he said, blunt and without scorn. "But strength isn't enough. A wall doesn't stand because of one stone. It stands because every stone holds the weight of the others. You want to be their wall? Then bind them. Or you'll break, and take them with you."
The words struck deeper than any shield. Shithead lowered his gaze, chest heaving, and whispered the only answer he could manage.
"Yes, Joren."
Joren gave the faintest tilt of his head. Not approval. Not yet. But not dismissal, either.
The cloisters smelled of wax and incense, the air warmer than the yard but no less sharp with discipline. Rows of initiates knelt on rough cots of straw mats laid over stone, their cloaks pulled tight against the draft that slipped under arched windows. The narrow glass slits let in the pale glow of a winter dawn. Candles burned before the altar, each flame guttering when the wind whispered through the hall.
At the altar stood Knight-Preceptor Anselm, oldest of the teachers, his long hair white as frost and bound in a simple braid. His voice, soft as worn leather, carried like a bell struck at distance.
"Aureon is not a torch to be struck by steel, nor a flame to be grasped. His light is not owned. It is given. And it will abandon the hand that clutches too tightly."
The initiates shifted uneasily. Some bowed their heads in reverence, others in exhaustion. Shithead sat cross-legged between Eryk and Talia, his broad hands resting on his knees. He had coaxed light before, trembling sparks that died as quickly as they flared. He wanted more — wanted to prove he was more than muscle and stubbornness.
Anselm raised his hand. A pale radiance bloomed in his palm, golden and soft, steady as the dawn itself. He passed it slowly over the front row. The bruises faded from a boy's arm. A cut sealed on a girl's hand. The hush of the cloister deepened.
"This," Anselm said, "is the grace of Aureon. Not only to strike but to mend. To shield. To endure. Remember this: mercy is the twin of justice."
The knights stepped back, gesturing for the seniors to rise.
Mara went first. She planted her boots firmly and lifted her calloused hands. A moment passed, then another — and a glow swelled, brighter than any junior had managed. It filled the chamber with a steady gleam, casting long shadows across the stone. She pressed her palm against Talia's scraped knuckles, and the skin knit together instantly, leaving not even a scar.
Gasps rippled through the hall. Even Brina, across the chamber in her new company, leaned forward, grinning wide despite herself.
Mara turned her head, lips quirking. "That," she said in her blunt way, "is what a year's discipline earns."
Talia smirked, though not without admiration. "I'll get there."
Joren followed. His glow was smaller, but sharp, a clear white fire that shimmered like glass. He pressed it over a boy's bruised ribs, and the boy inhaled sharply as the pain lessened. Joren's jaw tightened with focus, his dark eyes fixed, as though daring the light to falter.
Other seniors stepped up, each demonstrating what their second year had taught them:
One raised a thin wall of shimmering radiance, like glass that glowed faintly before fading.
Another whispered a prayer, and his words carried across the entire cloister, each syllable as clear as a struck bell.
A third cupped his hands, and when he blew into them, a flame sparked without tinder, burning long after his breath ceased.
The juniors watched, awed and silent. Their own flickering efforts seemed small beside such grace.
"Now," Anselm said. "The rest of you."
Shithead exhaled, staring at his palms. He whispered the words he had been taught: "Light my hands, that I may guide, guard, and give."
For a moment, nothing. Then a spark flickered, trembling in his cupped hands. It glowed faintly, like a coal hiding in ash. He clenched his jaw, willing it to grow. For two heartbeats, it did — a glow bright enough to warm his fingers. Then it guttered out, leaving him with only a fading warmth.
Beside him, Talia hissed through her teeth — and her palm flared with a light brighter than his, sharp enough to cast shadows across the mat in front of her. She grinned, triumphant, though sweat dampened her brow.
Eryk's glow flickered faintly, but steadied, lasting longer than either of them. The pale light in his hand was modest, but it held.
Mara, standing over them, folded her arms. "Better than sparks," she said. "But not nearly enough."
Shithead bit down on his frustration. His chest felt heavy, not from failure alone, but from memory — of his mother's hands guiding him to prayer, of Maren's stern warnings, of Mira's laughter daring him to climb higher, Alan's quiet strength. They would have held the flame. Why can't I?
Anselm's voice pulled him from the spiral. "Do not despair at the size of your flame. A spark lights the darkest road if carried with patience. Do not boast at its brightness, either. A flame is not proof of worth — only a reminder of the source." His gaze lingered on Mara, whose chin lifted despite the rebuke. Then it shifted to Shithead, steady and kind. "Yours will grow. Do not rush what cannot be forced."
The lesson ended with silence. The seniors filed back to their places, their heads high, their flames dimmed but not forgotten. The juniors followed, weary and restless.
As they left the cloister, Mara muttered, loud enough for their group to hear: "The Winter Trial won't care for sparks. If you can't call the light when you need it, you'll fail us all."
Talia snorted. "Better a spark than nothing."
"Better a flame than both," Mara snapped.
Shithead said nothing. His palms still tingled with the memory of warmth, but the emptiness left by its loss was heavier than any shield.
The dormitory had never felt so crowded. The rafters groaned under the cold, the shutters rattled with the whine of winter wind, and the narrow rows of cots creaked as boys and girls shifted, whispering across the dark. A few candles guttered low in iron sconces, painting the beams with unsteady gold. The smell of damp wool, wax, and too many boots pressed close hung thick in the air.
Shithead sat on the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, listening. He could feel the unease rolling across the room like a storm at sea. Whispers were sharper tonight — not idle gossip or muttered curses about sore muscles, but low, urgent voices trading fears they'd tried to hide all day.
"They say last year's Trial left a boy frost-bitten to the bone," one of the juniors muttered from the far row. "When they found him, two of his fingers were black."
"That's nothing," someone hissed back. "I heard a company nearly starved. They gave them rations for three days and kept them out for five. Half of them couldn't even stand when they staggered back to the gates."
Shithead shifted, the straw crackling beneath him. His own company was quiet — Eryk lying on his back, arms folded over his chest; Mara sitting upright, arms crossed; Talia chewing her lip raw. Joren lay on his cot with hands tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the rafters.
"It does you no good to invent horrors," Joren said at last. His voice was low, but carried. The whispers stilled, and more heads turned toward him than Shithead would have guessed. "The Trial doesn't need your imagination. It's hard enough without it."
"You talk like you know," someone challenged from across the dorm.
"I do." Joren turned his head, dark eyes catching the candlelight. "I stood the Trial last winter. We all did — those of us who remain."
Mara straightened, her blunt voice cutting in. "It was worse than anything they'd prepared us for. They marched us out before dawn, into the hills where the wind never dies. We had a map — half the ink blurred, useless. We had rations for three days, and they told us nothing except: find your way back."
Her voice had no flourish, no drama — only blunt stone. That made it worse.
"What happened?" Talia asked, trying to mask her nerves with bravado.
"We didn't all come back," Mara said, flat and heavy. "One girl fell on the first night. Frostbite. She hid it too long. By dawn her toes were black. We tried to carry her — half a day, maybe. But she slowed us down. The knights never lifted a finger. They watched. In the end, her company was dismissed with her."
"Dismissed?" Calder whispered, voice thin and shaking. "For frostbite?"
"Yes," Mara said. "Because the Trial doesn't care for excuses. If one fails, the wall fails. The Order doesn't want lone blades. They want companies. Chains strong enough that no link breaks."
"Harsh," someone muttered across the hall. "Cruel."
"No." Joren pushed himself up on his elbows, his gaze sweeping the cots. "It's Aureon's way. Justice is shared. Mercy is shared. Failure is shared. That's what the Trials prove." His tone held no triumph, only certainty. "Half the companies broke last year. The ones who stood—stood because they carried each other."
"How many passed?" someone whispered.
Joren's jaw tightened. "Four companies passed the first Trial. Out of eleven."
The air seemed to grow colder. Even the candles flickered, as though reluctant to burn.
Shithead's chest felt tight. Four. Out of eleven. He glanced across the dorm — Brina laughing too loud at some joke, Dorian sneering to mask unease, Calder staring at his hands. They'll scatter us. And most won't make it.
Calder caught his eye then, and for once the boy's usual nervous grin was gone. He shuffled closer, lowering his voice. "Do you think we'll—?" He cut himself off, but his throat worked as he swallowed. "I don't want to go home. Not like that. Not in shame."
Shithead wanted to tell him they would all pass, that strength or luck or sheer stubbornness would see them through. But the words curdled in his throat. He put a hand on Calder's shoulder instead, squeezing once. "We'll hold as long as we can."
Calder nodded, though his eyes stayed wet.
Later, when the whispers had dulled and the candles were snuffed, Shithead rolled onto his side. Eryk lay awake on the cot beside his, eyes open, reflecting faint slivers of moonlight through the shutters. For a long moment they didn't speak.
At last, Eryk said quietly, "You keep carrying everyone. Even Calder. Even me."
Shithead frowned into the dark. "Someone has to."
"Not always," Eryk murmured. His voice was calm, but there was something sharp beneath it. "Sometimes the wall stands because each stone carries itself."
Shithead turned his gaze back to the ceiling. He didn't know if that was comfort or warning. But when Eryk finally closed his eyes, the thought lingered with him long after sleep refused to come.