The frost had thickened in the yard, no longer just a silver crust across the stones but a hard glass that cracked under boots. Each breath hung in the air like smoke. When the bells tolled, the sound seemed to shatter against the frozen walls.
Shithead's arms ached before the drills even began. His palms were raw from days of shield-work, his shoulders sore from endless formations. Yet when Ser Maela strode into the yard with her cloak stiff with frost and voice sharp as ever, every initiate straightened as if their bones had been hammered back into place.
"Today," she called, her words echoing in the thin morning air, "you finish your training. You've stood through the fire of summer and the steel of autumn. Winter waits. And it will not be kind. Today is the last day the yard will keep you safe."
The initiates glanced at one another, some wide-eyed, others grim. Even the seniors stood tense, knowing that their second and final Trial loomed.
The whistle shrilled. The shield-lines clashed.
Shithead's new company moved like a thing half-born. Mara barked commands from the left, her shield biting into the mud. Eryk stayed silent, as ever, his steadiness filling the spaces others left open. Talia darted too far forward with her spear, forcing Shithead to drag her back into line with a grunt. And Joren—Joren didn't waste words, but his sharp gaze caught every flaw, his presence at the rear a weight that reminded them none of this was play.
The seniors of another company drove against them like a ram. The impact rattled teeth and bruised ribs, the weight of bodies behind shields threatening to crush them flat. Shithead shoved back, his boots skidding across frozen earth. Mara growled like a beast, Talia yelped, Eryk exhaled once like a drawn bowstring.
The wall held. Barely.
"Again!" Joren barked.
They reset. Again the whistle cut. Again the blow slammed into them. Again Shithead felt his bones ring and his shield jolt against his shoulder.
By the time the whistle finally fell silent, his arms shook, and his chest burned. He dropped to one knee, gasping steam into the frigid air. Around him, other companies sagged in the mud, bruised, scraped, battered.
Maela's voice rang out once more. "Enough. The yard has done its work. What comes next will not be wood or blunted steel. It will not stop when you fall. It will not wait when you falter." Her eyes swept across the battered lines, cold and hard. "The Winter Trial begins soon."
A ripple ran through the yard — whispers, curses, the sound of someone stifling a sob. The seniors stayed silent, but even they exchanged glances that admitted what none dared say aloud: they were afraid, too.
Shithead clenched his fists. His knuckles burned, his shoulders ached, but beneath it all was a steady fire that would not go out. Soon, they would leave the yard and they would be tested not by drills, but by the world itself.
And he did not know if he was ready.
The frost was still crisp on the stones when the company was summoned to the gates. Beyond the iron portcullis, the road stretched pale under the morning sun, leading down the slope toward the cluster of smoke-trailing roofs that marked Branthollow.
A single wagon waited, its wheels rimed with ice, its driver hunched in a heavy cloak. A pair of oxen snorted steam into the air, their hides dusted white with frost. The cart creaked with the weight of barrels and crates — grain, salted meat, winter stores.
"Your task is simple," Ser Maela said, her hands clasped behind her back. "Escort the wagon to Branthollow. Pick up the Order's supplies, and return without loss. This is not the Trial, but it is no game either. Bandits grow bold when winter presses the hungry. Keep your eyes open. Keep your wall firm."
The driver snapped his reins, and the oxen lurched forward. Shithead fell into step beside the cart, shield strapped to his arm, sword knocking at his hip. The rest of the company spread out — Mara at the left flank, Joren at the right, Eryk and Talia walking close to Shithead, their breaths puffing in the cold.
The road wound through stubbled fields and bare orchards, past low stone fences slick with frost. Here and there, peasants watched them from doorways, wary eyes following the half-orc in the white tabard. Shithead kept his gaze forward, jaw clenched. Let them stare.
Branthollow itself smelled of woodsmoke and tannery vats, the narrow lanes already crowded with carts and traders despite the cold. The wagon rolled through the market square to the granary, where porters loaded it with sacks of flour and kegs of salt pork. Mara oversaw the tally with her usual blunt efficiency, ticking off crates with a charcoal stub.
"Not a feather more than the list," she muttered. "The Order pays for no waste."
Shithead caught Talia's eye as she tried to sneak a glance at a table of daggers displayed by a smith. He shook his head, and she rolled her eyes but fell back in step when the wagon creaked into motion once more.
The sun hung low as they began the return march, shadows long across the frosted fields. The oxen moved slower under the heavier load, hooves sucking at frozen mud. The road narrowed as it passed between a copse of leafless birch, the bare branches rattling together in the wind like bones.
.
The road narrowed as it cut through the birch copse, trunks bare and white against the deepening gray of the sky. The oxen's hooves sucked at frozen mud, the wagon creaking under its new burden of flour and salt pork. Shithead walked close to the left wheel, hand resting on his shield's rim, eyes darting from tree to tree.
That was when the first stone struck. It clattered off the spokes with a crack like bone breaking. The oxen bellowed, lurching sideways.
"Shields!" Joren's voice snapped like a whip.
Eight figures burst from the trees, ragged cloaks flaring, blades glinting in the weak sun. Bandits. Their scarves hid everything but their eyes, hard and hungry.
The first slammed into Shithead before he could think. The shock of the blow jolted his arm, rattling his teeth. He stumbled, boots sliding in the half-frozen muck. The bandit snarled, shoving harder, a jagged short sword scraping at the shield rim. Shithead braced, shoved back with all his weight, and felt the man reel a step — but another took his place, swinging low.
The edge of a rusted blade nicked his thigh through his trousers, hot pain biting deep. He growled, jerking his shield down to catch the next strike.
Beside him, Eryk's spear darted like a striking snake, thrusting into a bandit's shoulder. The man howled, staggering back, blood darkening his ragged cloak. Eryk didn't shout or curse — his pale eyes stayed narrowed, cold as the frost around them.
Talia surged forward with a cry, her spear overreaching. One bandit caught the shaft with a hook-bladed axe and yanked. She shrieked, losing her footing, nearly dragged into the mud. Mara roared, slamming her shield sideways into the bandit's ribs with enough force to crack bone. He crumpled, coughing blood into the frozen dirt.
"Stay in line!" Mara bellowed, her freckles stark against her pale skin, hair matted with sweat despite the cold.
More shapes closed in from the rear. The driver shrieked as a bandit clambered onto the wagon, slashing at the sacks. Joren was already moving — his blade flashed once, clean and precise. The man screamed, tumbling from the wagon bed to writhe in the mud clutching his arm.
"On me!" Joren barked, his voice carrying steel. "Hold the wall!"
But the wall was cracking.
Two bandits pressed hard at Shithead's front, their blows raining down like hammers. One feinted high, the other swung low. The edge of a blade caught his shin, slicing through wool and skin. Hot blood spilled into his boot. Shithead gasped, nearly dropping to one knee.
The shield to his right steadied him — Eryk, silent, planting his feet like an oak. He didn't even glance at Shithead, but the weight of his presence kept the line from shattering.
On the left, Talia screamed as another bandit's knife grazed her arm, drawing red across her sleeve. She thrust back wildly, point scraping ribs, and the man staggered but didn't fall.
A cry rose behind them. One of the juniors — a boy pressed into helping haul — crumpled to the mud, a bandit's blade carving a deep line across his ribs.
"Hold!" Joren roared, ducking a slash, his sword plunging into a man's thigh. "Mara!"
She tore herself from the line, knelt in the mud beside the bleeding boy. Her hand pressed to his wound, golden light sparking at her fingertips. The boy gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. The glow spread, faint at first, then brighter, knitting flesh where steel had torn.
The effort left Mara pale, sweat sheening her brow despite the icy wind. "Up!" she snarled at him, voice raw. "Up, or you'll freeze where you lie!"
The line shuddered as the bandits surged again. One lunged at Shithead, knife flashing for his throat. He raised his shield too slow — and Eryk's spear slid past, punching into the man's chest. He fell with a choked cry, eyes wide, blood spilling into the frost.
The others faltered then, snarling curses. One spat into the mud, another tugged his wounded comrade to his feet. A guttural shout rose — retreat.
And as quickly as they'd come, they were gone. The ragged cloaks vanished between the birch trunks, leaving only churned mud, bloody snow, and the ragged panting of the company.
Shithead lowered his shield, arms trembling. His leg burned where the blade had caught him, blood soaking into his boot. His chest heaved with each breath, steam spilling like smoke.
Talia clutched her grazed arm, pale but standing. Eryk wiped his spear clean on the grass, expression unreadable, though his hands were steady. Mara hauled the junior boy to his feet, her glow dimming to embers. Joren stood by the wagon, blade still red, his dark eyes scanning the trees.
No one spoke for a long moment. Only the oxen's heavy breath, and the creak of the wagon as it shifted its weight.
At last, Mara's voice broke the silence. "That," she said, blunt and hard, "is the mercy you can expect in the wild. None." She glanced at the boy, pale but alive, then back at the rest. "If not for Aureon's light, he'd be carrion. And next time, it could be any one of you."
The wagon creaked onward, the oxen plodding through churned mud. The company fell into step, bruised, bloodied, silent.
Every one of them knew it: if a handful of starving men could bring them this close to ruin, the Winter Trial would be worse. Far worse.
The Chapterhouse gates loomed through the falling dusk, iron bars rimed with frost. The horns sounded once as the weary company trudged into view — five shadows bent beneath shields, one ox-drawn wagon groaning in tow.
"Hold!" the gate guard called, hand to his sword, until the torchlight showed their faces. Then his voice shifted. "Gods above. Open the gate!"
The portcullis creaked up. Initiates spilled into the yard, drawn by the noise. Brina and Calder were among them, wide-eyed. Dorian pushed forward too, his cloak wrapped tight as if he feared the cold more than the sight of blood.
The company stepped through, bruised and muddied. Shithead's leg dragged slightly, blood dried on his boot. Talia's lip was split. Mara's hair was plastered to her brow with sweat, though her eyes burned sharp. Joren, as ever, looked carved from stone, though the scar on his cheek was freshly reopened. Only Eryk appeared untouched, pale gaze steady as he guided the wagon to a halt.
Ser Maela descended the steps, her cloak snapping in the wind. She stopped before them, arms crossed. "Report."
Joren stepped forward, voice flat. "Bandits. Ten, maybe more. Armed with steel, not clubs. We escorted a wagon back regardless. None killed."
"Nearly killed," Mara muttered. She shoved Talia forward by the shoulder. "This one nearly cost us the wall."
Talia flinched, color rising in her face. "I—"
"Silence." Maela's word cracked like a whip. She paced before them, eyes raking over bloodied tabards and pale faces. "Do you think the world waits for your readiness? That wolves and blades will spare you until you are polished and perfect?" She stopped before Shithead, her gaze dropping to the red stain on his boot. "That cut. If Mara had not mended it, you would have bled yourself weak before the gate. One wound. That is all it takes."
She turned, her cloak swirling. Her voice carried across the yard, loud enough for every watching initiate. "Remember this: Aureon's light does not shield fools. If you break the wall, you all fall. If you seek glory, you find death. Bind yourselves together, or be broken one by one."
The silence that followed was heavy as stone.
Brina swallowed hard, eyes darting from Shithead to Mara. Calder's face had gone pale, his hand clutched tight at his side. Even Dorian, lips pressed in disdain, did not speak.
At last, Maela's tone softened — only slightly. "You lived. That is the only mercy I grant you tonight. Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, the outfitting begins."
The words hung in the cold like frost. Outfitting. Every initiate knew what that meant. The Trial was coming
The crowd of initiates dispersed slowly, whispers trailing like smoke. Shithead shifted his weight off his sore leg, wincing, when Brina appeared at his side, her grin thinner than usual.
"By the gods, you look like you crawled through a butcher's yard," she said, though her voice trembled under the joke. "What happened out there?"
"Bandits," Shithead said, his throat still raw from shouting. The word felt strange, too small for the clash of steel and the stink of blood.
Calder hovered nearby, wringing his hands. "Real bandits? Not… staged like the drills?" His eyes darted to the stain darkening Shithead's boot. "They cut you?"
Shithead glanced down. The gash throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He forced a shrug. "Just a scratch. Mara healed it."
"Lucky she was there," Calder muttered, his face paling. "If it had been me—"
"You'd have squealed so loud they'd have thought you a stuck pig," Brina interrupted, clapping him on the shoulder. "They'd have run before drawing steel."
Calder sputtered, then managed the ghost of a smile.
From the edge of the torchlight, Dorian folded his arms. "Don't puff yourselves up. A half-dozen peasants with swords nearly gutted you. If this is what the Trial looks like, half of us are already dead."
"Then you'd best pray you're not the half," Brina shot back.
Dorian sniffed, turning away, but not before Shithead caught the unease in his eyes.
Silence fell again, heavy as the frost. The crowd had thinned to nothing, leaving only the four of them at the base of the steps. Above, the dormitory windows glowed faintly, promising thin blankets and colder dreams.
Shithead drew a slow breath, the air biting in his lungs. "Tomorrow," he said, mostly to himself. "Outfitting."
Brina's grin faded. Calder swallowed. Even Dorian hesitated.
"Winter's here," Eryk's quiet voice added from behind them. He had lingered, as silent as a shadow. His pale gaze caught Shithead's for a heartbeat, unreadable, before he turned toward the dorms.
One by one, the others followed.
Shithead lingered a moment longer, staring out across the darkened yard. His leg ached, his arms throbbed, but deeper than either was the weight of Maela's words. Bind yourselves together, or be broken one by one.
He wasn't sure if she meant the Trial. Or the world itself.
The next morning came colder still, the frost thick on the windows and the bells biting sharper than before. Instead of the training yard, the companies were herded toward the armory. The vaulted stone ceiling trapped every echo, so that the shuffle of boots and the clink of steel rang like drums of war. Racks of weapons lined the walls in orderly rows, the smell of oiled metal heavy in the air. Banners of Aureon hung limp between the arches, their white cloth dimmed by smoke and shadow.
The initiates filed in under the stern eyes of Knight-Preceptor Anselm. Two squires scratched names on scrolls, their ink freezing almost as it hit the page.
"The Trial begins tomorrow," Anselm intoned, his voice heavy with ceremony. "Tonight you are equipped. What you take, you will carry. What you leave, you may curse yourselves for. The Order provides what is needed — but discipline chooses what endures."
Mara led their company forward. She snatched wool cloaks first, flinging one into each of their arms. "Put it on. Don't argue. The cold will kill you faster than steel."
Talia wrinkled her nose as she fastened hers. "Smells like a sheep drowned in rain."
"Good," Mara said. "Better a sheep than your corpse."
They moved on to the weapons racks. Rows of spears stood in tight bundles, swords gleamed in scabbards across wooden braces, axes and maces lined the far wall. The air buzzed with murmurs as initiates tested the weight of steel.
Shithead's gaze was drawn to the longswords — plain, but solid, their hilts wrapped in rough leather. He lifted one, testing the weight. The balance settled into his palm like it belonged there. Not light, but not beyond him. His shoulders rolled as he swung it once, twice — the blade cut through the air with a clean whistle.
"Too heavy?" Joren asked, stepping beside him. His own hands rested on the hilt of a straight longsword, nicked with old practice scars.
Shithead shook his head. "No. Feels right."
"Good," Joren said. His dark eyes lingered on the blade in Shithead's grip. "A longsword's an honest weapon. Demands discipline. But don't let pride tempt you to reach higher than your arm can carry."
Shithead glanced at the greatswords leaning against the far wall — massive, two-handed slabs of steel that even some of the older seniors struggled to lift. For a moment he imagined himself wielding one, cleaving through the shield wall as though it were wheat. Then he tried one. The sheer weight pulled his shoulders down, the tip dragging on the stones. His jaw clenched as he forced it up, but the strain burned too fast, too sharp.
Mara snorted as she passed. "Leave those to oxen. You'll need arms like tree trunks and legs that don't buckle. That blade will break you before it saves you."
Shithead replaced the greatsword with care, returning to the longsword. It wasn't glory that mattered. It was what endured.
Eryk, quiet as always, selected a spear of ash wood tipped with iron. He spun it once, neat and controlled, before planting its butt on the ground. He said nothing, but the way his pale eyes narrowed at the weapon showed approval.
Talia, predictably, picked the lightest spear she could find and twirled it with exaggerated flair, nearly clipping Mara's ear.
Mara slapped the shaft with her hand. "You'll spear yourself before the Trial even starts."
Talia only smirked, though her cheeks flushed red.
For herself, Mara hefted a heavy-headed mace, its steel ridged for crushing armor. She swung it once, the air cracking around it. "Good weight," she muttered, satisfied.
"Subtle as a falling boulder," Talia said dryly.
"That boulder will save your life," Mara shot back.
Joren kept his longsword, but added a short parrying dagger to his belt, testing its edge with a thumb. He turned to the juniors. "Balance is everything. A weapon is no good if it leaves you blind to your weakness."
The squires moved them along to supplies: packs filled with dried meat, coarse bread, flint and steel, spare cloak pins, simple rope. Three days' rations were handed out.
"Three days," Mara muttered as she weighed hers in her palm. Her rust-colored brows drew low. "Which means five."
Shithead frowned. "How do you know?"
"Because they always give less than they should," Mara said flatly. "Better to carry more than curse your empty hands."
Joren gave a quiet grunt of agreement, though he added, "Weight will drag you faster than hunger. Pack clever, not proud."
When the outfitting was done, their group stood together beneath the arches, cloaks clasped at their shoulders, shields on their backs, weapons at their belts. The hall rang with the noise of other companies laughing too loud, boasting of steel, trying to cover their fear with bravado.
Across the room, Shithead saw Brina staggering comically under the weight of a mace too big for her frame, laughing all the while. Calder fiddled with the straps of his small round shield, nerves plain on his face. Dorian polished a gleaming blade with a scrap of cloth, sneering at anyone who dared glance at him.
Shithead tightened his grip on his longsword, remembering his father's words: It's not the tool that makes the work, boy. It's the hand that holds it steady. He exhaled slowly and fastened the scabbard at his hip.
Outside, Joren called them to a halt in the yard. "Tonight you test your gear. Tomorrow the Trial begins. Know your weapon's weight. Mend what frays. Sleep light. At dawn, you will have no more time for doubts."
Talia gave a crooked grin, trying to mask her nerves. "Sounds like fun."
"Sounds like death if you treat it like fun," Mara growled.
Eryk's quiet voice cut through both. "Then treat it like survival."
Shithead nodded, his hand brushing the hilt of his longsword. Survival — yes. That he could carry.