The frost had not yet melted when Shithead's company stepped into the yard after breakfast. Unlike the usual drills, no knights waited with whistles or barked commands. Today was theirs alone. The Trial was too close for handholding. If they could not shape themselves into a wall now, no amount of shouting from instructors would save them when they were out in the wild.
Mara set her mace down in the dirt with a heavy thud. "We're not wasting this morning swinging like fools. The Trial won't test you alone — it will test the wall."
Talia groaned, tugging her cloak tighter. "Why always the wall? I thought this was supposed to be about surviving the wild, not parading like soldiers."
Mara's eyes narrowed. "And what happens when you meet a pack of wolves? Or bandits with blades? Think you'll hold them off by dancing around with your spear?"
"Maybe," Talia muttered, though her smirk faltered.
Joren stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, his longsword gleaming at his hip. His voice was steady, measured. "The wall is more than defense. It's discipline. Alone, you'll break. Together, you're harder to move than stone. That's why the Order drills it into you from the first day. It isn't just to fight. It's to endure."
He let his words hang in the cold air, watching them. "The Trial ends at the gates. That means surviving long enough to march back as one. You will need the wall at the end as much as the beginning."
The words settled over them like cold iron. Shithead shifted, adjusting the weight of his shield on his arm. The thought of stumbling back toward the gates after days in the wild, leaning on one another just to stay upright, sent a shiver down his spine. The wall wasn't just about holding the line in battle. It was about holding one another up when everything else fell away.
"Form up," Mara barked.
Shithead took his place at the center, Eryk steady to his right, Talia to the far left, Mara anchoring behind, Joren standing just outside to watch. The air filled with the scrape of shields locking together, the faint clatter of weapons shifting into place.
"Step forward on my count," Joren said. "Strike together. One. Two. Three."
The wall surged forward as one, shields slamming with a dull thunder. Not perfect — Talia's spear jabbed too far, leaving her flank open, and Shithead felt his own shield dip under the weight.
"Again," Mara snapped.
They reset. Again. Again. Over and over until Shithead's shoulders burned and his arms shook. The rhythm wavered at first — a half-beat late here, a stumble there — but slowly, painfully, it began to steady. Eryk's spear became a constant presence at his side, steady and precise. Talia, though prone to overreach, began pulling her thrusts tighter, listening to Mara's sharp corrections.
The strain bit deeper as they kept at it. Shithead's breath frosted the air in ragged bursts. His boots slipped on the frozen mud, nearly pitching him forward once, and only Eryk's shield edge slamming against his own steadied him. The jolt rattled through his teeth.
"Hold your weight, half-blood!" Mara growled. "If you fall, we all fall."
Shithead gritted his teeth and dug in harder. Talia shot Mara a glare, sweat shining on her brow. "You always talk like you're carrying the whole wall yourself."
"Maybe I am," Mara shot back. "Maybe you'd see it too if you stopped waving that spear like a flag in the wind."
Before Talia could snap, Eryk's voice cut in, calm but sharp. "Enough. The wall doesn't stand with bickering. Focus."
The command in his tone surprised even Shithead. Talia blinked, then muttered something under her breath, but she adjusted her stance. Mara grunted and fell silent. For the next few strikes, the rhythm held tighter than before.
Shithead's shield arm went numb, not from lack of strength but from the sheer grind of holding the same weight, again and again. His fingers ached where the leather bit into his palm, sweat slicking the grip until it froze against the metal rim. Each slam forward felt like a hammer against his bones, and still Mara barked for more. The rhythm became all he knew—breath, step, strike, hold—until even his thoughts blurred into the pattern.
At last Joren raised a hand. "Enough."
They broke formation, shields dropping, breath clouding the cold morning air. Talia groaned, flopping onto the ground. "If I hear 'again' one more time, I'll spear myself just to be done with it."
Mara rolled her eyes. "If the Trial doesn't kill you, your mouth will."
Eryk, as ever, said nothing. He leaned on his spear, pale eyes thoughtful, breath even despite the hours of practice.
Shithead sank onto the frost-crusted earth, sword resting across his knees. He stared at the steel, still new enough to gleam despite the scuffs of practice. The wall was no simple drill. It was their last lifeline, their last defense when hunger, cold, and fear came to drag them down.
"Good," Joren said finally. His voice was flat, not praise, not condemnation — only truth. "Better than yesterday. But remember this: the wall is only as strong as its weakest stone. Learn to cover one another's cracks. Or you will all break together."
The silence that followed was heavier than the clamor of their training. Shithead gripped his sword tighter, the truth of Joren's words pressing against him like the weight of a shield.
They shifted to sparring as the sun climbed. This time Joren paired them off, forcing each to learn the limits of their weapons.
Shithead faced Eryk first. The spear darted at him like a striking snake, always just outside his reach. He swung the longsword in broad arcs, but Eryk's point tapped his chest, shoulder, thigh. By the fourth strike, frustration boiled in him.
"Don't chase the spear," Joren called. "Close the gap."
Shithead snarled, lowering his stance, and the next thrust he battered aside with his shield. He surged forward, sword edge hovering at Eryk's neck. Eryk only nodded, pale eyes flicking to the space between them — narrow, but held. Lesson learned.
Then came Talia. She darted and laughed, her spear a blur of jabs. Shithead blocked one, two, three, only for her to slide past and tap his ribs with the butt. "Too slow, orc-blood!" she crowed, grin wide.
"Too cocky," Mara said flatly. She strode in, disarmed Talia with a brutal sweep of her mace's haft, and shoved her to the dirt in one motion. Talia yelped, rolling over with her braid half undone, face red as she scrambled up.
"Again," Mara growled, thrusting the spear back at her.
Shithead smirked despite his aches. Even he couldn't deny Mara was terrifying when she wanted to be.
When it was Mara's turn against him, Shithead realized quickly why no one ever mocked her in the yard. Her mace slammed into his shield like a battering ram, rattling his arm to the elbow. He blocked, staggered, and tried to counter — only for her to knock the blade wide and bring the heavy haft up under his chin with practiced ease. She didn't strike hard enough to break bone, but the message was clear. Against her, strength alone meant nothing.
At last Joren drew his longsword, stepping into the ring. Shithead braced, blood pounding in his ears. Their blades met in a spray of sparks, Joren's movements precise, economical. He didn't waste breath, didn't waste motion. Within seconds he had Shithead off balance, his blade angled to his throat.
"You're strong," Joren said, withdrawing the steel with practiced ease. "But strength is only half the fight. Learn timing. Learn patience."
The clang of steel echoed long into the morning, but for the first time, the company wasn't simply a group of initiates thrown together. They were beginning to move like one.
The yard had quieted by midday, the worst of the morning's frost melting into mud. The companies were given leave until supper — time to mend gear, sharpen blades, or simply rest before the Trial pressed them into the wild.
Shithead found himself sitting on a low stone wall near the stables, his longsword balanced across his knees. A whetstone scraped softly as he worked the edge, the steady rhythm calming the restless beat of his heart. Every pass of stone over steel reminded him of the Trial waiting just beyond the horizon.
Eryk settled beside him without a word. His spear lay across his lap, the ash wood shaft polished until it gleamed. He worked a rag along its length in smooth, measured circles. As always, his silence was steady, almost calming.
Calder arrived last, burdened by a bundle of cloak straps that trailed behind him like a tangle of vines. He plopped down onto the wall with a dramatic groan. "If I trip over one more strap tomorrow, just leave me where I fall. Tell the knights it was a noble sacrifice."
Shithead snorted. "You'd trip over your own shadow if it stood still long enough."
Calder pointed the needle in his hand like a dagger. "And yet I'm still alive, while that shadow is not. You'll thank me when my clumsiness distracts the enemy long enough for you to win the fight."
The corner of Eryk's mouth twitched — the closest he ever came to laughter. The fleeting expression lightened the air, if only for a breath.
For a while they worked in companionable silence. Shithead's whetstone whispered against steel. Eryk's rag rasped softly over wood. Calder muttered curses as he stabbed the needle into straps that refused to behave.
But silence could only hold so long. Calder broke it first.
"Do you ever think about what happens if we fail?" His voice was softer than usual, stripped of its usual jokes. He didn't look up, eyes fixed on the strap in his hands. "Not just getting dismissed — I mean… what if one of us drags the others down?"
The question hit heavier than he intended. Shithead's whetstone stilled mid-stroke. Eryk's hands froze around the rag.
"I think about it every night," Shithead admitted.
Eryk's voice came next, low and calm, though his fingers tightened on the shaft of his spear. "My family would say failure proves you were never chosen. They prayed for strength every morning and cursed weakness every night. If you stumbled, if you doubted, it meant Aureon's light had passed you by."
Calder looked up, startled. "That's… harsh."
Eryk shrugged, though the movement was stiff. "Harsh, but true in their eyes. My brother could heal a sparrow's wing with his first prayer. My sister lit candles without flint. I struggled to raise even a spark. To them, I was little more than a shadow." His jaw tightened. "When the riders of the Order came, my parents didn't fight to keep me. They handed me over like they'd been waiting for someone to take the burden away."
The words fell like stones. For all Eryk's silence, this glimpse into his past felt like a wound laid bare.
Shithead's chest tightened. He thought of his own childhood — the way villagers whispered, the way strangers looked at his face and saw only orc blood. He knew too well what it meant to be treated as unwanted. Different. A mistake.
"You're no shadow," Shithead said firmly. "I'd trust your spear at my side over anyone's. You've steadied me more times than I can count."
For the first time, Eryk's pale eyes lifted to meet his. Something softened there, a crack in the stone. He gave a slow nod.
"I remember once," Eryk said quietly, "when my brother broke his arm falling from a ladder. They told me to pray. To call the light. I pressed my hands to him until they bled from gripping, begged Aureon to hear me. Nothing. My sister walked in, laid a hand on him, and the bone knit like it had never broken. My parents never looked at me the same after that. Neither did I."
Calder shifted, tugging the strap tight. "And here I thought I had it bad. My family weren't cruel, just… disappointed. Always waiting for me to be something I wasn't. My brother's a stonemason, arms like tree trunks. My sister keeps a ledger neat enough to make merchants weep. Me? I trip over doorsteps. Can't lift a barrel without dropping it. And somehow I'm meant to hold a shield wall."
His voice wavered. He laughed quickly to cover it, though it rang hollow. "Suppose the gods have a cruel sense of humor."
Shithead set his sword aside. "Maybe. Or maybe they see something the rest don't."
Both pairs of eyes turned toward him. The words came rough, pulled from a place he rarely let others see.
"You've both said what your families thought of you. But you've never asked what the village thought of me. I was the monster's child. Mothers pulled their children away when I walked past. Strangers spat when I came too close. I didn't need to fail for them to see me as unworthy. I was born with it written on my face."
The silence after was heavier than any drill.
"Maren and Elira fought for me," Shithead continued. "They raised me. Loved me. But the world? The world looked and saw an orc's blood, not theirs. I've spent my whole life proving I'm not what they think I am. And here, with all of you watching — I still wonder if it's enough."
Neither Calder nor Eryk spoke at first. The weight of his words lingered between them. Then Calder leaned forward, needle forgotten, his grin nowhere to be seen.
"You're more than enough," Calder said. "I've seen men twice your size break under half the weight you carry every day. And I don't mean shields. I mean this." He tapped Shithead's chest with the blunt end of the needle.
Eryk's gaze was steady, pale eyes unblinking. "When you hold the line, I don't see orc blood. I see someone I'd trust more than anyone else on that field."
Shithead swallowed hard. The words cut deeper than any insult ever had, but not in pain. In something sharper. Something stronger.
Calder exhaled shakily, then forced a grin back onto his face. "Then it's settled. Whatever happens in that Trial, we don't forget this. Fail, pass, dismissed — doesn't matter. Brothers still."
"Brothers?" Shithead echoed, startled.
Calder held out the strap he'd been mending, looping it like a rope. "Brothers."
Eryk hesitated only a moment before resting his hand over Calder's. Shithead followed, rough fingers pressing down over both.
The three of them sat there on the wall, hands stacked, the cold forgotten for a heartbeat.
"No matter what," Shithead said quietly.
"No matter what," Eryk echoed.
Calder grinned, eyes bright despite the tremor in his voice. "Then it's a pact."
They pulled apart at last, and the world returned — the clamor of the yard, the smell of straw from the stables, the distant clang of other companies training. But the air between them had changed. Heavier, yes. But also stronger.
They weren't just initiates anymore, or rivals split between companies. They were brothers, bound not by blood, but by choice. And that, Shithead thought, might be enough to carry them through the dark.
The hall still rang with noise after supper. Too much laughter, too many voices straining against the weight of tomorrow. Shithead slipped away into the yard, searching for quiet.
Frost slicked the flagstones, and the night air stung his lungs. A brazier smoldered by the training ring, its coals spitting sparks into the dark. Joren sat alone beside it, cloak drawn tight, longsword across his knees. He polished the steel with slow, steady strokes, as though the blade itself might listen to him if he was patient enough.
"You eat fast," Joren said without looking up.
"Too many voices," Shithead muttered, lowering himself onto the bench across from him. "I'd rather hear the fire than Calder's chewing."
A ghost of a smirk crossed Joren's mouth. "That much is plain."
For a while they sat in silence, the hiss of coals filling the yard. Then Shithead asked the question that had gnawed at him for weeks.
"Why do you watch me more than the others?"
Joren paused mid-motion, cloth hanging limp in his hand. His scar caught the firelight as he studied Shithead, then he set the blade aside.
"Because you carry too much," he said simply. "You think strength means bearing the whole wall yourself. But one stone can't hold a wall. If it tries, it cracks—and when it cracks, the whole wall falls."
The words cut deep. Shithead's grip tightened on his knees. "And you care if I break because…?"
Joren's voice was quiet, but sharp. "Because I've stood where you are. I passed my first Winter Trial last year. Barely. I thought I was ready for anything. I wasn't. I faltered, worse than you'd believe. The only reason I'm still breathing is because my company carried me when I couldn't carry myself." He leaned forward, eyes hard. "The Trial doesn't test if you are strong enough. It tests whether your company is."
Shithead frowned. "You? Faltering?" He couldn't picture it — Joren, scarred and steady, stumbling in the snow.
Joren gave a humorless laugh. "Don't fool yourself. Everyone falters. That's why Aureon made us into companies instead of blades."
The brazier cracked, sparks leaping upward. Shithead stared into the fire, then asked, "Why do they call you 'Ser Joren' if you haven't taken the Oath?"
The smirk returned, wry and bitter. "Half respect. Half mockery. They say I don't age the way they do. And they're right."
He pulled back his hood. Firelight sharpened his features — the faint point of his ears, the too-smooth skin at the corners of his eyes. A trace of elven blood whispered in every angle.
"My mother was human. My father… wasn't. Elf blood slows the years. I look a little older than you, but I've seen thirty-five winters."
Shithead blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Thirty-five?"
Joren nodded. "Most of you are pulled to the Order as children, or offered up by families who don't want the burden of you. Others come when they're old enough to hear the call themselves. I was thirty four when I chose to walk through these gates."
"Chose?"
Joren's lips thinned. "Some are summoned. Riders of the Order visit villages, temples, cities — hunting for sparks of grace. A boy who prays and finds his wounds closed. A girl who speaks, and her voice carries like a bell across the square. They take them young, before the world dulls them." He shook his head. "I wasn't one of those. My grace didn't show until later. When it came, it was a fire I couldn't put out. I felt… pulled here. Drawn like a moth to a lantern."
Shithead listened, spellbound. This wasn't the Order as he had imagined it — not only recruiting the young, but waiting, watching, calling.
"I thought," Joren continued, "that being older would make it easier. That I'd walk in with strength, with sense, with years to steady me. But the Order doesn't care for age. Aureon doesn't either. Human, elf, orc — it makes no difference. All kneel on the same stone floor. All freeze under the same stars."
Shithead's chest tightened. "So why keep kneeling?"
Joren's gaze fixed on him, unblinking. "Because the light doesn't let go once it takes hold. I've seen men try to run from it, drown it in drink, smother it in silence. They waste away faster than those who fail the Trials. It clings. It demands. And if you don't give it shape, it burns you hollow."
The fire popped. Shithead shivered, not from the cold.
"You could've hidden," he said. "If you're older, stronger — why put yourself through this?"
Joren's laugh was bitter. "Because strength doesn't matter. Grace doesn't matter. The Oath matters. Until you stand before the altar and swear your life to Aureon, you're nothing but a spark waiting to be snuffed." He leaned closer, his scar stark in the glow. "And I'll only have one chance left. One more Trial. If I fail this winter, there is no next year. No waiting. I'll leave these walls as nothing."
Shithead swallowed. For him, there was still another chance — a second year, a second Trial. For Joren, there was none.
"How do you carry that weight?" he asked quietly.
Joren's eyes returned to the coals. "You don't carry it. You share it. Or it crushes you." He looked up again. "That's why I watch you. You're different, like me. Difference always draws fire. But it can also bind a company closer than blood if you let it."
The words hit deeper than steel. Shithead found himself staring at Joren not as a senior, but as something closer to a mirror. Another stone in the wall, marked by difference, refusing to break.
Joren rose, slinging his sword over his back. "Get some rest, half-blood. Tomorrow will be long enough without carrying tonight on your shoulders too."
He turned and walked into the dark, cloak vanishing into the frost-laden shadows.
Shithead lingered by the brazier, heart hammering, the fire's warmth fading from his skin. Thirty-five winters. Elf blood. One Trial left. He closed his eyes, the truth settling heavy in his chest:
The Trial wasn't only the measure of his own worth. It was the crucible where brothers were made or broken, and where even sparks — late or unwanted, different or feared — had to prove they could burn.
The dormitory was quieter than it had ever been. The usual snoring, whispered jokes, and muffled laughter had been replaced by the slow, deliberate sounds of preparation: the rasp of whetstones, the creak of leather straps pulled taut, the shuffle of boots being re-laced for the third or fourth time. Every initiate knew that tomorrow, whatever they carried in their hands might be the only thing standing between them and dismissal — or worse.
Shithead sat cross-legged on his cot, his shield leaning against the frame, his longsword laid across his lap. He rubbed oil into the blade, working it into every inch of steel until it gleamed in the lamplight. His movements were steady, but his thoughts were restless. He caught Eryk across from him, just as silent, polishing the head of his spear until the ash shaft looked pale as bone.
Talia muttered curses under her breath as she unrolled her pack again, counting the rations for the third time. "Three days' worth, and they'll expect us to last five. I know it."
"Good," Mara said, without looking up from her own pack. She was checking every strap with the precision of a soldier who had lived and died by her gear before. "Better to know it now than when you're empty-bellied and two days from the gate."
Talia groaned and slumped back on her cot. "I hate that you make sense."
"You'll thank me tomorrow," Mara replied, her tone sharp but not unkind. She glanced briefly toward Shithead. "You, half-blood. Check your straps twice. You're carrying more weight than the rest of them."
Shithead gave a curt nod, pulling the strap of his shield harness tight until the leather bit into his palm. He was strong enough to bear it, but her words weren't only about strength. He understood that much now.
At the far end of the room, Joren leaned against the post of his cot, his sword resting across his knees. He hadn't touched his pack in nearly an hour, yet none of them doubted it was already prepared down to the last thread. His dark eyes swept over them, steady, quiet, measuring.
"You'll never feel ready," Joren said at last, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, but it carried across the room. "No matter how many times you count your rations or oil your steel. Tomorrow, the Trial will strip you down to what you really are. The question is whether you trust what's left."
No one answered. The fire in the brazier hissed as a coal split, sparks briefly lighting their faces before fading again.
Shithead tightened his grip on his sword hilt, his brothers' words echoing in his memory: No matter what. He thought of Calder, far across the room in his own company, huddled over his gear with the same worry gnawing at his face. The pact they had made wasn't something the knights could dissolve. That bond, he told himself, would carry them both through, even if they never marched side by side again.
Mara's voice cut the silence once more. "Enough staring at the dark. Get some rest. Tomorrow will come too soon, and it won't care if you're tired."
Talia muttered something under her breath, but she obeyed, curling into her cloak. Eryk stretched out, silent as stone, his spear lying within arm's reach. Shithead set his sword aside, pulling his blanket over his shoulders, but his eyes lingered on the rafters above.
The room grew quiet. Only the creak of cots and the whistle of wind through the shutters broke the stillness. For a long while, Shithead listened to the breathing of his company — five heartbeats bound together by fate, soon to be tested in frost and shadow.
He closed his eyes, forcing his thoughts into silence. For tonight, they were still safe. For tonight, they were still five.
Tomorrow, the Trial would begin.