The bells of the Chapterhouse tolled before dawn, their iron voices rolling across the cloisters and into the dark. The sound was heavy, not the clean summons of drill or meal, but the weight of judgment itself. Each peal seemed to rattle in the bones, echoing off the frost-slicked stones until it felt as though the walls themselves were shivering.
Frost clung thick to every surface, silvering the battlements, curling like veins across the flagstones, coating the cloisters in brittle lace. The cold was sharp enough to bite skin raw, each breath breaking into a plume of mist that hung in the air before vanishing into the darkness. Torches sputtered in their iron brackets, their flames dulled by the wind, casting more shadow than light.
The initiates gathered in the yard with packs strapped tight, shields slung across their backs, weapons at their sides. No one spoke above a whisper. Some muttered prayers under their breath, hands working at beads or charms hidden beneath cloaks. Others stood rigid, eyes fixed on nothing, lips pressed into hard lines as if afraid words might crack them. A few shifted anxiously, boots crunching frost in small, restless circles. This was no drill, no sparring match. The Winter Trial had begun.
Shithead stood among his company, the leather straps of his shield biting into his shoulder. The weight of his pack pulled at him, heavy with rations, cloaks, flint, and little else. It was not enough for comfort, only survival — and even that felt uncertain. He flexed his fingers against the cold, watching his breath rise and vanish in the dim light.
Beside him, Eryk's face was pale and unreadable in the torchlight, his pale eyes fixed straight ahead as though already marching in his mind. Talia shifted from foot to foot, spear clutched too tightly, her knuckles bone-white. Mara stood square as a wall, broad shoulders squared, mace hanging steady at her side, the frost glittering across her freckles. And Joren — calm, silent Joren — scanned the yard as though already measuring the march ahead, his scar catching firelight like a streak of iron across his face.
At the head of the yard, Knight-Preceptor Anselm lifted his staff. The fire of the braziers flickered and dimmed, though no wind had touched them. A hush fell over the initiates, as complete as snowfall. His voice carried low, steady, binding.
"You have been broken from stone and pressed into walls. You have been struck, humbled, mended, and struck again. Now the Order sends you into the frost not to fight men or beasts, but to face yourselves. The Trial is not conquest. It is not glory. It is endurance. Endurance in hunger. Endurance in cold. Endurance in fear. If you return, you will return as one. If you falter, you will falter as one. Aureon's light does not burn for the lone spark. It burns for the fire kept alive in company."
The words pressed down like the weight of stone. More than one initiate shifted uneasily, as though already feeling the bite of the frost and the hollowness of hunger gnawing at their bellies.
Anselm lowered the staff. The silence was complete, save for the hiss of the wind through the gates.
"The shrine lies in the hills," he said. "Two and a half days' march north. There you will find the Sunstone Medallion, left by those who endured before you. Bring it back as proof you carried Aureon's light through the wild. Do not return without it. Do not return without one another. Go now. Return, and be proven."
The gates groaned open, iron hinges screaming against the cold, spilling a gust of frigid air into the yard. Beyond, the land rolled away in silvered ridges, the first light of dawn just beginning to pale the eastern sky. The wild looked vast, empty, and waiting.
For a moment, no one moved. The weight of what lay beyond the threshold pressed down like a second frost. Then whispers spread, nervous, eager, fearful — initiates clutching at last words before the march, voices pitched low so as not to draw the attention of the knights.
Brina caught Shithead's eye from across the yard. Her grin was wide, but the edge of it trembled, her lips quivering before she forced them steady. She raised her fist in salute. "Try not to get lost out there, orc-blood. I'd hate to win our bet by default."
Shithead smirked back, though his chest felt tight. "Don't freeze before you make it halfway, so I won't have to worry about finding you."
Calder, pale beneath his curls, shuffled over quickly before the knights could bark him back into line. His eyes darted nervously, but his hand was firm as he pressed something small into Shithead's palm — a bit of carved wood, whittled into a crude wolf's head.
"For luck," he muttered. "Don't say I never gave you anything."
Shithead looked at it, rough but sturdy, the edges uneven where the knife had slipped. The wolf's muzzle was crooked, one ear chipped, but it was Calder's work, and that made it stronger than any talisman. He nodded once. "I'll bring it back."
"You better," Calder said. His voice cracked on the words, but he covered it with a crooked grin. "Brothers, remember?"
"Brothers," Shithead echoed, the word heavier now than it had ever felt before.
From the other side of the yard, Dorian's voice cut through the murmurs — smooth, proud, just loud enough to carry. "Keep your line straight, half-blood. The wild won't forgive a stumble." His company snickered behind him, but his eyes lingered longer than mockery alone demanded.
Shithead met his gaze. No words this time, only a nod. Dorian's chin lifted in answer. Rivalry, yes. But recognition, too.
A whistle snapped across the yard. The initiates broke apart, each company falling into step. The moment was over.
Mara hefted her mace. "Form up," she said, her voice quiet but unyielding.
The five of them moved together, slipping into line. Shithead felt the weight of the yard's eyes on their backs as they crossed the threshold. The gates boomed shut behind them, sealing the Chapterhouse away. The sound echoed like the final note of a hymn, and then the world beyond stretched wide and empty before them.
For a long time, no one spoke. Their boots crunched through frost, their breath came harsh in the cold, and the only sound was the creak of leather and the faint rattle of steel. The path northward wound into the hills, marked only by the vaguest track, half-swallowed by snow.
At last Talia broke the silence, her voice low and taut. "Two and a half days out, two and a half back. That's a week, if the weather doesn't kill us."
"Then we make it five," Mara said flatly, not slowing her pace.
Eryk's pale eyes narrowed against the wind. "Five, if we keep step. Less, if we don't."
Shithead shifted the strap of his pack, his shoulders aching already. He glanced back once, toward the Chapterhouse walls now distant behind them. For the first time since he'd come within them, he felt truly cut off. No bells. No watchful knights. Only his company, the road, and the cold.
Joren walked at the fore, his stride steady, his voice carrying back over his shoulder. "Keep pace. Don't waste your breath. The wild takes enough without you giving it more."
The hills rose higher ahead, ridges sharp against the paling sky. The wind grew keener, cutting through cloaks, biting at fingers and ears. Their first day had begun, and with it, the longest march of their lives.
The next hour continued in silence.
The company walked single file through the frost-hardened grass, the only sounds the crunch of boots and the faint clink of steel shifting on their backs. Every breath streamed white into the chill, each plume hanging before being torn away by the wind. The path wound steadily upward, shallow ridges rising against the dark, their slopes half-swallowed in snow. Above them, the sky had already drained of color, bleeding into dull iron gray as the sun vanished behind the hills. The air sharpened as the light dimmed, tugging at fingers and ears until it felt as though the cold itself were gnawing at their bones.
None of them wanted to break the stillness. It was not the companionable silence of the training yard, nor the strained hush of a drill. This was the hush of the wild — heavy, endless, indifferent. Speaking too loudly felt like inviting the hills themselves to stir and take notice.
When at last Joren raised a hand, they stopped. He had found a hollow tucked against a low rise, sheltered on three sides by bramble and stone. The brush clung thick and low, its thorns catching at the wind like claws, while the stone shoulder offered a barrier against the worst of the chill. It wasn't much, but in the wild, "enough" was luxury.
"This will do," Joren said, his voice flat, carrying just enough to reach them all. He didn't ask for opinions. He simply unbuckled his pack, drew out his flint, and knelt by a small pile of kindling Mara had already begun to gather.
By the time the fire caught — a narrow flame snapping and hissing against the frost-damp wood — they had formed a rough circle around it. Their shadows stretched long across the hollow, merging into the black beyond. The fire's glow barely touched the ridges above, leaving the world outside their circle a mass of shifting dark.
No one spoke at first. They ate in silence, chewing through strips of dried meat that cracked between their teeth, washing it down with water already sharp from the cold. The rations were bland, stiff, and unkind to the stomach, but the act of eating steadied them, gave rhythm to the moment. The fire offered only a little warmth, not nearly enough to thaw the ache in their fingers, but its light anchored them against the vast, hungry dark.
Talia broke first, poking the fire with a stick until sparks leapt skyward. "Does anyone else feel like the hills are watching us?" Her voice was restless, too loud, as though she feared silence more than anything.
Eryk looked up, pale eyes reflecting the firelight like shards of ice. "The hills don't care enough to watch."
"That's worse," Talia muttered. "At least if they hated us, I'd know where I stood."
Mara snorted, tossing another branch onto the flames. "If the hills hated us, they'd have swallowed us already. Be glad all they offer is cold."
Shithead glanced into the dark, Talia's words gnawing at him. The hollow seemed smaller now, the black ridges looming higher, as if crouching just beyond sight. He had grown used to the constant sound of the Chapterhouse: bells ringing, boots marching, instructors barking orders like hammers striking steel. Out here, the silence was vast and heavy, pressing against his ears until every snap of the fire sounded like a drum.
"You'll learn to live with it," Mara said, as though reading his thoughts. Her voice was low, firm, steady. "The first night's the hardest. You wait for the bells, for the walls, for someone else to tell you what to do. But there's no one. Just us."
"That's supposed to be comforting?" Talia asked, drawing her cloak tighter, hunching against the cold.
"It should be," Mara shot back. "Better to face the truth than cling to illusions."
Eryk set his bowl aside, folding his long fingers together, his voice quiet but steady. "She's right. The wild won't guide us. But we're still five. That's what matters. The wall doesn't end at the Chapterhouse gate. It walks with us."
Shithead frowned. "The wall? Out here?"
"Yes," Eryk said simply. "It isn't just for battle. It's discipline. When one weakens, the others hold. When one falters, the others carry. That's what will bring us back to the gates."
Shithead shifted, his shield heavy at his side. He remembered the bruising drills, the endless shouts of "Again! Again!" He had thought the wall was just another way to grind them down. But now, in the emptiness of the hills, the weight of Eryk's words sank deeper, anchoring him against the cold.
"Then we hold the wall," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Even here," Eryk replied, pale eyes steady.
Joren had been silent until then, seated with his back to the stone wall, his longsword stretched across his knees. His scar caught the firelight, carving his face into hard lines. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but every word carried.
"This Trial isn't meant to test your sword arm. It isn't meant to see how bright your spark burns. It's meant to strip you down. The cold, the hunger, the silence — they'll tear pieces from you until all that's left is what you really are."
His gaze moved from face to face. "Some of you will find strength you didn't know you had. Others will find cracks where you thought you were unbreakable. That's why companies pass or fail as one. Because alone, you won't last."
The fire popped, spitting sparks into the air. For a moment, no one breathed.
"Cheerful," Talia muttered, though her voice shook.
"It's truth," Joren said, without flinching. "The Order doesn't need children who can swing steel. They need brothers and sisters who can stand when everything else has fallen."
The silence that followed was no longer empty. Shithead thought of Calder, Brina, and Dorian — his first company, now scattered. He thought of the pact made by the stables, three hands stacked, voices swearing: no matter what. He thought of Mara's stubborn steadiness, Eryk's quiet calm, Talia's restless fire, Joren's scarred face and long winters. Five strangers bound by necessity, now his only chance to walk back through those gates alive.
He leaned forward, staring into the flames. "Then we don't break."
Mara gave a curt nod, her freckles glowing like embers. Eryk murmured quiet agreement. Even Talia's smirk returned, faint but real.
The silence pressed in again, but it no longer felt vast. It felt held — five breaths in rhythm, five shadows bound together by firelight.
When the last scraps of meat were gone and the fire burned low, they rolled out their bedrolls close together, the circle drawn tighter against the cold. Joren, ever deliberate, arranged the watch.
"Two hours each," he said. "No arguments. If anyone tries to take more, I'll wake the others myself."
Mara volunteered first. Shithead knew better than to argue; her eyes never wavered, her broad shoulders cut from stone.
Shithead took the second.
When Mara shook him awake, the cold cut deep, stiffening his joints as though the frost had crept inside his bones. He dragged himself upright, pulling his cloak tighter, sword in hand as he eased onto a stone near the fire. The coals had sunk low, glowing faintly, and he didn't dare feed them higher. Too much light might draw more than warmth.
The hollow was quiet, but not silent. Wind hissed faintly through the bramble. Once or twice, a fox barked sharp on the ridgeline, the sound carrying eerily through the stillness. The breathing of his companions grounded him: Mara's steady rhythm, Talia's restless shifting, Eryk's quiet stillness, Joren's measured breaths that sounded more like a man waiting than sleeping.
Shithead stared into the dark, the hills jagged against the star-pricked sky. He thought of Calder, of Mira's laughter, of Alan's strength. The fire's glow felt fragile, too small to hold those memories safe.
You'll break if you carry it all yourself. Joren's words echoed in his mind.
He gripped his sword tighter, whispering into the frost. "Then let the wall carry me."
When Eryk came to relieve him, the boy's pale eyes were unreadable. He didn't speak, only nodded once. Shithead laid down again, the straw of his bedroll biting cold, but for the first time since the Trial began, his breaths fell in rhythm with the others.
Eryk's watch passed without alarm. He kept his post as he kept everything else — silent, still, as though carved from frost itself. When he shook Talia awake near the end of his shift, she groaned and muttered curses, but rose all the same, spear clutched tight against her shoulder. Her braid hung loose now, a dark whip in the moonlight, and though she muttered about the cold, her eyes flicked ceaselessly to the brambles around their hollow.
The night dragged. The fire dwindled to embers, casting the faintest glow over the company. Shadows pressed close, and even Talia's restless humming could not push them back. She paced in slow circles, cloak drawn tight, until at last the east began to pale.
Dawn came grudgingly, thin light seeping into the hills without warmth. Frost clung to their cloaks, stiff as boards, so that they had to beat them against stones before strapping them on. Shithead's fingers were numb, his breath a pale cloud in the gray air as he cinched his pack. His back throbbed from the hard ground, his stomach gnawed at itself, but the company was already stirring.
Mara stamped out the last glow of the fire. "On your feet," she said, her voice low but iron. "We lose daylight with every breath you waste."
Talia groaned, pulling her cloak tighter. "If daylight were worth anything, it would keep me warm."
"Daylight won't feed us either," Shithead muttered, holding up a crust of bread so hard it nearly cracked his teeth. He chewed anyway, each bite dry as dust.
Eryk's gear was already in perfect order, spear strapped across his back. His movements were quiet, efficient, though his lips were cracked from the cold.
Joren lingered the longest, seated on a rock at the edge of the trail. His sword was belted, his cloak drawn close, but his eyes scanned the ridgeline as if measuring something invisible. At last he stood, boots crunching frost. One word, and nothing more:
"March."
So they marched.
The morning tested them harder than the first.
The deer trail narrowed and twisted uphill, its roots slick with frost, its rocks biting through boots. Each incline stole their breath, each step tugged at muscles already sore from the day before. Shithead's calves burned, his shoulders ached under the pull of his shield, and the leather straps of his pack dug deeper into raw skin. Talia stumbled often, cursing under her breath, and more than once Mara shoved her forward with a scowl that brooked no complaint.
"This isn't training," Talia muttered after her third stumble, voice sharp with fatigue. "This is punishment."
"It's endurance," Joren said flatly, without slowing his stride. "Bravery burns fast. Endurance carries you home."
"Then I'll bravely endure until I fall over," she snapped back.
Mara cuffed her shoulder hard enough to make her grunt. "Fall again and I'll drag you by your braid."
The company trudged on, their breaths ragged clouds in the bitter air. By midmorning hunger gnawed at them all. The dried meat from their packs tasted like leather, and the bread was too hard to chew without soaking it in icy water. They ate sparingly, knowing they had little enough to last the journey.
It was Eryk who spotted salvation. He crouched low beside a patch of thawed earth, brushing aside the snow with long, pale fingers. "Rabbit," he murmured, pointing to the tracks pressed into the soil. "Fresh."
Mara frowned. "A waste of time."
But Joren studied the prints, his eyes narrowing. He weighed the risk against the gnawing in their bellies, then gave a single nod. "Half an hour. Hunt it."
The trail was faint and winding, and the hunt clumsy at first. Shithead's boots crunched too loud, and Talia snapped every twig in her path. Twice they lost the line of prints, swallowed by snow and brush, but Eryk's sharp eyes found them again. He moved like a shadow, every step measured, every glance reading the earth.
At last the trail ended at a hollow log, dark and narrow. A flicker of movement betrayed their quarry. Talia's hand shot up, spear ready, but Joren caught her wrist before she could throw.
"Stone flies quieter than steel."
Eryk pulled a sling from his belt, slipped a pebble into the leather, and let it fly. The shot cracked sharp, echoing through the trees. The rabbit tumbled still.
It was small — far too small for five — but roasted over the fire it felt like a feast. They huddled close, their fingers greasy with fat, gnawing every shred from bone. Smoke stung their eyes, but none complained. Shithead licked soot from his knuckles, not caring. Talia sighed with relief, her grin wide.
"If every day's like this, maybe I'll survive after all."
Joren's flat look cut the warmth from her smile. "The wild doesn't feed twice."
When the last bones cracked empty, they stamped out the embers and pressed on.
The second day's march dragged like an anchor. The valley stretched longer than it had looked from the ridge, and every step across its frost-hardened floor stole another measure of their strength. Shithead's boots were stiff with ice from a shallow stream, his toes numb, his calves screaming. He gritted his teeth and said nothing. Complaints wouldn't warm him.
By midday the sky had closed in with gray. Snow sifted down in restless spirals, light at first, then thicker, until the trail blurred beneath their boots. The hills folded inward, ridge after ridge, each one looking the same. The world became nothing but gray sky, white snow, and the endless hiss of wind.
"Gods," Talia muttered, leaning on her spear, teeth chattering. "Are we even moving forward? Or are we circling the same cursed hill again and again?"
"Forward," Eryk said simply. He crouched, brushed aside the snow, and revealed a faint deer track beneath. "These trails are old. They all lead somewhere."
"Hopefully not straight into a wolf den," Talia shot back. Her laugh was brittle, quickly swallowed by the cold.
"Better wolves than your whining," Mara said without looking back. "At least wolves are useful."
Talia muttered under her breath, but she trudged on.
By early afternoon they reached a frozen stream that cut the valley like a scar. Its surface was glassy, groaning faintly under the weight of drifting snow. The trail vanished across it.
Joren crouched, pressed a gloved hand to the ice, listening. "It will hold," he said. "If we move one at a time."
"And if it doesn't?" Talia asked, eyes wide.
"Then you swim," Mara growled. She stepped forward first, boots crunching on the glass. The ice creaked beneath her weight, but it held. Step by step, she crossed, her mace heavy on her back, until she reached the far side. She didn't look back, only crossed her arms and waited.
Shithead followed. The ice quivered beneath him, each step a test of his weight. He kept his jaw clenched, eyes forward, until at last his boots hit the far bank. He exhaled only when his feet reached stone.
Eryk crossed next, light-footed, his steps barely whispering on the glass. Talia followed, muttering frantic prayers with every step. The ice shrieked once under her, sending a crack darting outward, but she lunged forward and stumbled onto the bank, collapsing with a cry of relief.
Joren went last, calm and unhurried. His boots pressed into the frost as though the ice itself bowed to him. He stepped onto the far bank with the same quiet certainty as he had left.
Talia's laugh was shaky, her face pale. "If we have to do that again, I'm turning back."
"No, you won't," Mara said, already moving.
The climb out of the valley was worse. The slope rose steep and cruel, slick with frost. Packs dragged them backward, boots slid out from under them, and every stone felt like a dagger against their knees. Shithead's arms burned from hauling himself upward. Halfway, Talia slipped. She shrieked as she slid, her spear clattering against the ice.
Shithead lunged, grabbing the strap of her pack. The weight dragged him down, and for a heartbeat both teetered on the edge of the fall. Then Eryk braced behind, shoving his shield into Shithead's back until the two of them steadied.
Talia gasped, face pale. "Gods above—I thought I was gone."
"You would have been," Mara said coldly from above. "If they hadn't held you."
"Then thank them," Joren snapped, his voice sharp. His gaze cut down at Talia until she lowered her head.
By the time they reached the ridge, their breaths came ragged, their limbs trembling. Beyond stretched the forest, dark and endless, its trees like spears stabbing into the gray sky. The shrine waited somewhere within—but still too far to reach before nightfall.
They made camp in a shallow hollow at the ridge's base, pine branches forming a roof that caught the snow. The fire sputtered at first, then burned low, casting long shadows across their weary faces. The rabbit was long gone, and their rations thinner than ever. Eryk returned with a handful of bitter winterthorn berries.
"They'll keep you alive," he said, passing them out.
The taste was sharp, almost sour, but they chewed greedily all the same.
Wolves howled closer that night. Not distant, but near — so near Shithead swore he could hear paws crunching frost just beyond the firelight. Talia gripped her spear until her knuckles whitened.
"They're following us," she whispered.
"They're hunting everything," Mara said, though her voice was tight.
Joren sat with his back to a tree, longsword across his knees, eyes fixed on the blackness. "Remember this sound," he said. "Tomorrow the trees will close around us. The wolves will sound further, but they will not be. The forest twists more than paths. It twists distance. Sound. Even time."
Talia swallowed. "And we're supposed to find a shrine in that?"
"Yes," Joren said. His gaze never wavered. "And you will. Or you won't return."
The fire popped, sparks vanishing into the dark.
When it burned low, Joren assigned the watch. "Two hours each. If anyone falls asleep, I'll know."
Talia groaned when she drew first watch, but she sat with her spear across her knees, cloak drawn tight, eyes darting to every flicker of shadow. The others tried to sleep.
Shithead woke to Mara's hand on his shoulder. His turn. He rose stiffly, fingers numb, and settled by the embers. The fire glowed faint, red against the snow. Shadows pressed close, every sound sharpened — the creak of branches under snow, the snap of ice in the stream, the low rasp of wind. Once he thought he heard something move in the brambles, and he gripped his sword until the noise faded.
The company breathed around him — Mara's steady rhythm, Talia's restless mutters, Eryk's stillness, Joren's almost-silent breaths.
When Eryk relieved him, Shithead lay back, though unease kept his eyes half open. He drifted in and out until a long, low howl split the night.
It froze him in place. The others stirred, hands tightening on weapons.
"Wolves," Joren murmured, calm, unmoving. "Far. But not far enough."
They listened until the sound faded. No one truly slept again.
Dawn came pale, reluctant. The forest loomed before them, its tangled branches knitting into shadow. Somewhere within lay the shrine — half a day's march, or longer if they lost their way.
Shithead adjusted the strap of his shield. The Trial was about to turn darker.