The ridge fell away behind them, and the trees rose tall and black before them, a wall of trunks and tangled branches crowding close as though the wild itself meant to bar their path. Snow clung heavy on the boughs, bending them low, and the air beneath was thick with shadow. Even at dawn, the light faltered, pale beams striking the canopy and breaking apart into dim shards that left the ground mottled in gray.
For a long moment, the five of them simply stood at the edge of that wood, the wind stiff at their backs, the last expanse of open hills rolling out behind. Beyond the treeline, sound itself seemed to vanish. No wind moved there. No bird called. Only silence.
"The shrine lies within," Joren said at last. His voice was low, but steady. He rested a hand on the pommel of his sword as though grounding himself. "Half a day's march, if the paths favor us. Longer, if they twist."
Talia gave a short, sharp laugh that cracked like ice. "If they twist? That's all the forest does." Her breath came quick, fogging around her face. "I heard Calder say last year one company walked in circles for two days before they realized they'd been passing the same tree."
Mara shot her a look that could have cut stone. "And they failed. Is that the story you want us walking with?"
Talia pressed her lips tight, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her.
Eryk crouched near the treeline, brushing snow from a cluster of roots. His pale eyes studied the ground with slow precision. "The paths are here. Deer use them. Wolves too. The shrine won't be marked, but the land leads. You just have to know how to read it."
Shithead shifted his pack higher, the straps biting into his shoulders. He stared into the trees, the weight of them pressing forward like some vast, waiting thing. It felt different from the hills — not empty, not indifferent, but watchful. The silence inside seemed to press against the skin, listening, waiting for them to step wrong.
"Then we read it," he said, voice low. "And we keep together."
Joren's scar caught the morning light, pale against his weathered skin. "We keep together," he echoed. Then, without another word, he stepped forward into the dark.
One by one, they followed.
The forest swallowed them.
The shift was immediate and suffocating. The open air vanished, smothered by low branches heavy with snow. The sky disappeared behind a roof of tangled limbs, so that even the pale winter light seemed choked into gray gloom. The ground was uneven, roots rising like knotted veins beneath the frost, each one waiting to trip a careless boot.
Their breath sounded too loud. Each crunch of snow beneath their feet cracked like a drum in the stillness. Shithead felt sweat prickle beneath his cloak despite the cold. It wasn't exertion. It was the weight of silence pressing in on all sides.
Talia muttered constantly under her breath — prayers, curses, half-formed jokes that landed flat in the frozen air. After a time, Mara snapped.
"Quiet."
"If I stop talking, I'll hear them," Talia whispered back.
"Hear what?" Shithead asked, though part of him didn't want to know.
"The wolves," she said, eyes flicking from shadow to shadow. "They've been following since last night."
Eryk's pale gaze slid sideways, unblinking. "They have. But wolves don't strike when the pack is strong. They wait. They test. We keep moving, and they'll keep waiting."
"That's supposed to help?"
"It should," he said simply, and moved on.
The path wound deeper, splitting and folding in ways that seemed to blur together. One moment they were following a clear track between two ridges, the next it forked three ways without sign of which was true. At each branch, Joren paused, crouching to study the snow, fingertips brushing against tracks nearly swallowed by the last flurry.
"North," he would say, or, "This way," without explanation. And they followed.
Once, when he lingered longer than usual, Talia let out a sharp breath. "You do know where you're going, don't you?"
Joren looked back at her, his face unreadable. "No. That's the point."
Her mouth opened, but no words came.
Mara's low voice cut the silence that followed. "If you can't hold your tongue, hold your fear. Both make too much noise."
Talia flushed red, but she fell back into line.
Shithead glanced at Joren as they moved again. The older boy's stride never faltered, his scar catching each sliver of gray light that broke through the canopy. There was no arrogance in him, no swagger. Just calm endurance.
The forest deepened.
By midmorning, the cold grew sharper, the air heavy with the smell of pine and damp earth. Snow clung to branches overhead, dropping in heavy clumps when disturbed. The weight of silence thickened until every sound — the crack of ice, the snap of a twig — sent nerves prickling.
Shithead kept his hand near his sword more often than not. He thought of Calder's crude wooden wolf, heavy in his pocket, and wondered if his friend's company had already entered these woods. Somewhere ahead, perhaps. Or somewhere behind, their boots muffled by the same snow.
At last, Joren raised a hand, halting them.
The trees opened into a clearing, small and ringed with bramble. In its center stood a fallen pine, half-rotted, its trunk blackened by old fire. Tracks led through the snow here — dozens of them, pressed deep. Too large for deer. Too many to be stray hunters.
"Wolves," Eryk said softly, kneeling to touch the prints. "A whole pack."
Talia swallowed hard, her knuckles white on her spear. "How close?"
Joren's voice was calm. "Closer than we'd like. But not close enough to matter yet."
"And if they decide to matter?" Shithead asked.
Joren's eyes met his, steady and grim. "Then we find out if we're stronger than fear."
He motioned forward, and the five of them stepped back into the shadows of the trees.
The shrine was somewhere ahead. But the forest was not empty.
The forest swallowed them whole.
One moment the company had trudged across open frost, the ridges cutting the sky like jagged teeth; the next, they stepped beneath the first branches, and the world closed. The trees pressed together, tall and skeletal, their trunks ridged with frost, their crowns clawing at the gray sky until only shreds of light bled through. Sound shifted here—dampened, warped. Their own footfalls no longer rang crisp on stone but sank into the earth with dull thuds, muffled by roots and damp needles. Even the wind, sharp across the ridges, seemed to hold its breath.
They marched in a line, the path little more than a deer trail that twisted and doubled back on itself. Every tree looked like the last. Shadows lay deep and strange, twisting the undergrowth into shapes that seemed to shift when no one was looking.
"Half a day, he said," Talia muttered, voice low as though afraid to raise it. "More like half a life. This place swallows the sky."
"Keep your tongue," Mara growled. "The forest doesn't need your whining added to it."
Eryk's pale eyes scanned the trees. "The shrine lies straight north. If we keep our heading—"
"Straight?" Talia hissed. "Every tree looks like it's leaning a different way. You could walk straight here forever and never get anywhere."
Shithead said nothing. He felt it too—the disorientation, the way the shadows bent around them. The medallion might be half a day away, but the forest seemed determined to stretch every step into ten.
It was Joren who raised a hand. The company halted at once, breath misting in the dim light. Ahead, voices murmured—low, cautious, not yet aware of them. Shithead's hand went to the hilt of his sword.
The voices grew closer, boots crunching over frost. Shithead lifted his shield and glanced at Joren, who gave a subtle nod, signaling to hold formation. Branches parted, and five figures emerged from the gloom.
At their head was Calder, pale curls poking from beneath his hood, cheeks red from the cold. His grin was faint but real when his eyes found Shithead. Relief passed across his face so quickly it looked almost painful.
"Gods above," Calder muttered. "For a heartbeat, I thought we'd stumbled on Dorian's lot. I'd rather face the wolves."
The others spread around him in a loose half-circle, each distinct even in the dim light.
Selene, a half-elf with her black hair bound in tight braids, scar running jagged across her brow, leaned on her spear and studied them like a hawk sizing prey.
Bram, thickset and broad with a woodsman's axe on his back, muttered something under his breath that might have been a complaint or a curse.
Liora, small and wiry, auburn hair bright against the frost, flashed a quick grin before her eyes darted away, restless and sharp.
Durin, squat and square-shouldered, his beard frosted stiff, stood like a carved stone with a warhammer resting against his pack. His eyes, dark and steady, swept across Shithead's company without expression.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The forest pressed in, their breaths fogging the air, the silence sharp enough to snap.
Finally, Calder raised a hand in greeting. "Didn't think we'd find friends out here." His grin widened, though it looked brittle at the edges. "Or at least familiar faces."
Talia lowered her spear only slightly. "Depends what you mean by friends."
"Peace," Mara said flatly, stepping forward half a pace, mace heavy at her side. Her eyes didn't leave Selene's.
Joren, calm as ever, remained at Shithead's shoulder. His scar caught the light of their small fire, his hand resting on his sword's pommel without drawing it.
Shithead broke the standoff first. "We're not enemies. Not unless one of us wants to make it so." His gaze flicked to Calder, steady. "Do you?"
"Not in the least," Calder said quickly. His voice was smoother now, steadier. "We're both headed for the shrine. Same goal, same dangers. Safer to walk it together."
Selene's jaw tightened. "Or slower. Two companies make more noise, leave more tracks. Twice the risk."
Durin rumbled then, his voice low and gravel-deep. "Twice the shields, twice the spears. If the wolves come, I'd rather not count on one line of defense." His eyes moved to Shithead and lingered, measuring. "Though the half-orc looks strong enough to hold his share."
Shithead met his gaze. "I'll hold."
Durin gave a single, deliberate nod. Nothing more.
Bram spat into the frost. "Bah. More mouths to feed. That rabbit we caught barely filled five bellies, let alone ten."
Liora tilted her head, sling dangling loose in her hand. "Unless we catch more. The wild's bigger than our appetites, Bram."
"That's not the point," Bram growled.
"It is the point," Calder cut in sharply, his voice snapping like frost-bitten wood. "The Trial isn't about who eats more berries or who walks quieter. It's about who makes it back. And if I've got a chance to make sure you lot see those gates again, I'll take it. Even if it means standing beside him." He jerked his chin toward Shithead.
The air went still. Even Selene's spear wavered a hair before she steadied it again.
Eryk spoke, his pale voice quiet but firm. "We don't have enough food. We don't have enough strength. The wild will take any weakness it can find. Alone, either company might falter. Together, maybe not."
It was when Joren finally stepped forward. His scar caught the thin light, his eyes fixed not on Calder, but on Selene. "The Trial is about endurance. Endurance doesn't mean solitude. The wall is more than five men and women—it is every stone laid beside another. The Order won't say it plain, because they want to see if we'll think it through. But I'll tell you: camaraderie is strength. And strength is survival."
His words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable.
Mara's brow furrowed, but she gave no objection. Eryk inclined his head, pale eyes thoughtful. Even Talia lowered her spear, though her mouth was still tight with mistrust.
Selene's eyes narrowed, her voice sharp. "And when we reach the shrine? Who takes the medallion then?"
"One is enough," Mara said bluntly. "Each company only needs proof. There will be more than one."
Durin gave a grunt. "Aye. I've seen shrines like this before. Old dwarven markers, left in pairs or more. The builders knew not all would reach them at once."
That seemed to still the air. Selene's grip on her spear loosened, though she said nothing.
Calder looked between them, then smiled again—smaller this time, but genuine. "Then it's settled. We walk the forest together. At least until we're through the worst of it."
Selene studied Joren a long moment, then finally gave a curt nod. "Through the forest. No longer."
Joren inclined his head once, sealing the matter. "So be it."
Durin's gaze lingered on Shithead for a final moment before he said, "Then let's see if your wall holds as steady as you claim."
The tension eased, just slightly. Both companies shifted, instinctively forming a wider ring as though the forest pressed closer now that the words were spoken.
"Good," Calder said, clapping his hands once. "Then let's keep moving before we freeze into statues. The shrine won't come walking to us."
For the first time since leaving the Chapterhouse, Shithead felt something like hope stir beneath the frost. Two walls, marching as one—for now.
The forest thickened as they pressed deeper, the canopy closing like a vaulted ceiling. Light barely pierced the interwoven branches, and every path seemed to twist into another, half-frozen trails crisscrossing until direction itself felt like an enemy.
Calder's company and Shithead's wove their steps together in silence now, the awkwardness of their alliance slowly buried beneath the weight of survival. Boots crunched in rhythm, shields clinked softly against mail and leather, breath steamed and vanished. Every so often, Joren would raise his hand, studying the slant of the land or the way moss clung to the bark. Then they moved again, threading a course through the wild.
It was Durin, the dwarf, who finally rumbled low, his thick beard crusted with frost. "There. Smell the air. Stone sweats different this deep."
Selene frowned, but Eryk tilted his pale face upward. "He's right. There's something—" He stopped short, his hand tightening on his spear.
Then they saw it.
The shrine stood in a clearing where the trees bowed back, a circle of frost-cracked stone rising from the earth like ribs. In its center stood a single plinth, no taller than a man's chest, its surface covered in carvings worn smooth by centuries of wind and snow. Atop it rested the Sunstone Medallion—golden, no larger than a palm, glowing faintly as though it held the last warmth of the sun itself.
For a moment, both companies simply stared. No one breathed. After miles of cold and hunger, after endless twists of shadowed forest, the sight felt unreal.
"It's beautiful," Liora whispered, her sling forgotten at her side.
Mara's freckles burned in the pale light. "It's proof," she said firmly.
Together they stepped into the clearing. No knight waited. No test but the wild itself. Selene approached first, though her eyes flicked to Joren as though expecting him to object. He only inclined his head.
Selene reached out and took the medallion. The light flared faintly, then dimmed, its glow soft but steady. She let out a long breath and turned to hold it up where both companies could see.
"One for us," she said.
Durin grunted. "And one for them."
Sure enough, more medallions lay carved into the side of the plinth, half-hidden by frost. Mara brushed the ice away, revealing more golden disks beneath. She looked at Shithead, then at Eryk, then lifted one slowly into the air.
The two medallions caught the weak daylight and shone together. For that heartbeat, rivalry was forgotten. They had both endured. They had both reached.
Calder grinned, wide and fierce. "We're bringing them home."
Shithead's chest swelled tight. He closed his fist around Calder's carved wolf, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. "Together," he said.
The moment broke with a sound that froze every breath.
A howl. Long, low, and near.
Then another, answering from the other side of the clearing.
The companies shifted, weapons drawn, shields raised. The medallions glowed faintly in their hands as though Aureon himself had lit a torch against the dark—but the glow did nothing to drive back the sound of claws scraping frost.
Shadows flickered between the trees. First one pair of eyes, golden and hungry. Then three. Then a dozen. The wolves circled, their shapes sliding silent through the undergrowth, teeth bared, breath steaming white in the cold.
"They've been following us," Mara hissed.
"No," Joren said, his voice calm even now. "They've been herding us. To here."
The circle closed.
"Shields!" Selene barked. Her spear lowered, her back braced against Mara's.
"Wall!" Joren's voice rang out like steel struck against stone.
Shithead raised his shield, falling into place beside Calder. Eryk and Talia slid into line. Durin hefted his axe with both hands, beard bristling like a mane. The firelight of the medallions gleamed across their faces as the first wolf padded into the open, its shoulders high as Shithead's chest, its eyes burning with hunger.
The shrine had been found. Two of the medallions claimed. But the Trial had only just begun.
The wolves came in silence.
No baying charge, no reckless leaps. They slid from the tree line one by one, muscles coiled, paws silent on the frost. Their eyes burned in the gloom, a dozen golden lanterns circling closer. The air stank of wet fur and blood.
Shithead's shield felt suddenly too small. He lifted it anyway, planting his boots in the frozen soil. Beside him Calder hefted his spear, knuckles white on the shaft. Across the line, Mara and Selene braced back-to-back, their voices cutting sharp and steady.
"Hold."
"Wall."
The first wolf struck. It lunged low, teeth flashing for Eryk's leg. Eryk slid back a step, his spear darting quick as a snake, the iron point sinking deep into the wolf's shoulder. The beast yelped, twisted, and tried to drag the spear from his hands. Shithead rammed forward, shield smashing the wolf aside.
Then the pack broke.
They came in a rush, gray bodies surging from every side. Claws scraped shields, teeth sank into leather, snarls split the clearing. The companies shouted as one, their voices ragged but fierce, weapons hammering against fur and bone.
Talia screamed as one of the wolves barreled into her, knocking her flat. Its jaws gaped for her throat. She thrust her spear upward with both hands, the point driving through the roof of its mouth. Blood fountained hot across her face as the beast collapsed, twitching.
Durin roared, his hammer smashing a wolf in the spine. His beard was slick with blood—his own, or theirs, Shithead couldn't tell—but he planted his boots like roots and swung again. Each blow fell like an avalanche, scattering beasts back into the dark.
But for every wolf that fell, two more pressed in. They snapped at shields, tore at cloaks, darted for ankles. One lunged over Shithead's shield and clamped onto his shoulder, its weight driving him to a knee. Pain flared white-hot. He roared, slamming his forehead into the wolf's snout. Bone cracked. The beast yelped and let go, only to be speared through by Calder.
"On your feet!" Calder shouted, dragging him up by the strap of his pack.
Shithead staggered upright, blood soaking his cloak. The world had narrowed to teeth, steel, and breath. The wolves moved with dreadful cunning, darting in and out, testing their lines.
Then one found its mark.
With a blur of gray, a wolf broke past Durin's guard and slammed into Liora. The girl went down hard, her sling flying from her hand. The beast's teeth sank into her thigh, tearing deep. She screamed, a high, raw sound that cut through the chaos. Blood sprayed across the snow.
"Liora!" Selene cried. She spun, driving her spear into the wolf's side. The beast released its grip only to lunge again, froth flying from its jaws.
Mara was there first. She hurled herself between them, mace swinging. Bone shattered with a crack. The wolf fell twitching, its skull caved in. Mara dropped to her knees, one hand already pressing against Liora's torn leg.
"Hold the wall!" she bellowed. "I've got her!"
Eryk slid into her place, spear flashing, his face cold as ice. Shithead and Calder locked shields tight, forcing the wolves back step by step.
Blood pumped hot through Mara's fingers. The wound was deep, torn ragged by teeth, muscle shredded. Liora's face was white as snow, her breath coming in gasps.
"Stay with me," Mara growled. She pressed harder, lips moving in a harsh prayer to Aureon. Faint warmth flickered beneath her palms, light seeping into the wound. The bleeding slowed, though the flesh knit only shallowly. It would not heal clean. But it was enough to keep her alive.
Liora moaned, her hand clutching at Mara's sleeve. "Don't—don't leave me."
"You're not dying here," Mara said. Her freckles burned with sweat and frost. "Not while I stand."
The wolves pressed harder, sensing weakness. Joren's voice cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade.
"Circle tighter! Shields! Push them back!"
They obeyed. Step by step, they closed the gap around Mara and Liora. Bram swung his axe in brutal arcs, keeping the beasts at bay. Talia fought with wild ferocity, her spear darting like lightning, curses spilling from her lips. Eryk's pale eyes glowed in the gloom, his spear precise, unrelenting.
Shithead's arm throbbed where teeth had torn through leather, but he planted his shield firm, bracing Calder on one side and Joren on the other. For the first time, he felt it—not just the wall they had drilled in the yard, but the true wall. Flesh, bone, and will. Brothers and sisters standing when everything else wanted them broken.
The wolves lunged again. Steel flashed. Blood sprayed. The clearing rang with the clash of teeth and steel, with shouts and snarls.
At last, the pack faltered.
Three bodies lay sprawled in the snow, their fur black with blood. The rest circled wide, snarling, hackles raised. They prowled the tree line for a long, tense moment, then melted back into the forest. Their howls echoed once, twice, then faded into the distance.
The clearing fell still.
Shithead's chest heaved, his breath a ragged fog. Blood dripped from his arm, soaking into the frost. Around him, the others leaned heavy on weapons, their faces pale and grim.
Mara still knelt by Liora, her hands red to the wrists. The girl's breathing was shallow, but steady now. Alive.
"We can't carry her far," Mara said hoarsely. "But she'll walk, with help."
Selene's face was carved from stone, but her eyes shone. "Then we walk. No wolf will break us."
For a long moment, no one moved. Then Durin spat into the snow and hefted his axe. "No sense wasting good meat."
He was right. The fight had cost blood and strength. Their rations were thin already. To leave food and fur behind would be folly.
Together, they set to work. Calder and Durin slit the wolves' bellies, their knives flashing in the pale light. The smell was sharp and coppery, turning some stomachs, but none turned away. Shithead forced himself to kneel and help, his fingers slick with blood as they stripped the carcasses.
They worked in silence, save for the rasp of steel and the tearing of flesh. By the end, they had bundles of raw meat wrapped in cloth, pelts lashed to their packs. Heavy, but life-saving.
Shithead wiped his hands on the snow, the red never quite leaving his skin. "At least they'll feed us now."
"Better them than us," Mara said, still bracing Liora as she stood unsteadily.
The medallion gleamed faint in her other hand, its glow steady, unyielding.
By the time they staggered away from the shrine, the night had deepened. They found shelter in a shallow hollow beneath leaning pines, where the branches caught the drifting snow.
The fire hissed and spat as strips of wolf meat sizzled over the flames. The smell was thick and greasy, clinging to their cloaks, but it filled the hollow with a strange, rough comfort. Hunger made even bitterness taste like a feast.
Shithead chewed slowly, the fat running hot down his chin. The meat was stringy, heavy with iron, but it eased the gnawing in his gut. He leaned against his shield, too weary to sit straight, watching the fire blur and dance.
Across from him, Mara crouched beside Liora. The younger girl's face was pale, sweat beading along her brow, but her breathing had steadied. Mara had bound the wound with strips torn from her own cloak, the cloth already black with blood. Her hands trembled faintly as she finished knotting the bandage, though her face never broke its iron mask.
"She'll walk tomorrow," Mara said quietly. "Not far. Not fast. But she'll walk."
Selene reached across the fire, her voice tight. "That's because of you. Aureon keep you, sister."
Mara shook her head. "Aureon kept her. I just pressed the wound."
No one argued. The silence that followed was thick, the kind that came only after blood had been spilled together.
Calder broke it first, his grin crooked, his voice hoarse. "Well. We killed them, we cooked them, and we ate them. I'd say that makes us the real wolves now."
Durin snorted, his beard matted with grease. "Aye. Wolves with sore feet and empty skins."
Even Talia managed a chuckle, weak but real. "Better a sore wolf than a dead one."
The laughter faded quickly, but it left the fire warmer than before.
Joren sat apart, as always, his sword balanced across his knees. The firelight painted his scar in deep shadows, his eyes reflecting steady flame. When he finally spoke, the others stilled.
"The Order doesn't forbid alliance," he said. His voice was low, even, but it carried. "Nor do they bless it. What they want is proof. Proof you can endure the Trial. Proof you can hold together as one wall. Alone, or not, that is what they judge."
Durin raised a brow. "You're saying they won't care that we walked the same path?"
"I'm saying," Joren replied, "that Aureon's fire burns brighter when sparks catch together. They test our walls, yes. But walls stand stronger side by side. Even if the Order frowns, the wild does not. Out here, wisdom is survival."
Selene nodded, her gaze steady. "Then we walk as two walls until the wild is behind us. After that… each stands on their own again."
Mara grunted in agreement. "Better to divide when we're not bleeding."
Eryk, silent until now, turned a rabbit-bone spit between his long fingers. His pale eyes gleamed faint. "It is no weakness to recognize strength in another wall. Only a fool mistakes pride for survival."
Shithead listened, feeling the weight of the words settle into him. The Chapterhouse would sneer, no doubt, if they knew—accusations of weakness, of leaning on another wall. But out here, with wolves still howling in the distance and blood stiff on his cloak, the thought of parting ways now felt reckless. Calder's grin, Durin's roar, Selene's unflinching guard—he trusted them as he trusted Mara's iron, Eryk's calm, Talia's fire, Joren's scarred wisdom.
"Then tomorrow," Shithead said, breaking the silence, "we go together until the forest spits us out. After that…" He shrugged, staring into the flames. "Each wall finds its own gates."
Calder's grin softened, almost sincere. "Aye. But if the frost bites too deep, or the wolves howl again, don't think I won't drag your orc-blooded ass with me."
Shithead smirked, weary but real. "Try it, and you'll lose the other arm."
The fire crackled, sparks vanishing into the pines. Above, the sky stretched dark and endless, the stars sharp as frost. The two companies sat in a wide circle, backs heavy, wounds aching, but alive.
Alive mattered more than pride.
One by one, they drifted into silence. Some to sleep, some to watch, some to stare into the flames with eyes that saw more than fire.
When Joren took his turn at watch, he leaned on his sword and scanned the forest, his scar burning faint in the starlight.
"We endure," he murmured to the night. Not a prayer, not a vow—just truth.
The wolves had been beaten. The shrine had been found. The medallions gleamed faint in the packs of two companies. Tomorrow the march would begin again.
But tonight, firelight and wolf meat were enough.