The last night in the forest was restless. The howls of wolves had faded to distance, but every creak of branch and sigh of wind still kept the companies alert. By dawn, their fire had burned to embers, and the hollow reeked of smoke, blood, and grease from the wolf meat they had cooked. No one lingered. Packs were strapped, cloaks drawn tight, and weapons belted at their sides.
They marched together through the undergrowth, two walls side by side, until the canopy began to thin. Light seeped down in wan streaks through the branches, and the smell of damp pine gave way to the sharper bite of open frost.
At the edge of the woods, Calder called a halt. His company formed a loose half-circle, their faces pale and drawn but alive. Selene leaned on her spear, her dark eyes steady on the horizon. Durin shifted the weight of his warhammer, his breath steaming in heavy clouds. Liora stood close to Mara, favoring her bandaged leg but refusing to falter.
Calder turned toward Shithead, his grin crooked though weariness lined his face. "This is where we part. The shrine was shared, but the path back won't be. If we return together, the Preceptors will have more questions than praises."
Selene snorted. "They'll call it weakness."
"Then let them," Calder said, his grin hardening. "We've got what we came for. That's proof enough."
Shithead met his eye, then glanced at the others. It felt wrong, splitting after blood had been spilled together, but he knew Calder was right. The Order frowned on too much unity between companies—endurance was supposed to be proven as five, not ten.
"Watch yourselves," Shithead said. His voice was rough from the cold. "The forest may be behind us, but the wild isn't."
Calder pressed his fist against his chest in salute, the motion sharp despite his exhaustion. "Brothers," he said simply.
"Brothers," Shithead echoed.
The two companies clasped hands—brief, firm, wordless. Then Selene turned and led Calder's company eastward along a deer trail that curved back through the trees. Their figures melted quickly into shadow, the last glimpse of Calder's pale curls vanishing behind a curtain of frost-laden branches.
Shithead's company stood alone at the treeline.
They stepped out into the open.
The shift was immediate. The air felt sharper, cleaner, but it carried no warmth. Snow lay in brittle patches across the hills, and the ridges rose pale and jagged against the gray sky. Behind them, the forest loomed like a black wall, its branches knotted tight as if resenting their escape.
For a moment, the five of them paused, shoulders sagging under the weight of packs and fatigue. Even with the medallion tucked safe in Mara's pack, there was no sense of triumph—only grim resolve.
Talia exhaled hard, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "I'd say I'll never step in a forest again, but odds are Aureon himself will send us through another just like it come spring."
Mara's voice was flat. "You'll live."
Shithead adjusted the strap of his shield, his shoulder aching where wolf's teeth had torn the leather. "Better the trees than the wolves."
"They're still following," Eryk murmured, his pale eyes scanning the treeline. "You may not hear them, but they don't give up so easily."
Talia muttered something sharp under her breath, but her pace quickened.
They pressed on into the hills, boots crunching frost. The silence of the forest lingered in them, heavy and unsettling, as though the trees still listened. Each step felt watched.
By midday, the path led them into a narrow defile where the ridges pressed close, stone rising steep on either side. Brambles clawed across the rocks, their thorns black against the snow. It was the only way forward unless they wanted to lose half a day circling wide.
Joren halted at the mouth of the passage. His scar caught the pale light, his face unreadable. He scanned the ridgeline, every muscle taut.
Shithead moved to his side. "What is it?"
Joren's hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword. "The forest spat us out here. But the wild doesn't always let go." His voice was low, certain. "Something waits."
Talia gave a brittle laugh. "More wolves?"
"No." Joren's gaze never left the ridge above. "Men."
Shithead's stomach tightened. He followed Joren's eyes—and there, for the briefest instant, a figure ducked behind stone. Too fast to be seen clearly.
His grip tightened on his shield. "He's right."
Mara hefted her mace, her freckles pale beneath the frost. "Then let them come."
Joren's voice was flat, final. "They already have."
The pass funneled them tighter until they walked single file, cliffs rising sheer on either side. Their breath steamed white in the chill, the crunch of boots sharp against the stone.
Then the crunch echoed back — wrong, doubled, out of step.
"Stop," Joren said.
The five froze. Shithead's hand went to his sword, shield lifting. His ears caught it too now — boots, close, waiting.
A laugh drifted down from the ridge. Harsh. Thin.
Six figures stepped into view on the rocks above, cloaks ragged, blades in hand. Not strangers — initiates, same as them. But their faces were hollow, their eyes fever-bright with hunger and cold.
At their head stood Veynar, a narrow-shouldered boy with sharp cheekbones and a wolfish grin. His cloak was torn, and his pack sagged nearly empty.
"You've saved us the trouble of starving," he called. "Hand over the trinket and walk away. You'll live, and so will we."
Shithead caught the way two of the rogues leaned heavy on their weapons, limping. Desperation, not strength, had driven them here.
Mara's mace lifted, her freckles pale with fury. "The Order teaches endurance, not theft. You've already failed."
"Failed?" Veynar barked a laugh. "Failure is freezing to death in some hollow while wolves pick your bones. Survival is the only lesson worth learning."
Talia spat into the frost. "Vultures."
Veynar's grin widened. "Better a vulture than a corpse. The knights never said how we had to pass. Only that we had to return with proof."
One of his companions — a girl with cropped hair and a scarred jaw — sneered down. "You carried it this far. That's enough proving, isn't it?"
Another, heavyset and pale girl chuckled low. "We'll even let you keep your boots. Fair trade."
Eryk's pale gaze tracked their movements, unblinking. "Six of you. Five of us. And yet you hide behind cliffs and ambush. You know you can't face us straight."
For a moment, the words hung heavy. The rogues shifted, uneasy — but Veynar's grin never faltered.
"Straight fights are for fools," he said. Then his eyes found Shithead, and his voice curled with venom. "And orc-bloods who think they're men."
Shithead felt the words like a stone in his gut, but he didn't let his face show it. He raised his shield, planting his boots firm. "If you want our medallion, you'll bleed for it."
The cropped-haired girl spat. "Then bleed you shall."
Joren's voice cut sharp. "You'll learn the Order's other lesson then — judgment."
Veynar raised his hand. The six rogues began to descend, steel flashing, their eyes hungry.
Joren's voice cut sharp as steel, calm but commanding. "Hold the wall. Do not break. They are no different than wolves — only hungrier."
The pass funneled tighter. The five closed ranks, shields locking, weapons braced.
The rogues surged down toward them.
The fight was about to begin.
They struck like wolves.
Rulf slammed into Shithead first, cudgel swinging. The blow hammered into his shield, wood shrieking, pain rattling through his arm. He staggered back, boots carving trenches in the snow. Another strike came down, brutal, fast—he caught it just barely, rim splintering.
Kara drove at Mara, spear darting sharp. Mara caught it on her mace haft, iron screeching against wood. Kara shoved forward, teeth bared, eyes burning with hunger.
Talia yelped as a wiry boy slashed at her with twin knives. She thrust her spear, missed, and felt a blade rake her arm. Hot blood spattered the snow. She gasped, stumbled, nearly lost her grip.
Eryk fought two at once, silent and precise. His spear flicked, cutting a cheek, bruising a jaw with the butt. But steel hissed past him from both sides, slicing his cloak, biting his shoulder. He staggered, pale face taut, and thrust again to drive them back.
And in the center—Joren. His sword met Veynar's again and again, sparks flashing, steel ringing. Veynar laughed with every clash, eyes wild, strikes faster, harder. Joren's scar bled fresh, a red line cutting down his cheek. He gave ground inch by inch, boots sliding in the snow.
Shithead's shield cracked under another hammer-blow. His arm screamed, his shoulder burning white-hot. He roared, shoving forward, shield edge slamming into Rulf's chest. The brute staggered, then swung back, cudgel crunching into Shithead's ribs. Pain burst like fire. He almost went down.
"On your feet!" Mara bellowed, smashing Kara's spear aside. Her mace slammed into Kara's shoulder with a crunch. The scarred girl screamed, staggered—then stabbed wildly, her spear grazing Mara's cheek, drawing blood.
Talia shrieked as her knifed opponent drove her into the snow. His blade raised, grin sharp. She jammed her spear upward, desperate. The point tore into his ribs. He screamed, stumbled back, blood spraying. She gasped, sobbing curses, scrambling upright with her arm bleeding freely.
Eryk grunted as a blade cut deep into his side. He twisted, his spear darting—stabbed one rogue in the thigh, shoved the other back with his shield. Blood soaked his cloak, his pale face carved with pain. Still, he stood.
Joren's guard faltered. Veynar's blade kissed his throat, slicing skin. Blood welled. Veynar laughed, savage, pressing harder, driving Joren back another step.
The wall bent.
Shithead gasped, ribs screaming, shoulder burning. He caught Rulf's cudgel again, wood splintering further. His shield was nearly gone.
Eryk bled. Mara's cheek was red. Talia's arm dripped. Joren's scar ran fresh.
The snow was red with their blood.
Veynar laughed again, wild and sharp. "You're finished! The wild doesn't crown heroes—it buries them!" His blade rose, flashing for Joren's throat.
For the first time, Shithead felt it. The wall cracking. The wild closing in. Death pressing near.
Veynar's blade arced down for Joren's throat.
The clearing dissolved into chaos.
Steel slammed on steel, shields locked, and boots tore trenches through the snow. Shithead's arm burned with every blow he caught on his shield, his shoulder screaming from the weight. A mace rang against the rim and sent sparks spitting across the frost. He staggered, teeth clenching, and drove forward with a roar, shoving his attacker back half a step before another blade lashed out from the side.
Mara caught that one, mace swinging in a brutal arc that smashed into a boy's helm. He went down hard, his focus moved back to Mara
"Wall! Hold the wall!" Joren barked. His scar was bright as fire in the dim light, his sword a constant flash of iron. Every movement was measured, precise, no wasted effort. Even so, his breath was ragged, his cloak cut and dark with blood.
Talia stumbled against Shithead's flank, her spear shivering as it met another strike.
The attackers fought like men starved — desperate, snarling, their eyes wild. These weren't the clean strikes of sparring drills, but clumsy, savage blows meant to break bones and tear medallions free. Shithead's gut turned cold. This wasn't about the Trial anymore. This was theft, plain and raw.
Eryk fought in silence, pale eyes unblinking, his spear darting with the precision of a snake. Each thrust found flesh, but they were always pressing in. One sword nicked his cheek, leaving a line of blood that glistened in the cold. He didn't flinch, only pushed deeper into the line.
A blade slipped past Shithead's guard, cutting a hot line across his ribs. He grunted, staggering, his shield dropping for half a breath. That was all it took.
One of the rogues slammed into him, driving him down into the snow. His breath fled his lungs. The boy's dagger scraped for his pack, tearing at the straps, trying to rip the medallion free.
Shithead roared and heaved upward, forehead smashing into the boy's nose. Cartilage cracked. Blood sprayed. He shoved the rogue off, rolling to one knee just in time to catch another blow on his shield. His arm felt like it was splintering with every strike.
They were being crushed. There was no space to breathe, no room to regroup. Already three of the rogues had slipped behind, circling for their flank.
"Joren!" Shithead bellowed. "We're breaking—"
"Not yet," Joren snapped, his voice like iron on stone. He slashed low, sending one foe crumpling, but his jaw was set grim. "Not while we stand."
But they couldn't stand much longer.
Talia's spear snapped with a crack of wood. She screamed, staggering back, clutching the splintered haft as a blade cut across her forearm. Mara lunged in to cover her, her mace smashing bone, but it left her side open. A sword slipped past, cutting deep into her hip. She grunted, teeth bared, blood soaking her cloak.
"Fall back!" she snarled, even as she swung again.
Shithead's chest heaved. His shield was splitting, his sword arm heavy as lead. He met Joren's eyes across the press, saw the truth in them: one more push, and the wall would break.
And then a voice cut the air — sharp, commanding, impossible to mistake.
"Enough!"
The shout carried like thunder. The rogues faltered, heads snapping toward the treeline. From the shadows strode a figure clad in steel and frost — tall, proud, blade flashing gold in the weak sun.
Dorian.
Behind him came four more, their boots crunching in unison. His company fanned out like a tide, shields raised, weapons gleaming. They hit the rogues' flank like a hammer.
Steel crashed. One boy screamed as Dorian's sword smashed his shield aside and drove him into the snow. Another reeled as a spear punched through his guard, blood spraying across the frost. The ambushers, already weary from pressing Shithead's line, broke beneath the sudden storm.
"Push!" Dorian roared. His voice rang clear as a bell. "Break them!"
For the first time since the ambush began, Shithead felt air in his lungs. He shoved forward with a roar, his shield slamming into a foe's chest, driving him back into the path of Dorian's blade. The boy crumpled, blood steaming in the cold.
Mara staggered upright, her face pale but fierce, and brought her mace down with a crack that silenced another attacker. Talia, clutching her bleeding arm, spat a curse and jabbed her broken spear haft into an eye. The rogue shrieked, collapsing as blood streamed down his face.
The clearing rang with chaos — shouts, steel, the crunch of boots through snow. But the tide had turned. Where five had held against six with desperation, now ten pressed back with fury. The rogues broke, their wild hunger twisting into panic. Two dropped their weapons and fled into the trees. Another fell to his knees, hands raised, begging. The rest were driven down into the frost, their cries swallowed by the clash of steel.
And then it was over.
Silence fell heavy, broken only by the harsh rasp of breath and the hiss of blood on snow. Bodies lay strewn in the frost, some groaning, some still. The air stank of iron.
Shithead leaned hard on his shield, his arm trembling, blood seeping from the cut across his ribs. His chest heaved, his throat raw. Around him, Mara bound her hip with torn cloth, Talia clutched her arm, Eryk wiped his spear clean with deliberate calm, and Joren simply stood — his scar a white flame against his pale face.
Dorian lowered his sword slowly, his chest rising and falling. His gaze swept across Shithead's company, lingering longest on him. There was no mockery in his eyes now. Only recognition.
"You would have broken," he said flatly. "But you didn't."
Shithead met his gaze, breath still ragged. "Not alone."
Dorian's mouth curved — not a smirk, not pride, but something harder. Respect.
One of his companions, a lean boy with cropped hair and a spear, spat into the snow. "Cowards," he growled, nodding at the fallen rogues. "They'd rather steal than endure."
Another, a dark-skinned girl with a scarred cheek, added, "The Order will see them for what they are. No wall stands built on theft."
The dwarf among them — short, broad, beard stiff with frost — hefted his axe and grunted. "Still, they nearly had you."
"Nearly," Joren said quietly. His voice cut the air like a blade. "But nearly is not enough."
Dorian's gaze lingered on him, then returned to Shithead. "You'll need rest. Bind your wounds. The wild isn't finished with us yet."
The snow lay red around them, the silence deep once more. But for the first time since the ambush began, Shithead felt the wall unbroken — not just five, but ten, standing side by side.
The dead were left where they fell. No one had the strength or will to drag them deeper into the woods. Blood steamed on the snow, already beginning to freeze into black patches that would stain until spring thaw. The rogues' weapons and packs were stripped quickly — not out of spite, but survival. Knives, spare flint, a skin of water stiff with ice. Nothing wasted.
It was Dorian who broke the stillness, wiping blood from his jaw with the back of his glove. His pale hair was matted, his shield cracked down the center, but his voice was steady.
"Well. Seems the Order forgot to warn us that wolves wear steel as well as fur."
"Cowards," Mara growled, adjusting the grip on her mace. "Too weak to claim a medallion themselves, so they lie in wait for others to do it for them."
"Not weak," Joren said. His scar caught the pale light as he sheathed his sword. "Desperate. The Trial strips men bare. Some break quietly. Some turn to teeth." He glanced at the corpses in the frost. "The Order will judge them for it."
Joren oversaw it with his usual quiet precision, his scarred face unreadable. When it was done, he gave a curt nod toward the tree line. "We don't march blind. Rest first. Then move."
Shithead spat into the snow. His mouth still tasted of iron. "If the wolves didn't already."
Eryk crouched over one of the bodies, pale eyes scanning it with quiet detachment. "No medallion on them. They failed before they tried to steal ours."
"Good riddance," Talia muttered, though her voice shook. She leaned on her spear, trying to look fierce, but her hands trembled.
The two companies found a small hollow not far from the clearing, where the trees bent low enough to break the wind. There, they set a fire.
It burned low at first, spitting sparks as it caught on damp pine branches, then grew steady, the smoke threading upward into the canopy. They ringed it instinctively, shields and weapons never far, but for the first time since stepping into the forest, their shoulders eased.
Shithead sank to the ground, his shield sliding from his grasp with a dull thud. His ribs ached with every breath, the cut along his side still seeping sluggishly through the rough bandage. Beside him, Mara sat stiff-backed despite the dark stain spreading across her cloak at the hip. Her freckles were stark against pale skin, but her eyes never left the flames. Talia leaned against her, arm bound in a strip of cloth, still shaking faintly from pain and exhaustion.
Eryk sat apart as always, his pale eyes fixed on the fire, long fingers working calmly at re-tying the straps of his spear shaft. Joren remained standing, arms folded, gaze scanning the tree line even as his breath misted heavy.
Across the fire, Dorian and his four companions settled.
The dwarf was first to sit, planting himself with a grunt and pulling a whetstone across the edge of his axe. His beard bristled with frost, his dark eyes sharp. "Durik," he said simply when he noticed Shithead watching. His voice was gravel and ice. "Stonehold blood." He ran the stone down the axe again, the scrape loud in the quiet.
Next was a lean boy with cropped hair and quick hands, already pulling strips of dried meat from a pouch. "Kieran," he said, flashing a grin that was far too easy after the blood still steaming on the snow. "Don't let the face fool you. I'm quicker than I look."
The dark-skinned girl with the scar on her cheek sat with her back against a tree, spear across her knees. "Naia," she said, her voice clipped, her eyes never leaving the fire. The scar pulled faintly when she spoke, but her expression was calm, watchful.
The last was tall and spare, with a shock of sandy hair and a faint stammer when he spoke. "T-Thomas," he muttered, adjusting the straps of his shield. "Glad we got here when we d-did." His cheeks flushed, and he ducked his head quickly.
Dorian himself sat last, drawing his cloak around him. He didn't speak his name. He didn't need to. His sword lay across his knees, gleaming faint in the firelight, his eyes fixed on Shithead's company with the same sharp, steady measure he had given them since their first day.
The silence stretched until Mara broke it. She tore a strip of wolf meat from a bundle they had carried since the shrine, greasy and dark, and tossed it onto the fire. "Food."
The smell was thick, clinging, but hunger silenced disgust. Soon the meat was passed around, tough and stringy but hot, filling bellies that had been gnawed hollow. Even Dorian's companions took their share without comment.
Kieran was the first to speak, his grin never quite leaving even as he chewed. "Wolves one day, scavengers the next. What's tomorrow, eh? A knight jumping from behind a tree with a riddle?"
Talia snorted, wincing as her arm jostled. "If it's a riddle, you're answering it. I'll take my chances with teeth."
Durik grunted, not looking up from his axe. "Would've been your teeth if we hadn't come when we did."
"Would've been yours if you hadn't," Mara snapped back. Her voice was tired, but it carried iron.
The dwarf's dark eyes flicked up, meeting hers for a long beat. Then, unexpectedly, he gave a short nod. "Fair."
Naia spoke next, her tone flat, but her gaze steady on Shithead. "They nearly broke you."
"They didn't," Joren answered before Shithead could. His voice was calm, sharp as the edge of a blade. "Walls stand until they fall. And this wall stood."
Naia inclined her head once, no more.
Thomas shifted, his hands twisting nervously in his lap. "S-still… better not to face that alone. It w-wasn't right, what they tried."
Dorian finally stirred. He tore a strip of meat with his teeth, chewing slowly before speaking. "It wasn't right. And it won't be forgotten. The Order sees more than it tells. Those who think they can win by stealing another's proof… they'll find their Trial judged harsher than any frost." His eyes flicked toward the dark where the bodies lay cooling. "If they survive at all."
Shithead chewed the meat slowly, the taste of iron heavy on his tongue. His chest still ached, his ribs still throbbed, but the warmth of the fire and the quiet strength of two companies ringed together eased some of the weight pressing down.
He looked across at Dorian, the boy who had once been only a rival, only scorn. Tonight, there was no mockery in his gaze. Only endurance. Only survival.
The march back was slower than the way in. Shields weighed heavier, boots dragged more. The wolf meat bundled in their packs gave off a greasy, pungent odor that clung to their cloaks. But hunger made it precious, and when they stopped at midday, they roasted the last of it over a small fire.
The fat hissed and spat, smoke curling into the branches overhead. The meat was stringy, tough, but it filled their bellies, and for that alone it was worth more than gold.
Talia chewed noisily, making a face. "I swear if I ever see wolf meat again, I'll puke."
Dorian snorted. "Say that now. But when you're back to hard bread and thin gruel, you'll be dreaming of wolf steaks."
"Dreams or nightmares," Talia muttered, though even she managed a grin.
Mara shook her head, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Eat. Talk less."
Eryk turned his spit with slow precision, voice as calm as ever. "Food is food. Better beast than bone."
Shithead leaned against his shield, tearing strips with his teeth. The fire warmed his stiff fingers, the greasy taste lingering on his tongue. For the first time in days, he felt something close to comfort. Not safety — never that — but comfort.
The silence that followed their meal was lighter than the night before. The fire's smoke curled into the cold sky, and for a time, they were just boys and girls eating together, not half-starved initiates carrying bloodied medallions through the frost.
By late afternoon they left the trees far behind. The sky wide and pale above. After so long under the canopy, the openness felt strange, almost dizzying.
Talia shaded her eyes with a hand. "I'd almost forgotten the sky had a color."
"Gray isn't a color," Mara grunted.
"It is after two days of black branches," Talia shot back.
Shithead let them bicker. His gaze swept the ridges, the far line of the Chapterhouse invisible beyond them but waiting, he knew, just a march away. The wild was behind them now — not beaten, never that, but endured.
That night, they camped under stars for the first time since the Trial began. The constellations glittered sharp against the black, and for once, the fire's smoke rose freely without a roof of pine to catch it. Both companies drew close around the flames, cloaks wrapped tight, voices low.
Stories trickled out in halting pieces. Not boasts, not yet — the wounds were too fresh for that — but fragments of what they had seen. Wolves' eyes in the dark. Frozen streams that nearly swallowed them. The shrine's glow burning like a beacon after endless shadows.
Even Dorian, so proud in the yard, kept his voice low and even. "I thought my company would break at the climb. We nearly did. But we didn't. That's what matters."
Joren nodded once. "That's all the Order cares for. That you endure. That you return."
The fire cracked. Sparks drifted into the cold night. Shithead leaned back, staring at the stars until his eyes blurred. He thought of Calder's grin, of Brina's sharp tongue, of the carved wolf in his pocket. Tomorrow, he would know which of them had endured. Tomorrow, they would find out who had not.
For the first time, Shithead allowed himself to believe they might all make it back.
The road back to the Chapterhouse felt longer than the journey out, though the miles were the same. Every step pressed raw aches deeper into bone, and every breath carried the taste of iron and smoke. Yet the medallions, bound tight in packs, lent a weight heavier than exhaustion. Proof. Proof they had endured.
Shithead's company marched in weary silence, Dorian's beside them. The two companies had formed a single column by unspoken agreement, shields shifting in rhythm, boots crunching frost together. Wounds were bound, cloaks torn and patched, spears worn dull at the tips, but still they walked.
No ambush came. No wolves howled. Only the wind pushed at their backs, as if the wild itself had decided they had given enough blood.
By the fifth day, the Chapterhouse walls rose from the frost-hazed horizon like a promise. The sun had already sunk behind gray clouds, but its faint glow caught the stone battlements, painting them in pale fire.
The sight stirred something in Shithead's chest he could not name. Relief, yes. Pride, perhaps. But also a weight, the knowledge that some would never see these walls again. Not every company returned.
Boots crunched faster as the gates drew near. Knights stood waiting in silence, their steel catching the fading light. The Trial had not ended until the medallions were laid in Aureon's sight.
"Almost there," Mara muttered, her freckles dulled with exhaustion.
"Almost," Shithead echoed.
Then shouts carried from the ridge to their right. Shapes moved along the crest—five figures limping but upright, cloaks ragged, shields splintered. Calder's company. His pale curls were plastered flat with sweat and blood, his grin too wide for the cuts that split his lips. He raised his fist high, a golden medallion gleaming in his hand.
"Still breathing, orc-blood!" he shouted down. His voice cracked, but it rang with triumph. "Didn't think you'd get rid of me that easy!"
Talia laughed, sharp and ragged, relief breaking her tension. Even Mara's lips twitched. Shithead only nodded, his throat too tight to answer.
Before the moment could settle, another cry rose — this time from the ridge opposite. Five more shapes crested the frost, battered but proud. Brina's company. Her braid hung loose around her shoulders, her grin fierce enough to outshine the gray sky. She lifted her medallion overhead like a torch, her voice carrying clear.
"Try not to look so shocked! Some of us were always meant to make it!"
She jogged the last stretch, her company close behind. Their boots struck the earth in time with Calder's, then with Shithead's and Dorian's. Three lines converged on the gates at once, the sound of twenty sets of boots beating in rhythm.
For the first time since they had left, Shithead's old companions were with him again — not just alive, but proven.
The knights did not speak. They only watched as one by one, each company stepped forward. Selene lifted Calder's medallion, its gold flashing in the dusk. Brina raised hers, sweat and blood streaking her face but her grin unbroken. Mara presented theirs, her hands steady despite the tremor in her shoulders. Dorian's scarred second took his medallion, lifting it high.
Four medallions shone together, their light catching in the fading sun.
Four companies had returned. Four walls unbroken.
A miracle.