The gates of the Chapterhouse groaned open as if reluctant to welcome them back. Frost had stiffened the iron hinges, and they shrieked in protest, the sound rolling across the yard like a dirge. Beyond lay stone cloisters and high walls, banners limp in the still winter air. The sight should have been comforting, but after days in the wild, the fortress felt colder than the snow behind them.
The initiates filed inside. Their boots dragged, shields hung slack at their sides, cloaks torn and stiff with blood. Some limped, some leaned on the shoulders of their brothers and sisters, but all bore the same invisible burden — the medallions hidden in their packs, proof that they had endured.
Knights stood in ranks along the yard, steel gleaming faint in the sinking light of dusk. They did not cheer. They did not bow. They stood silent, helms hiding their eyes, but Shithead felt the weight of their gaze pressing down on every stumble, every ragged step. It was not pride in those eyes. It was measure. Judgment.
Shithead's ribs ached with every breath, and though Aureon's light would soon mend him, the pain felt right to carry here. His shield strap cut deep into his shoulder where wolf's teeth had shredded leather, but he kept it lifted. They had walked into the forest as a wall, and he would not let that wall stagger now, not before those who had already endured these same fires.
The procession wound across the yard to the Hall of Flame. Its great doors yawned wide, firelight spilling over the frost. The smell of oil and smoke met them before they entered. At the far end of the hall, upon a dais carved with Aureon's sigil, blazed the brazier that never died — white-gold fire leaping high, shadows clawing the walls hung with banners of the Order.
At its side stood Knight-Preceptor Anselm, staff in hand. His face was carved from stone, lined with years of service, unreadable as the companies stepped forward one by one.
Calder's company came first. Selene laid their medallion on the altar, the gold disk flashing in the firelight before the flames licked it whole. Brina followed, her grin gone for once, her braid hanging loose as she set hers beside Calder's. Dorian approached with steady shoulders, golden hair dimmed with grime, but his hands did not falter as he placed his offering.
Then Mara stepped forward. Her freckles stood stark against pale skin, her jaw set in iron as she drew the medallion from her pack. She held it high so all might see before lowering it onto the stone. The flames seized it as greedily as the others, devouring proof and pride alike.
Four medallions gleamed, then vanished into the blaze.
Anselm raised his staff, and silence thickened until Shithead could hear only his own ragged breath.
"Proof has been given," Anselm intoned. "Endurance has been shown. The wild did not break you. But hear me, initiates: the Trial is not a crown. It is not an end. It is a stone, set into the wall. Upon it, others must be laid. Endurance is not measured once. It is measured always."
The fire roared higher at his words, heat washing over them in a wave that smelled of ash and sanctity.
"Go now," Anselm finished. "Tend your wounds. Rest your strength. The wall has need of every stone."
The brazier spat sparks that climbed high into the vaults, and the medallions were gone — proof reduced to smoke.
Shithead lingered a heartbeat too long, unease gnawing in his gut. The gold disk that had cost them frost, hunger, blood, and fear was nothing but ash. Only memory remained.
The initiates were led down the southern hall into the sanctum of Aureon. The air changed the moment they stepped inside. Gone was the bite of frost; here the air was warm, heavy with incense and the faint hum of Light itself. Gilded lanterns burned steady along the walls, their glow soft but unyielding, and at the center of the chamber stood a basin of water lit from within.
Clerics moved among them, robes whispering against stone, hands glowing faint with Aureon's fire. One by one, initiates were guided forward. Torn flesh knit smooth beneath golden palms. Bruises melted like frost in sunlight. Broken bones snapped straight and mended in the blink of an eye.
When Shithead stepped forward, warmth consumed him. His ribs loosened, the cut along his side sealed without scar, the heaviness in his lungs fled. The sudden absence of pain nearly dropped him to his knees.
"Be still," the cleric murmured, her hand lingering briefly against his chest. "The body heals faster than the spirit. Let Aureon reach both."
Mara was healed next, the deep wound at her hip vanishing until only faint pink skin remained. Eryk bore the glow without flinch, pale eyes unblinking. Talia hissed and cursed at the touch, but when it was done her arm flexed whole once more. Joren stood longest, the fresh slice on his cheek closing neatly, though the old scar carved across his face remained. Aureon's light healed wounds, not history.
The five of them regrouped near a bench where the air smelled of pine resin and smoke. All around, initiates slumped against walls, exhaustion dragging their heads low.
Talia twisted her healed arm, frowning. "Strange, isn't it? We walk in here looking like corpses, and an hour later, Aureon scrubs us clean. No scar, no mark, not even a limp. Makes it feel like none of it ever happened."
"It happened," Mara said flatly. Her fingers brushed her cheek where a fang had raked her yesterday. The skin was smooth now. Her eyes were hard. "Light mends flesh. It doesn't erase what we saw."
Eryk nodded faintly. "Nor should it. The scars that matter don't show on skin."
Brina sauntered over, her grin sharp but thinner than usual. "Speak for yourself. I'll take the stories, thank you very much. Who else can say they speared a wolf the size of a horse and lived to laugh about it?"
Even Mara's lips twitched. "Boast all you like. The Order doesn't measure noise."
Across the bench, Calder rubbed the carved wolf charm at his belt. His grin was still there, but it wavered. "Noise or not… I keep wondering how much longer I'll stay. We proved it, didn't we? Came back when half our class didn't. Maybe that's enough."
His words dropped like stones.
Selene, seated sharpening her spear, looked up sharply. "You're thinking of leaving."
Calder shrugged, grin fading. "Maybe. Maybe Aureon meant for me to survive this, not more. Maybe the Chapterhouse isn't the only wall worth standing in."
"Or maybe it's cowardice," Dorian cut in coldly. His blue eyes were chips of ice. "The Order doesn't shape men for half-measures. You don't prove endurance by running."
Calder bristled, but Mara snapped, "Enough. This hall doesn't need your bickering. It needs truth."
Joren's voice came low, scar catching the light. "The truth is simple. The Oath waits for those who pass twice. The first Trial strips you bare. The second carves you hollow. When you return from both, Aureon's fire is yours. And then the Order sends you where the Light burns weakest."
Shithead leaned forward, throat tight. "And where's that? What happens then?"
Mara's voice was steady. "Some guard the watchtowers, holding the frost at bay where there are no walls. Some ride the borders, scouting for shadows. Others… heal."
Selene's eyes gleamed. "And some hunt. The Order doesn't just guard stone. It hunts darkness in its own den. That's the cloak I want."
Durin rumbled from nearby, his deep voice like stone. "Some go deeper still. To archives and ruins the knights never speak of. Old stones call for strong backs."
Brina smirked. "Not me. Give me open sky, steel in hand, and foes close enough to spit at."
The hall rippled with banter — sparks of fire against the weight of exhaustion. But beneath it, Calder's doubt lingered like smoke no wind could carry away.
Shithead said nothing, only looked around the circle — Mara's iron steadiness, Eryk's frost, Talia's restless spark, Joren's scarred wisdom, Calder's uncertain grin, Brina's fire, Dorian's pride. They were all changed, even without scars.
For the first time, he realized: survival wasn't the end. It was the beginning.
The next evening, the Chapterhouse gathered in the Hall of Flame. The braziers were stoked higher than Shithead had ever seen, white-gold fire leaping to lick the banners that hung from the rafters. The heat rolled like waves, yet no one stirred.
High Preceptor Vaelor stood before the altar, his cloak heavy with golden embroidery, his staff tipped with a burning crystal. His voice boomed across stone.
"You have endured hunger, frost, and wolves. You have returned when others did not. Remember them, for the wall remembers every stone, even those that fall."
The hall fell to its knees as one. Leather and steel rasped against stone as every initiate bowed their heads.
"For those who endured once, repeat after me," Vaelor commanded.
"I am the wall. The wall is my oath. The wall is my blood. The wall endures."
A hundred voices rose, ragged but resolute:
"I am the wall. The wall is my oath. The wall is my blood. The wall endures."
The sound rolled like thunder beneath the vaults, shivering down Shithead's spine.
Then Vaelor's gaze shifted to five figures standing apart. "Now rise, you who have endured twice. Your oath is no longer trial, but truth."
Mara stood, steel catching firelight. Joren rose beside her, scar pale against the blaze. Selene, Naia, and Alaric joined them — five in all.
The hall hushed. Every torch seemed to gutter lower.
One by one, chests were carried forth and unlatched before the altar.
Mara stepped forward first. Inside gleamed a full suit of plate, each curve chased with golden sunbursts, heavy yet radiant. Atop it lay a mace shaped like a radiant star.
"For Mara," Vaelor intoned, "whose strength is faith itself. You are sent north, to the fortress of Hollowspire, where the dead walk and the living falter. Plate for your body, iron for your hand, and Aureon's fire for your heart. There you shall stand as the wall against winter's endless night."
The armor was strapped upon her piece by piece, steel glowing faintly in the brazier's light. When she lifted the mace, the star-shaped head shimmered as if alight from within.
---
Joren was called next. His chest held lighter half-plate and mail, muted and efficient, a longsword etched with glowing runes, and a dagger with a matching hilt.
"For Joren, whose patience is sharper than steel. You are sent to Greystone, where shadow stirs on the borders of men's lands, and strife festers between village and vale. There you shall keep peace as much as you keep watch, steel and silence your allies. Aureon grants you a blade to strike as swift as truth, and another to remind that sometimes truth must be whispered in the dark."
When Joren drew the longsword, its edge shone white-gold, the runes burning faint like embers.
---
Selene was next. The chest revealed half-plate forged lean and strong, etched with angular sigils. Across it lay a broad spear whose socket was bound in steel, its head bright as polished sunfire.
"For Selene, scarred yet unbroken, whose defiance is as steadfast as her faith. You will remain within these walls, to train those who follow and to guard Aureon's flame at its heart. For though the wild must be faced, the Chapterhouse itself must never falter. Your spear is the Light's long reach — to strike before darkness can touch the wall, whether in forest shadow or within the yard itself."
Selene bowed low, her scar stark in the firelight, and accepted the spear without flinch.
---
Naia stepped forward. Her chest held reinforced mail, polished to a muted sheen, with a longsword whose crossguard spread like wings. The blade itself radiated faint golden light, steady as dawn.
"For Naia, marked by the world yet walking without bitterness. Your post lies in the southern marches, where plague and famine strike harder than any steel. There you will wield this blade not only against enemies of flesh, but against despair itself. You will heal the weak, shield the weary, and cut a path where hopelessness would choke the Light. For Aureon's wall is not only stone — it is also mercy."
Naia clasped the sword with both hands, lips curving in the faintest, rarest smile.
---
Alaric came last. His chest bore light leather reinforced with steel plates, supple and built for movement. Across it lay twin short swords, their edges gleaming like twin flames caught mid-flicker.
"For Alaric, quick of hand and sharp of eye. You are named to the Wardens, to walk the wide roads where no fortress shields and no banners guard. Bandits, monsters, and shadows will know your fire. You are not the wall that stands — you are the spark that leaps. Aureon grants you twin blades, to be His fire in the wild places where the Order's reach falters."
Alaric spun one blade in his grip, the steel singing faintly as if alive, before kneeling again with a grin that did not break his solemn vow.
The five knights knelt before the altar, weapons crossed before them. Vaelor's staff rose high, flame burning at its tip.
"Do you swear," his voice thundered, "by Aureon's fire, by Aureon's wall, by Aureon's light — to endure until flesh fails, steel shatters, and breath is spent?"
"I swear," came the reply, five voices in unison, steady as stone.
The staff struck stone with a crack like thunder. The braziers roared, white-gold light flooding the hall, a torrent that blinded the eye and seared the skin yet did not burn. The air smelled of ash and storm.
Shithead shielded his eyes, heart hammering. Through the blaze he glimpsed Mara, Joren, and the others wreathed in fire, armor gleaming molten, weapons thrumming like struck bells.
Then the light faded. The five rose, no longer initiates but Aureon's sworn. Knights.
The hall erupted in thunder as a hundred fists slammed shields. Voices rose like a storm:
"The wall endures!"
Shithead struck his own shield until his arm ached, the sound rattling through his chest. He saw pride in Eryk's pale eyes, awe in Talia's, and for the briefest heartbeat, something like warmth in Joren's scarred face.
The Trial was behind them. But for Shithead and his brothers, the path was only beginning.