The bells of the Chapterhouse tolled at dawn, slow and heavy, their sound rolling over frost-bitten stone like iron striking iron. Each peal lingered too long, sinking into the bones of those who heard it. The bells marked holy days, funerals, and vows — but this morning, they rang for departure.
Shithead rose to the sound, the cold crawling up from the floor through the soles of his boots. His pack waited where he had set it the night before, straps drawn tight, sword oiled, shield freshly mended. He buckled it on in silence. The quiet felt heavier than the steel.
Around him, the others moved with the same still rhythm. Talia cursed softly as she fought her bootlaces, though even her muttering carried no real fire. Eryk folded his blanket with his usual precision, his face unreadable in the half-light. Mara fastened her cloak, jaw set, eyes steady. Calder lingered at the window, curls touched by dawn as he stared out at the frost-silver fields. Joren adjusted his belt with the same calm he always carried, though Shithead could not help but notice how much straighter he stood now. None of them spoke. Not yet.
The yard was already filling when they stepped outside. Breath smoked in the air, curling like incense toward a sky the color of slate. Knights lined the cloisters in silence, steel catching the pale morning light. Initiates gathered in clumps, packs slung, cloaks pulled tight, expressions wavering between eagerness and unease. Some clutched shields as if they feared they'd vanish. Others stared only at the open gates.
At the yard's center stood the Preceptors. Anselm, leaning on his oak staff. Vaelor, his white and gold cloak snapping faintly in the breeze. They waited until the last initiate had filed in, the bells tolling one final time before fading.
The hush that followed pressed like a weight against Shithead's ears. No coughs, no whispers. Only the sound of a hundred held breaths.
Vaelor raised his staff. The crystal at its tip caught the weak dawn and burned brighter than it had any right to. When he spoke, his voice carried like the bells themselves.
"You have endured the Trial. You have returned with your lives, though not all who set out have walked back beside you. The wall remembers every stone — even those that fall."
A shiver passed through the gathered initiates. Shithead felt it too. Faces flickered across his mind — those who had marched out with him, who now existed only in memory.
"The Oath binds only those who endure twice," Vaelor continued. "But you — all of you — must choose whether you will endure again. The Order does not chain unwilling hands. The wall is built from stones that stand by choice, not by compulsion."
He lowered the staff. The silence deepened.
"For this reason, you are granted leave. Return to your homes. See your kin. Remember what you guard. And then choose whether your road leads back to these gates."
The words hung in the air like frost. Shithead felt the weight of them sink into his chest. He had expected this — Joren had warned them — but hearing it spoken before the whole yard gave it the sharpness of steel.
Then the Preceptors dismissed them with a single gesture, and the yard broke into motion. Some initiates embraced, laughter bubbling through the chill. Others walked alone toward the stables, faces grim, packs already fastened. The gates loomed wide, iron edges rimmed with frost, the road beyond vanishing into the gray horizon.
Shithead stood rooted where he was, his pack dragging at his shoulders, the iron taste of the bells still in his mouth. The sound had faded, but their weight lingered. This was no drill. No trial. The choice was real. The road lay open.
The yard churned with motion, but Shithead found himself drifting toward the cloister's edge, away from the noise of packs and boots. He set his shield against the wall, rubbing the edge with his thumb as though the steel could tell him what to do. The frost-stiff air bit his skin, but he hardly noticed.
Talia's voice reached him before her steps did.
"You're brooding again."
He looked up. She was threading her belt tighter, cloak already fastened, her dark hair tucked beneath her hood in a way that made her eyes sharper in the morning light. She carried herself with her usual restless energy, but the grin wasn't there. Not today.
"I'm thinking," Shithead said.
"That's just brooding with extra steps." She stopped beside him, leaning a shoulder against the wall. Her hand brushed close to his on the shield strap but didn't touch it. Not yet.
"You didn't look much like yourself last night," she added, softer now. "And you don't look like yourself this morning either. You've been staring into mugs or at your boots more than you've been looking at us."
Shithead exhaled, slow. "I don't know what comes next. That's all."
"None of us do." She shrugged, though her eyes stayed fixed on him. "That's the point, isn't it? They toss us into the cold, see what we come back with, then tell us to decide if we want to walk back into it again. Aureon's sense of humor."
He almost smiled at that, but she didn't let him off easy. Her voice dropped lower. "You're not thinking of leaving, are you?"
The question caught harder than he expected. He turned it over once before answering. "No. But… if I go home, I don't know how I'll feel. I don't know if I'll want to come back. And that scares me."
Talia's mouth curved, but not in mockery. It was smaller, gentler. "That's not fear. That's honesty. Even Calder's too proud to admit it out loud."
He chuckled faintly. "You always know what to say."
"Not true," she said, tilting her head at him. "I'm just better at saying it quickly. Gives people less time to notice when I'm wrong."
That earned a real smile from him, the first since dawn. For a moment, they just stood in the thin light, silence soft instead of heavy.
Finally, she nudged his arm with her shoulder. "Listen. When you go home, remember this—" Her eyes caught his, steady now. "The wall isn't just here. It's in you. Even if you don't come back, you'll carry it. You'll carry us. You don't get rid of that by walking out the gate."
His throat tightened, and he couldn't find words quick enough. Before he could try, she leaned in and pressed her forehead lightly against his, brief but sure. Then she pulled back, her grin returning like armor sliding into place.
"Don't tell anyone I went soft," she said. "I'd never live it down."
"I wouldn't dare," he answered, voice rougher than he meant.
She tapped his chest once with two fingers, right where the healed wound lay, and turned toward the gathering crowd before he could say more. He watched her go, the weight in his chest shifting — not lighter, not heavier, but steadier.
For the first time that morning, he felt like he could breathe.
The Chapterhouse yard was alive with the sounds of parting. Boots scuffed frost, packs creaked with weight, voices carried sharp one moment and hushed the next. The sun hung low and pale, casting long bars of light through the gatehouse. It wasn't the roar of a sendoff before battle; it was the quieter, heavier kind of leaving, when you don't know if paths will ever cross again.
Mara went first. Her new plate caught the light as though the steel itself had remembered the fire of the oath. She moved with purpose, not ceremony, but each farewell was deliberate.
She clasped Eryk's forearm, pale hand to pale hand. "Eat. Sleep. Endure." Her tone left no room for refusal.
Eryk inclined his head once. "And you."
She turned to Talia, who already had her arms crossed in mock defiance. Mara only lifted a brow. "Keep your edge sharp. Both of them."
Talia smirked. "My tongue's sharper than my spear. I'll manage."
Mara didn't smile, but her eyes warmed before she moved on.
When she stood before Shithead, she paused a beat longer than with the others. Her freckled face was calm, but her gaze softened in a way he hadn't seen before. She clasped his wrist, firm as stone. "You held the wall when it mattered. Don't doubt that. Not ever."
Shithead tried to find words, but she squeezed once and released him before he could speak. With a last nod to Joren, she turned northward. Her cloak snapped against the wind, and she did not look back.
---
Joren's turn came next. His new mail gleamed pale beneath his cloak, the rune-etched sword at his side whispering light when he moved. He stood before them like the man he had always been — steady, unyielding, but changed all the same.
"I won't say farewell," he told Talia first. "Only 'until.' Because I've no doubt you'll endure to meet me again."
Talia tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. "You've got more faith than I do."
"Then I'll carry it for you," Joren said simply.
To Eryk, he only gave a small nod. "Keep your silence. It says more than words."
Eryk's pale eyes met his, and for once, he inclined his head in something close to respect.
When Joren turned to Shithead, the air seemed to thicken between them. "Greystone calls me. But walls aren't bound to one place. They circle the world. Sooner or later, ours will touch again."
Shithead swallowed against the lump in his throat. "Sooner," he said.
Joren's mouth twitched, almost a smile. He set a hand to Shithead's shoulder, gave one steady press, then stepped back to where Kaelen waited near the gate.
Brina swaggered up with her usual grin, though there was something sharper behind it this time. She gave Shithead a once-over and clicked her tongue.
"Well, orc-blood, you survived frost and wolves, and somehow you're still ugly as sin. Aureon must like you."
Shithead smirked faintly. "Ugly's harder to kill."
Brina barked a laugh, then jabbed a finger against his chestplate. "Good. Don't let Aureon take you too quick. Would be a shame if I didn't get the chance to claim you myself one of these days."
The words hung just a little heavier than her usual jokes, though she carried them off with a wink and a grin wide enough to pass as mischief.
Before Shithead could think of a reply, Brina leaned toward Talia, her voice pitched low but not so low it couldn't be overheard. "Keep him in line out there, girl. Men like him are too stubborn to save themselves, and too damn valuable to waste."
Talia arched a brow. "I'll see to it."
"Good," Brina said, smirking as she backed away. "Just don't get too attached. You never know when Aureon — or I — might call first."
She turned and strode off toward her company, braid swinging, her laughter trailing after her like sparks from a fire.
Shithead exhaled slowly. He glanced at Talia, whose eyes followed Brina's retreating back a heartbeat too long before she snapped them forward again.
Calder came last. He had lingered on the edge, pack slung loose over one shoulder, the wolf-charm dangling between his fingers. His grin was there, crooked as always, but softer now, as though it cost him something to wear.
He stopped in front of Shithead and looked him in the eye. "You'll keep the wall standing without me?"
Shithead rose and clasped his wrist. "Brothers' pact."
Calder's grip tightened. His grin wavered into something steadier. "Brothers' pact," he echoed, and for once his voice carried no jest.
He stepped back, looked at them all once more, then turned toward the southern road. He whistled as he went, but the sound was thin, carried more by habit than joy.
One by one, the yard emptied. Cloaks vanished down roads, boots scuffed frost into silence. Banners stirred faintly in the morning wind, and soon only a handful remained: Shithead, Talia, Eryk, Kaelen, and Joren.
Kaelen drew his cloak tighter across his shoulders and let his gaze sweep the group. His voice came low, steady, the same tone he had used when pointing Shithead toward the Chapterhouse gates months ago.
"Well then," he said. "The day won't wait. Time to move."
Shithead adjusted the strap of his pack, tugged his shield higher on his shoulder. The gate groaned open before them, the sound rolling heavy across the frost.
Together they stepped through — Kaelen at the front, Joren beside him, Shithead close at their backs, Talia and Eryk falling into stride.
Behind them, the Chapterhouse loomed silent, its banners catching the pale light. Ahead stretched the road, branching into more than one path, each carrying a weight of choice.
The wall endured, but the stones were moving.