The first glimpse of Greystone came with the dying light. Dusk smeared the sky in bruised violet and iron-gray, the river reflecting both like a strip of tarnished blade. Smoke curled in ribbons from crooked chimneys, carrying the smell of peat, pine pitch, and thick barley stew. The smithy down by the river clanged faintly even at this hour, iron striking iron in a rhythm Shithead had known all his life.
The village crouched low against the bend of the river, palisade no higher than a tall man, roofs patched with straw and moss. New shingles gleamed pale on a few where fresh hands had worked, but most sagged with age. It was just as he remembered — only he no longer looked at it with a boy's eyes.
Shithead reined his horse at the crest of the slope. His chest ached strangely, caught between pride and dread. He had dreamed of this place for months, but now that he saw it, he realized he had grown past it. Taller than his father now, broader through the shoulders. The boy who had left might have fit these streets; the man who had returned did not.
Kaelen rode up beside him, cloak stirring faintly. "Greystone."
The word struck harder than Shithead expected. His throat tightened, but he nodded once. "Home."
They descended slow, hooves clattering over frost-hardened ruts. Villagers began to notice. A woman hauling water dropped her bucket with a splash and fled to fetch her husband. Children abandoned their play and pointed, wide-eyed. Windows opened, doors swung wide.
Then the first shout broke out:
"By Aureon—it's him! Shithead's back!"
The words leapt like fire. People spilled into the lane, pressing forward with cautious wonder. Some smiled, others frowned, as though trying to reconcile the cloaked, armored figure with the boy they remembered.
Elira reached him first, shawl tugged crooked from running. Her hair was silvered heavier than when he had left, but her eyes burned as fiercely as ever. She seized him before he could swing fully down, arms clinging tight enough to make the leather creak.
"You're alive," she whispered fiercely, her face pressed against his chest. "Alive."
He held her, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes. Alive. Against everything, alive.
Maren came slower, his stride as steady as it had always been. His beard had gone whiter, the lines at his eyes cut deeper, but he was still broad, still solid as a wall. He stopped a pace away, arms folded.
For the first time, Shithead realized he looked down at his father. Six foot three, taller by a hand's span. The recognition sat strangely in his chest.
Maren's eyes measured him, sharp as ever, before the faintest smile touched his mouth. "You've grown into the steel."
It wasn't praise in the way other men gave it, but from Maren, it might as well have been a blessing.
The lane crowded fast. Granny Tamsin elbowed her way through with her crooked stick, muttering curses at those who blocked her. She squinted up at him, eyes cloudy but still keen.
"Well, there's a sight," she rasped, her voice sharp as a crow's caw. "I thought wolves would've chewed your bones clean. Instead, you come back taller than your da. Aureon does love his jokes."
The crowd laughed, some of the strain easing. Shithead bent enough to clasp her withered hand. "Good to see you, Granny."
"Bah." She smacked his wrist with her stick. "Don't go thinking you're too big for chores now. Knight or not, you'll be mending roofs before week's end."
A ripple of amusement ran through the crowd — but it didn't last.
From the back, Garrick's voice carried low and sour, just loud enough to be heard but not pitched to challenge directly. "Steel and cloaks don't change blood. You'll see. Sooner or later, he'll turn on us like the rest of his kind."
Murmurs rose uneasily. A few villagers shifted, glancing between Shithead and Garrick. No one repeated the words aloud, but they hung there, clinging like smoke.
Shithead's jaw tightened, but before he could answer, Maren's voice cut the silence. "That's enough."
Garrick said nothing more, but Shithead could feel his eyes like cold iron. The man leaned close to a neighbor, whispering again, shaking his head as though to warn them all.
The mood soured at the edges, even as children darted forward to tug at Shithead's cloak and pepper him with questions about wolves and battles.
Through it all, Kaelen and Joren kept to the side. Kaelen inclined his head politely when greeted, his face unreadable. Joren said nothing, his pale gaze steady, scanning shadows and rooftops as if expecting danger even here.
Shithead stood in the middle of it — his mother clutching his sleeve, his father's measured pride, Granny Tamsin's sharp humor, Garrick's poison whispered at the edge of the crowd. It should have felt like stepping back into the life he left. Instead, it felt like standing on a bridge between two worlds, one foot on each shore.
The crowd trailed after them as far as the river bend, where the village palisade gave way to frost-limned fields. Beyond that, the press thinned. Greystone's houses dwindled behind, smoke and laughter muffled by distance, until only the path stretched ahead — the same path Shithead had walked countless times in boyhood, chasing geese or hauling water, never dreaming it would feel like crossing into another world.
Their house sat apart from the village proper, crouched low against the slope with its stone walls darkened by weather. Moss clung to the seams where Maren's hand had patched the mortar years ago. The thatch roof steamed faintly in the chill, and the wooden shutters rattled with each push of the wind. A low fence circled the yard, sagging in one corner where oxen had pressed too hard against it.
Elira led the way with a hand still tight on her son's arm, as though afraid he might vanish if she let go. Maren followed slower, his eyes taking in every detail of his son — the new scars, the mail shirt beneath his cloak, the quiet weight in his step. Kaelen and Joren came last, their boots crunching the frosted path, silent but watchful.
The door creaked wide at Elira's shove, spilling warm lamplight onto the yard. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of onions, marrow, and thyme. A pot bubbled gently on the hearth, and a loaf of brown bread rested on the table beneath a cloth. The sight made Shithead's throat tighten.
"Sit," Elira said firmly, pushing him toward the benches as if he were still ten years old. "All of you, sit. The stew's ready."
Shithead lowered himself onto the bench by the hearth, his pack thumping to the floor. For the first time since leaving Westmarch, the world felt still. He bent his head to fit beneath the low rafters, realizing with a jolt that he brushed them now if he stood straight.
Maren came in last, shutting the door against the wind. He hung his cloak on its peg, then pulled up a chair opposite his son. For a long moment he only sat there, studying Shithead as though to convince himself the boy who had left and the man who had returned were one and the same.
"You stand taller than me now," Maren said at last, breaking a hunk of bread with his hands. "Taller than any of ours before you. The Chapterhouse must feed their initiates well."
"They feed us just enough to keep standing," Shithead answered, and though his voice was rough, the corner of his mouth tugged in a smile.
Kaelen and Joren eased onto the benches, setting their cloaks aside. Elira ladled stew into bowls, moving briskly but with a shine to her eyes that told Shithead she was doing it to hide her trembling. She set the first bowl in front of her son, then one before Maren, and only after that served their guests.
"Eat," she said, though her gaze never left Shithead. "Let me see you eat. Then I'll believe you're truly home."
The first spoonful nearly undid him. The broth was rich with marrow, thickened with barley, the meat soft from hours simmering. It tasted of everything he had missed — warmth, safety, the kind of love that didn't need to be spoken.
"Better than salt pork and beans?" Elira asked, her brows raised.
Shithead swallowed hard. "Better than anything."
That drew laughter, even from Joren, whose expression softened in the firelight. Kaelen chuckled low in his chest, but said nothing, letting the moment belong to the family.
Maren tore bread into the stew, chewing slow, eyes still on his son. "You've grown into the steel," he said again, quieter this time. "But steel bends if it's not tempered right. The Chapterhouse taught you that?"
Shithead nodded. "They taught me more than I ever thought I could endure." He hesitated, then added: "But what kept me through it was remembering this place. You. Mother. The willow."
Elira's lips curved faintly. "The willow still stands. Though the sheep stripped the lower branches last spring, stubborn things." She glanced at Joren and Kaelen, her tone shifting to include them. "And you two — you'll stay here tonight. There's broth enough, and the loft is warmer than the road."
Kaelen inclined his head. "You honor us."
"Not honor," Elira said firmly, setting her own bowl down at last. "Gratitude. You kept him alive. You brought him back to me. That deserves more than broth."
Joren's gaze flicked toward Shithead, unreadable, then returned to his bowl.
The bowls emptied quick, and Elira refilled them just as fast, though she was clearly eating less herself in order to stretch the pot. When Shithead noticed, he tore half his bread and slipped it onto her plate. She swatted his hand lightly but left it there, her mouth twitching in a smile.
"Tell us," she said after a while, leaning her elbows on the table. "What did the Chapterhouse make of you? I sent them a boy who thought he was already a man. What did they send back?"
Shithead stared into his bowl for a moment before answering. "Someone who knows how little he really is. Someone who's stood against things I didn't believe could exist. Wolves taller than a man, shadows that whispered like voices, trials I still don't understand." He paused, glancing toward Joren and Kaelen. "But I endured. We all did, those of us who came back."
Maren gave a short grunt, neither dismissal nor praise. "Endurance is enough. Steel that doesn't break can still cut."
"You sound like one of the Preceptors," Shithead muttered with a half-smile.
Maren's mouth curved faintly. "I'd have made a poor one. No patience for speeches."
That drew a ripple of laughter around the table, easing the weight of the words.
Joren finally spoke, his voice quiet but sure. "Your son stood at the wall when it mattered most. Without him, more would have fallen. The Chapterhouse did not send him back unchanged, but they sent him back tempered."
Elira reached across the table and brushed her fingers against Shithead's wrist, her eyes shining. "That's all I prayed for. That the trials would temper you without breaking you."
Kaelen set his spoon aside, leaning back slightly. "He carries more than most do at his age. The choice now is how he bears it here — among his own. Trials forge steel, but hearth and kin temper the man."
Elira nodded, but Maren's gaze lingered on his son with something harder. Not doubt, not quite — but a testing, as though he were still weighing the man who had come home against the boy who had left.
Shithead met the stare without flinching. "I'll carry it. All of it. The Order, the wall, the Willow Pact. Whatever this place asks of me."
For the first time that night, Maren's stern face softened into something closer to pride. He raised his bowl slightly in a rough gesture of respect. "Then you're my son twice over."
The fire popped, sparks dancing into the chimney. Silence settled for a moment, warm rather than heavy.
Shithead leaned back, letting the heat soak into his shoulders, and glanced at Kaelen. "Do you remember, when we left this place, how long it took me to stop tripping over myself in the saddle?"
Kaelen's mouth tugged faintly. "Seven days of curses. I thought you'd pitch yourself into the river before we ever reached Westmarch."
Elira gasped, pressing her hand to her mouth, though her eyes danced with amusement. "He cursed in front of you?"
"Every mile," Kaelen said dryly.
Shithead flushed, ducking his head, but even Joren's lips curved at that, a rare smile flickering like pale firelight.
The warmth of the hearth wrapped around them then, heavy with stew and laughter. For the first time since the Chapterhouse bells had tolled, Shithead felt like he was breathing without weight pressing against his ribs.
When the bowls were finally scraped clean and the hearth had burned down to glowing embers, Elira shooed them all from the table.
"Rest," she said, gathering crockery with quick, practiced hands. "You've carried too many miles on your shoulders. Let me carry the dishes."
Shithead rose to help, but she caught him by the sleeve. "Not tonight. Sit. Just sit. You don't know how long I've prayed to see you at this table again. Don't steal even a heartbeat of it."
The words struck deeper than he expected. He sat back down heavily, letting her fuss and clatter as she always had, though her hair shone silver now in the firelight. Kaelen and Joren traded a glance — one warrior to another — and excused themselves soon after, stepping out into the chill night to see to their horses.
When the door closed behind them, the house grew quieter. Maren had stretched out in the corner, half-asleep with his boots still on, the weight of a long day settling into him. That left only Shithead and Elira by the hearth, the warmth of the flames painting the room in shades of copper.
She settled into the chair beside him with a soft sigh. For a long moment she said nothing, only looked at him, her hands folded in her lap. The silence wasn't heavy, but full — like a cup that might spill with the slightest touch.
"You stand taller than your father now," she said at last, her voice hushed. "When you left, I could still wrap both arms around your shoulders and cover you. Now…" She reached out, laying her hand against his cheek. "Now you've grown into the man I always knew you'd be. But I can't help wishing I still had the boy."
His throat tightened. "I'm still him. Just… harder around the edges."
She shook her head gently. "No, love. You're more than him. And I thank Aureon every day for it, even if it means I must share you with the world."
The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney. Shithead stared into the flames, his chest tight. "Sometimes I wonder if the world deserves what it takes."
Her fingers brushed his jaw, feather-light. "The world doesn't get to decide that. You do."
He caught her hand, pressing it briefly to his forehead before letting go. For a moment he was ten years old again, sitting by this same fire while she mended torn shirts and hummed softly to herself. For a moment, the wall, the trials, the oaths — all of it felt far away.
Elira leaned back with a weary sigh. "Tomorrow you'll walk the village. There'll be joy, and questions, and no end of whispers. Don't carry it all at once. Just let them see you."
"I'll try."
"That's all I ask."
Her hand lingered against his shoulder a moment longer before she rose. "Sleep, Shithead. Tomorrow will be long."
When she had gone to her room, Shithead sat a little longer by the fire. The coals glowed low, shadows stretching across the beams of the ceiling, familiar as breath. The smell of woodsmoke and earth filled the house, and for the first time since leaving the Chapterhouse, he felt not only like he had come home, but that home had been waiting for him.
He lay down at last, cloak pulled over him, and let the warmth of the hearth carry him into sleep.
Morning broke cold but gentle, the light spilling pale through the shutters of the house. Shithead woke to the smell of ash and bread — his mother had already stoked the fire, her humming weaving soft through the crackle of the hearth. For a moment he lay still, just listening, letting the sound settle the knot in his chest.
When he stepped outside, the frost was already melting in the lanes, the village stirring to market-day rhythm. Carts rattled into place, chickens scattered, and voices rose in greeting. It was as he remembered — but smaller now, as though the world had stretched while Greystone stayed the same.
He walked among them with Kaelen and Joren close behind. Children trailed at his heels, peppering him with questions of wolves and battles, their eyes wide with wonder. Granny Tamsin smacked him with her stick when he stooped too low, muttering about chores still waiting. Her humor warmed the watching crowd.
But not every gaze was kind.
At Garrick's stall, where skins hung stiff in the cold, the older man muttered loud enough to carry. "Steel doesn't change what runs in the blood. Best not turn your back too quick." He didn't look at Shithead when he said it, but the words landed heavy all the same. Some villagers frowned at Garrick, others shifted uneasily. No one contradicted him.
Shithead walked on, jaw tight, Kaelen's silence beside him heavier than any answer he could have spoken.
Later, near the smithy, the talk turned to darker things. A farmer swore he'd seen a rider at dusk the week before, cloaked in gray, standing at the edge of the woods. Watching. Another said tracks had been found near the river, too large for men. A third muttered about cottages left hollow and marked with spirals of teeth.
Shithead listened, but said nothing. The words clung to him like frost.
When he returned home, Kaelen and Joren were already tightening saddles. Their road led to the watchtowers, to the border that never rested.
Joren clasped his forearm, his pale eyes steady. "The wall needs stones everywhere. Mine will be there. Yours… here, for now."
Shithead swallowed hard. "I'll see you again."
"You will," Joren said simply. "Walls may stand far apart, but they touch all the same."
Kaelen came last, his hand steady on Shithead's shoulder. "Remember this: blood is only a stone. What you build on it is yours." He paused, then added, voice low enough for only Shithead to hear: "But not all shadows stay buried. Keep your eyes open."
The words lingered as Kaelen swung into the saddle. He and Joren rode out together, cloaks snapping in the wind, their shapes fading into the gray horizon.
Shithead stood in the lane long after, the chatter of the market a dull hum behind him. Somewhere out there, beyond the fields and the palisade, shadows moved — men who watched, riders who asked too many questions, spirals carved into cottage doors.
The willow leaned over the bend of the stream, its silver branches dragging slow across the water. The same tree as always, yet older now, its crown heavier, its bark scarred from storms. Shithead slowed as he came down the path, heart beating harder than it had through battle. The smell of damp earth and woodsmoke wrapped him in memory.
They were there, waiting.
Mira stood with her back against the trunk, her cloak drawn close, a basket of wares set at her feet — ribbons and small carved charms her mother sold at market. Her braid was loose, and her grin was the same as ever, sharp and alive, though her eyes looked older.
Alan leaned against the roots, his broad hands black with soot that no amount of scrubbing could ever seem to wash away. The apprentice's hammer still hung at his belt. He looked up with a grin that split his face, teeth bright against skin smudged with coal dust.
Tomas was last to rise, sturdy as a post, but no longer the hesitant boy who lagged behind. His shoulders had thickened with work in the fields, and his jaw carried the first shadow of a beard. He clasped Shithead's forearm firmly, no hesitation in it.
Lysa knelt by the stream, grinding dried herbs in a small stone mortar. She looked up at the sound of boots crunching frost, her hands stained green from roots and leaves, her eyes calm as ever. She set her work aside and came to meet him, wiping her palms against her skirts before clasping his hand warmly.
"You came back," she said simply.
"Of course," Shithead said, though the word came rougher than he meant.
Mira was the first to break the moment, striding forward and punching his shoulder, hard enough that even through mail he felt it. "Took you long enough. We were about to send Alan after you with his hammer."
Alan laughed, deep and easy. "If I'd gone, I'd have dragged you home by your ear."
Shithead smirked faintly. "Wouldn't have worked. Kaelen would've boxed you flat before you got within reach."
That drew laughter from all four, the sound ringing strange and sweet in the cold air.
For a while, they just talked, voices tumbling over each other, catching up on all the small things that mattered here. Mira spoke of long days on the road to neighboring villages with her mother, selling ribbons, thread, and charms, her tongue sharp enough to bargain with anyone. Alan grumbled about his master's endless demands, but pride lit his voice when he said he'd forged his first true blade. Tomas complained of the harvest, of oxen too stubborn to move, but his smile betrayed how much he belonged to the soil. Lysa listened more than she spoke, her words thoughtful when they came — of herbs gathered, fevers eased, and the strange quiet of working alone.
They had all grown, in their own ways. Not knights, not bearers of steel and cloaks, but steady, rooted in Greystone's earth.
And through it all, Shithead felt both part of them and apart. Taller now by a head, broader through the shoulders, the leather and mail across his frame a reminder of the road he had walked. Yet when they laughed, when Mira rolled her eyes, when Alan clapped him on the back hard enough to sting — it was as though no time had passed.
At last, Mira straightened and held out her hand, palm open. "The willow's still standing. So are we. Pact's not broken, is it?"
Alan laid his blackened hand over hers without hesitation. "Never."
Tomas followed, his grip strong, his eyes steady. "We keep it."
Lysa placed hers next, gentle but firm. "Always."
Shithead looked at them, the people who had carried him before the Chapterhouse, before the Trials, before oaths and cloisters. His throat tightened as he set his broad hand last atop theirs.
"The Willow Pact," he said.
Their voices answered together, warm against the winter air:
"The Willow Pact."
The river carried the echo, the willow's branches stirred, and for a heartbeat Shithead felt like nothing could break them. But as the laughter rose again and the night crept in, a shadow stirred at the edge of his thoughts — a memory of a stranger's eyes in the festival crowd, a spiral carved in frost-bitten wood. The world beyond Greystone would not stay beyond for long.
Still, with their hands bound together beneath the willow, he let himself believe. For tonight, the Pact endured.