The afternoon sun slanted through narrow windows as Adrian and Edric navigated the maze of corridors leading to the dormitory quarters. The building was older than the Registration Hall, its stones worn smooth by generations of squires. The air smelled of wood smoke, sweat, and the faint mustiness of straw mattresses.
"E-Row 19," Edric read from his chit, squinting at the burned markings. "That's... somewhere in this direction, I think."
Adrian's chit bore the same number. "We're rooming together, then."
"Thank the gods," Edric muttered. "At least I'll have one person who won't try to slit my throat in my sleep."
"Don't be so sure," Adrian said dryly.
Edric shot him a look, then caught the faint curve at the corner of Adrian's mouth. "Was that... a joke? From you?"
"Focus on finding the room."
They passed other squires hauling their belongings, some laughing, others silent with nerves. The dormitory was organized chaos—voices echoing off stone, boots scraping, the occasional crash as someone dropped their pack. This was no noble estate with private chambers. Here, four squires would share each room, sleeping on narrow cots with barely enough space to turn around.
They found E-Row 19 at the end of a long corridor. The door stood ajar, voices already emanating from within.
Adrian pushed it open.
The room was exactly as austere as expected: four cots with thin straw mattresses, a single window, a washbasin, and four wooden chests for belongings. Two of the cots were already claimed, packs dropped at their feet.
A tall, red-haired boy lounged on one bed, sharpening a knife against a whetstone. His eyes lifted lazily as they entered. "Well, well. Fresh meat."
Adrian met his gaze with a look so flat the boy's grin faltered slightly.
"Don't mind Brann," said the second occupant, a wiry dark-skinned youth with quick, intelligent eyes. "He threatens everyone. Makes him feel important." He stood, extending a hand. "Finn. Fisherman's son from the river provinces. Good with nets, better with knives. I'll try not to stab you in your sleep."
"Adrian Blackthorn." Adrian clasped the offered hand briefly. "Border."
Finn's eyes widened fractionally. "Blackthorn? The... wait, really?"
"Really," Adrian confirmed, dropping his satchel on one of the unclaimed cots.
Brann sat up straighter, his casual demeanor shifting to something more watchful. "Border steel, eh? Heard stories about your family. They say your father held off a demon horde with nothing but fifty men and an iron will."
"Stories exaggerate," Adrian said, though he didn't deny it.
Edric claimed the last cot, flopping onto it with theatrical relief. "Edric Halborne. And before anyone makes a farming joke, I've already heard them all today."
Brann's grin returned. "Halborne? The grain lords?" He barked a laugh. "Gods, they've thrown us into quite the mix. A border warrior, a farming heir, a river rat, and—" He gestured to himself. "—me, the charming rogue from nowhere in particular."
"Charming is generous," Finn said, though without malice.
Adrian surveyed his new roommates with the same analytical eye he'd used in the Registration Hall. Brann was all bluster and bravado, but his hands were scarred from real work, and the way he held that knife spoke of experience. Finn moved with the economy of someone used to tight spaces and quick reactions. Both had potential. Both could be useful.
Or dangerous.
"So," Brann said, setting his whetstone aside. "What do you think our chances are? Making it through the year, I mean."
"Depends," Edric said. "On skill, luck, and how many enemies you make in the first week."
"I've already made three," Adrian said calmly, beginning to unpack his belongings into the chest.
All three roommates stared at him.
"Three?" Finn repeated. "It's been less than a day."
"Ryn Veynar and his friends," Edric explained. "They decided to insult me. Adrian decided to make them regret it."
Brann whistled low. "Veynar? You picked a fight with House Veynar on day one?" He shook his head in admiration. "Either you're incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."
"Neither," Adrian said. "Just clear about where I stand."
"Where's that?" Finn asked, genuine curiosity in his tone.
Adrian paused, holding a rolled shirt in his hands, then looked at each of them in turn. "I'm here to become a knight. Not to make friends, not to play politics, not to bow to nobles who think their names matter more than their steel." His gray eyes were steady, unwavering. "If you can accept that, we'll get along fine. If not..." He shrugged. "Stay out of my way."
Silence settled over the room, heavy with the weight of that declaration.
Then Brann laughed, the sound breaking the tension. "Well, at least you're honest about it. I can respect that." He leaned back against the wall. "Me? I'm here because my old man said I'd either become a knight or a corpse, and I figured knight sounds better. No noble blood, no famous family. Just me and this." He patted his sword.
Finn nodded slowly. "My family sacrificed everything to send me here. Three brothers working the boats so I could have this chance. I won't waste it."
Edric raised a hand. "And I'm here because someone has to show these sword-swinging brutes that farmers' sons can hold steel as well as any lord's." He grinned. "Plus, my father would disown me if I came home empty-handed."
Adrian finished unpacking in silence, then straightened. "Then we understand each other. We all have reasons to succeed. That's enough."
A bell tolled outside, deep and resonant, echoing across the dormitory complex.
"Evening muster," Finn said, standing. "They'll assign us to training groups and go over the rules. Better not be late on the first day."
The four of them filed out into the corridor, joining the stream of squires heading toward the courtyard. As they walked, Adrian caught Edric's eye.
"Think they'll survive?" Edric murmured.
Adrian watched Brann swagger ahead, Finn moving with quiet purpose beside him. "If they're smart. If they're strong. If they don't break."
"That's a lot of ifs."
"It always is."
They emerged into the courtyard where hundreds of squires had already gathered, forming rough lines. At the front stood a tall figure in scarred armor, his presence commanding instant attention even without speaking.
"That's Sir Varic," someone whispered nearby. "One of the senior instructors. They say he's killed more demons than most squires have seen."
Sir Varic's voice, when it came, rolled across the courtyard like thunder. "Squires of Arathor! Your year begins now. From this moment forward, you belong to the Academy. Your names, your houses, your past—all of it means nothing here. Only what you prove with steel and will matters now."
Adrian's hand drifted to his sword hilt, feeling the familiar weight. Around him, the other squires shifted nervously, the reality of their situation finally sinking in.
The trials had truly begun.