Sir Varic's voice carried across the courtyard, silencing the murmurs of hundreds of gathered squires. The evening had deepened, torches now lit along the walls, casting flickering shadows over the assembled hopefuls.
"You have registered. You have surrendered your crests. You have been assigned your quarters." Varic's scarred face looked carved from stone in the firelight. "Now you must understand what lies ahead."
He began to pace, lantern-staff tapping against the stones with each step. "For the next year, you belong to this academy. Not to your families. Not to your houses. To us. Every dawn, you will rise with the bell. Every day, you will train until your muscles scream and your will falters. Every night, you will patrol the streets of Arathor, learning what it means to stand vigil while others sleep."
Adrian listened with the stillness of someone who had heard such speeches before—though not in this life. Beside him, Edric shifted his weight, trying to look confident. Brann's grin had faded into something more serious. Finn's dark eyes tracked Varic's every movement.
"The training is divided into phases," Varic continued. "The first three months, you will drill with wooden blades. You will learn stances, forms, endurance. You will be broken down so that we may build you back up. Those who cannot endure will leave."
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.
"In the third month, you will be given steel. Real blades. From that point forward, every mistake carries blood. You will spar with intent. You will learn what it means to face an opponent who wants to win as badly as you do."
Varic's eyes swept across them. "And in the sixth month, if you survive, you will begin to awaken your Sword Spirit—the bond between your soul and your blade. That is when the true test begins. For without spirit, you are merely soldiers. With it, you may become knights."
He planted his staff firmly. "But tonight? Tonight, you are nothing. Fresh meat. Untested. Tomorrow begins your proving. I suggest you use what hours remain to prepare yourselves."
The dismissal was clear. Squires began to disperse, voices rising again as the weight of his words settled in.
"Six months," Brann muttered as they walked back toward the dormitory. "Six months before we even touch spirit. Gods."
"That's if we last six months," Finn said quietly.
Edric stretched, trying to shake off the tension. "Well, at least we have tonight to ourselves. No drills, no patrols, just—"
"Sleep," Adrian interrupted. "We should sleep."
"Sleep?" Brann laughed. "It's barely past sunset. Some of us aren't ready to curl up like lambs just yet."
Adrian's gray eyes fixed on him. "Then don't. But when the bell rings before dawn and you're dragging through drills, remember you had the chance to rest."
Brann opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. Something in Adrian's tone carried the weight of experience, of someone who knew exactly what exhaustion could cost.
They reached their dormitory room. Already, the sounds of the building settling in could be heard—laughter from some rooms, nervous chatter from others, the occasional crash as someone knocked over a washbasin.
Edric claimed one of the small wooden stools and began unlacing his boots. "So. First day impressions?"
"Overwhelming," Finn admitted, sitting on his cot. "I knew the capital would be big, but... everything here is just more. More people, more noise, more... everything."
"More enemies, too," Brann added, though his grin had returned. "Did you see the way some of those noble pricks looked at us? Like we're dirt on their boots."
"Let them look," Adrian said, pulling off his cloak and folding it precisely. "Words and looks don't win trials. Steel does."
"Speaking of steel," Edric said, running a thumb along the edge of his practice blade, "three months with wood. That's going to feel like forever."
"It's intentional," Adrian said. He sat on his cot, back straight despite the day's exertions. "Wooden blades teach form without the fear of death. You learn to move correctly because you must, not because you're terrified of being cut."
The other three looked at him with varying degrees of curiosity.
"You sound like you've done this before," Finn observed.
"I've trained," Adrian said simply. "At Northwatch, they don't wait until you're fifteen to put a blade in your hand. The border doesn't care about age."
Silence settled over the room, heavier than before. The reality of Adrian's background—growing up where demons were a constant threat—made their own preparations seem almost quaint.
"Well," Brann said finally, standing to blow out one of the candles, "at least we've got someone who knows what he's doing in our room. Might keep us from dying in the first week."
"Don't count on it," Adrian replied, but there was the faintest hint of something that might have been humor in his voice. "I'm not here to save anyone. Only myself."
"Charming," Edric muttered, but he was smiling.
One by one, they settled into their cots. The straw mattresses were thin, the blankets thinner, but after the day's journey and tension, even that felt adequate. Outside, the sounds of the capital drifted through their window—distant bells, the watch calling the hour, the endless murmur of a city that never truly slept.
Adrian lay awake longer than the others. He listened to Brann's breathing deepen into snores, Finn's quiet shifts as he found a comfortable position, Edric's mumbled prayer before sleep claimed him.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin. Tomorrow, they would learn what it truly meant to train as knights of Arathor. Tomorrow, he would have to continue the careful balance of showing enough skill to advance, but not so much that questions would arise.
His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, leaning against the wall beside his cot. The metal was cool under his fingers, familiar, waiting.
In six months, they would awaken their spirits. White flames would flicker along practice blades, and colors would eventually emerge. Edric would find his path. Brann and Finn would discover what lived in their souls.
And Adrian would have to decide, once again, how much of his crimson flame to reveal.
But that was a problem for tomorrow. For now, in the darkness of their shared room, with three strangers who might become brothers-in-arms or simply casualties of the trials, Adrian allowed himself to close his eyes.
The first day was done. The year stretched ahead, vast and uncertain.
But Adrian Blackthorn had endured worse. And he would endure this too.