The bell tolled long before dawn.
It wasn't the sweet peal of a church tower or the steady clang of a farmer's work bell. This was a hammer-blow, deep and brazen, rolling across the dormitory row until every plank seemed to rattle with it. The sound ripped squires from their straw beds as surely as a whip.
Adrian was already awake. He had been lying flat on his back, eyes fixed on the beams above, listening to the breathing of his roommates, measuring each rise and fall. At the first toll, he swung out of bed and pulled on his boots with practiced economy.
Across the room, Edric groaned. "By the fields, who wakes a man when the moon's still up?" He fumbled for his boots, muttering curses under his breath.
Brann sat up like a man stabbed, eyes bleary but sharp. He spat on the floor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and grinned through the exhaustion. "First bell of the breaking. If you're whining now, farmer, you'll be crying by noon."
Finn chuckled as he fastened his belt. "Best not to give him the satisfaction, Edric. Brann's the type who feeds on misery."
"I prefer the term 'connoisseur of suffering,'" Brann shot back, pulling on his tunic.
Adrian didn't speak. He strapped his satchel, adjusted the plain cloak, and stepped into the hall without looking back. Voices spilled from every dormitory---shouts, laughter, curses, nervous chatter---as hundreds of squires staggered into the predawn gloom. The air smelled of woodsmoke and sweat, the kind of smell that clung to training fields everywhere.
Outside, torchlight lined the path toward the East Grounds. Stewards in gray tabards walked the rows, snapping orders: "Form up! Move faster! Bell tolls again in ten, and if you're not in rank, you'll regret it!"
The squires moved like a tide, still half-asleep, some clutching practice swords, others rubbing at their eyes. Adrian fell into step easily, his body obeying the rhythm of discipline ingrained long before this life. Edric caught up beside him, hair sticking up wildly, cloak askew.
"Don't walk so fast," Edric panted. "Some of us aren't border-bred demons."
"Then keep up," Adrian said flatly.
Edric rolled his eyes but grinned despite his exhaustion. "You'd make a fine drillmaster. Terrible. But fine."
Behind them, Brann was already antagonizing another squire, his booming laugh carrying across the courtyard. Finn moved with quiet efficiency, his fisherman's balance keeping him steady even on the uneven cobblestones.
The East Grounds loomed ahead, its wide expanse lit by braziers now roaring with fire. Rows of straw dummies stood waiting, their faceless forms already cut and patched from generations of drills. Along the periphery, racks of wooden swords and weighted staves leaned in neat rows.
And at its heart stood Sir Varic. His cloak snapped in the wind, his scarred face lit by firelight as if carved from stone.
The moment the last stragglers stumbled into line, the bell tolled a second time. Silence fell like a blade.
Varic's voice rolled across the field, low but carrying to every ear. "You've had your night of straw and bread. From this moment forward, you belong to the Hall. It will strip you, beat you, break you. And if you endure, it will build you into something worth more than a name."
He gestured to the racks. "Form ranks of ten. Take weapons. Today, we test the only thing that matters: whether your body can keep pace with your will."
A ripple of nerves moved through the squires. Brann's grin widened as he cracked his knuckles. Finn's eyes sharpened, his easy humor fading into focus. Edric exhaled loudly, bouncing once on the balls of his feet.
Adrian walked to the rack, fingers brushing past several weapons before selecting a wooden sword. Its weight was unfamiliar compared to steel, but his hand adjusted automatically. He felt no nerves. This was not his breaking. This was simply the beginning of showing them what endurance truly meant.
"First drill!" a steward barked. "Hundred strikes! Every blow must land clean. Dummies don't fight back, but demons will. Show us you can strike until your arms bleed, or go home now!"
Wood clashed against straw as the field erupted into motion. The sound was a storm---cracks, grunts, curses blending into a single roar of effort.
Adrian raised his sword, planted his feet in a stance refined by years of training in another life, and struck.
Once. Twice. Three times. His rhythm was clean, efficient, without wasted motion. The dummy shook with each blow, straw spilling from fresh cuts. His arms did not tire. Not yet. He had driven himself harder in secret fields at Northwatch, where only the wind and memory watched.
Beside him, Edric struck with wide, earnest swings, teeth gritted. "One day," he panted between blows, "I'll make this look as easy as you do."
"Perhaps," Adrian said calmly, bringing the blade down again. "But not if you telegraph every strike like a harvest bell."
Edric's next swing wobbled slightly as he tried to adjust mid-motion, earning a frustrated grunt.
A few rows down, Brann attacked his dummy with wild enthusiasm, each strike accompanied by commentary. "Take that! And that! Gods, this is almost fun!" His laughter was infectious---several nearby squires grinned despite their exhaustion.
Finn's approach was entirely different. His strikes were measured, economical, each one following the last in a rhythm like waves against a boat. The fisherman's son wasted no energy, conserved no strength. He simply worked, steady and unrelenting.
Varic prowled between the rows, eyes cold, correcting with a bark or a sharp cuff to the shoulder. "Widen your stance!" he snapped at one squire. "You'll be on your ass the moment someone pushes back." To another: "Stop flinching! The dummy can't hurt you, but your fear will get you killed!"
When he passed Adrian, his gaze lingered. The wooden sword rose and fell with metronomic precision, the body behind it unshaken, the strikes neither slowing nor speeding. Varic's eyes narrowed slightly, then he moved on without comment---but several nearby squires had noticed his pause.
By the fiftieth strike, some began to struggle. By seventy, arms trembled. By ninety, the weaker squires were gasping, their blows glancing off straw rather than striking true.
"Keep going!" the stewards shouted. "Hundred means hundred, not ninety-eight because you're tired!"
Edric's face was red, sweat pouring down his temples, but he forced himself onward. Ninety-three. Ninety-four. Each number felt like lifting a mountain.
Beside him, Adrian's hundredth strike fell with the same controlled force as his first. He lowered his sword, breathing steady, and waited.
The bell did not ring.
Varic's voice cut through the groans and gasps. "Good. You've completed the minimum. Now we see who you really are. Continue until I tell you to stop."
Despair rippled through the ranks. Several squires actually whimpered.
But some kept striking. Brann, grinning maniacally now, swung harder. Finn continued his measured pace, face set in determination. Edric, despite everything, raised his sword again.
And Adrian, who could have continued for hours, struck with deliberate restraint---showing endurance without revealing the full depth of his capability.
When at last the bell rang, cutting through the exhaustion like mercy itself, half the squires dropped to their knees. Wooden swords clattered to the ground. Hands shook uncontrollably.
Adrian lowered his weapon with no visible strain. His breathing was deeper than before, but controlled. His eyes remained calm.
Edric collapsed onto his back, staring at the sky, laughing weakly between gulps of air. "Still... alive. Barely. But alive."
Finn leaned heavily on his sword, sweat streaming down his face, but he was smiling faintly. The challenge had been met.
Brann remained standing through sheer stubbornness, though his arms hung limp at his sides. "That all you got?" he called toward Varic, though his voice cracked slightly.
Varic's expression didn't change. "That was nothing. A warm greeting. Tomorrow, you will break. The day after, you will wish to die. And if you still rise the day after that, perhaps---perhaps---you will be worth the steel you beg to wield."
The squires groaned collectively, but there was something else in the sound now. Not just exhaustion, but a strange kind of pride. They had survived the first trial.
Adrian's gaze swept across his fallen comrades, noting who had kept going past the hundred, who had stopped, who had the will to endure. This information would matter later.
Varic's voice rang out one final time. "Dismissed for morning meal. You have one hour. Then we continue."
As the squires limped toward the mess hall, Edric managed to pull himself upright. "How?" he gasped, looking at Adrian. "How are you not dying?"
Adrian considered the question. "Because I've done worse," he said simply, and walked toward breakfast, leaving his roommates to wonder what exactly "worse" meant for a boy from the border.
This was not breaking. This was sharpening.
And they had only just begun.