The bell tolled a second time that morning, sharp and merciless. The squires dragged themselves off the East Grounds, dripping sweat, their wooden swords blistering palms and shoulders aching from the dawn drills.
Adrian walked with steady steps, his breathing calm. He had struck until his arms felt nothing, then kept striking until the bell had ended. Edric limped beside him, cloak half undone, face flushed red.
"I'm beginning to think Sir Varic was bred from a mule," Edric muttered, clutching his ribs. "A very angry mule."
Finn chuckled from behind, wringing sweat from his tunic. "Better than Brann's theory. He says Varic drinks blood at sunrise."
Brann grinned wolfishly, his freckles lost under a mask of grime. "Not just sunrise. Any time of day will do."
The banter carried them into the mess hall --- a cavernous stone chamber lined with trestle tables, the air heavy with the smell of porridge, bread, and salted meat. Servants moved briskly between rows, slapping bowls down with little care for noble courtesy.
Adrian took his seat at the table with his roommates, the wooden bench groaning under the weight of bodies. For once, the heirs and commoners ate the same meal, the only distinction being who complained louder.
Edric eyed his bowl as if it might bite. "This isn't food. This is punishment."
Brann shoved a spoonful into his mouth, chewing noisily. "Punishment tastes better than hunger. Eat."
Finn dipped bread into the thin porridge and shrugged. "Could be worse. At least there's salt."
Adrian ate without comment, each bite fueling a body that did not tire as quickly as the others. He listened instead, ears catching fragments from nearby tables---noble houses whispering of rivals, commoners boasting of survival, names traded like wagers.
The bell tolled again, summoning them to the next part of the day. Stewards barked orders, driving the squires from the mess hall into the inner wings of the Registration Hall.
The lecture chamber was vast, rows of wooden benches rising toward high arched windows. At the front, a slate board stood ready, already marked with chalk sigils. A single man stood waiting---tall, hawk-nosed, his cloak trimmed in gray.
"I am Instructor Halbrecht," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut the murmurs. "You will address me as Instructor or not at all."
The chamber fell silent.
Halbrecht's gaze swept the room. "A knight is not merely muscle and steel. A knight must know what they fight, and how. You will learn the structure of our order, the archetypes you may embody, the monsters you will face, and the demons you must one day kill. Take notes if your minds are as weak as your bodies."
Chalk struck the board in quick, hard lines.
"Ranks of knighthood," Halbrecht began. "Remember them. Live by them."
He wrote:
Squire -- your current state. One year of Trials.
Knight -- fully fledged, sworn to the crown.
Knight-Captain -- commander of squads.
Knight-Commander -- leader of battalions.
High Knight (Paladin of the Crown) -- chosen by the King or Queen, champions of Arathor.
Eternal Knight -- rarest of all, legends who embody the kingdom's might. Few in history.
His eyes cut toward the benches. "Do not think you will ever see Eternal Knighthood. To dream of it is arrogance. To train toward it is duty. Most of you will fail before you reach the rank of Knight."
A ripple of unease moved through the squires. Edric's shoulders slumped, though he tried to hide it with a smirk.
Halbrecht turned the board and struck chalk again.
"Archetypes. Each of you will lean into one as your spirit manifests."
Combat Knights -- the front line, masters of the blade.
Medic Knights -- healers on the field, warriors second.
Support Knights -- pillars and protectors, specialists in defense and formations.
Scout Knights -- the eyes of Arathor, swift and sharp.
Holy Knights -- chosen few of Dawnspire, wielders of the rare yellow spirit.
"Remember this," Halbrecht said, chalk tapping sharply. "A knight without an archetype is a sword without an edge. You will be sharpened, or you will be discarded."
He turned again, the chalk rasping louder this time. Across the slate, he drew crude figures: fanged faces, clawed hands.
"Monsters. The beasts that plague our fields and roads. You will face them before you ever meet a demon. Learn their types."
Goblins -- vermin of the wilds. Cowardly in small groups, deadly in hordes.
Orcs -- larger, stronger, brute cousins to goblins.
Trolls -- regenerative flesh. Burn or sever to kill.
Wyverns -- lesser kin to dragons, dangerous in flight.
Others -- manticores, ogres, serpents of the deep. Endless in variation, but all mortal.
A few squires muttered uneasily. Adrian's jaw tightened. He remembered slaughtering goblin generals like kindling, demons hurling troll corpses as weapons in past campaigns. To him, this was child's play.
"And finally," Halbrecht said, voice lowering, "the demons."
The chalk struck the board harder, carving black streaks.
"Know their ranks. Know them well. For if you misjudge a demon, you will not live to correct the mistake."
Lesser Demons -- fodder, savage but weak.
Greater Demons -- leaders of legions, cunning and deadly.
Demon Nobles -- lords of their courts, each one a nightmare clothed in flesh.
Demon Generals -- warlords who command armies, wielders of anima blades.
Arch Demon Kings -- the pinnacle. Rulers of entire dominions. Arathor has faced four in history. Two slain. Two remain.
The room was silent now, every squire leaning forward, fear and awe painted on their faces.
Halbrecht dropped the chalk. It clattered against the board. "This is the world you inherit. Steel and shadow. Monsters and demons. Ranks to climb and graves to fill. Remember what I have taught you, or you will be the latter."
The bell tolled once, signaling dismissal. Benches scraped as squires stood, voices low, heavy with the weight of what they had heard.
Edric whistled softly beside Adrian. "Eternal Knight, eh? Sounds like a fine title for you. Me, I'll settle for Knight-Captain. Live long enough to drink free in every inn across Arathor."
Finn smirked. "Ambitious. I like it."
Brann spat on the floor again and grinned. "I'll take Eternal Knight. Why dream small?"
Adrian said nothing. His gray eyes lingered on the demon ranks scrawled in chalk, his mind not on the dream of a crown's favor but on a memory three hundred years old---horns, betrayal, crimson flame.
He would not settle for Knight. He would not settle for Eternal.
His war was against demons, and that path had only begun.