The afternoon drills were worse than the morning.
If dawn had broken their arms with a hundred strikes, midday sought to break their backs. The squires hauled logs the length of two grown men across the East Grounds, shields strapped to their arms, sweat soaking through tunics until even the proudest nobles looked no better than common laborers. The sun bore down mercilessly, turning the training yard into a furnace of dust and exhaustion.
But the cruelty had purpose. Everyone knew it, even if they cursed it.
The training was not endless suffering for its own sake—it was deliberate, calculated. The instructors wanted to see how a knight fought when tired, how his will held when his body screamed for rest. It was a test of mental and physical capacity, beaten into them day after day until the lesson sank deeper than muscle memory.
A knight's duty did not wait for rested limbs. An ambush at dawn, a raid at dusk, a sudden monster strike at midnight—none came when convenient. A true knight could be broken from sunrise to sunset and still rise sharp when the walls cried out. That was the difference between a soldier and a knight: the ability to endure beyond endurance itself.
That was the lesson behind the weight, the sweat, the pain.
Edric nearly dropped his log on the third circuit, his face crimson, breath coming in ragged gasps. Brann jeered as he strode past, log balanced easily on his broad shoulders, his grin wide as a wolf's. "Come on, farmer! Don't you lift bales all day?"
"Straw... doesn't... weigh... this much," Edric gasped between breaths.
Finn's expression never changed as he passed them both, his fisherman's endurance showing through. He carried his burden with quiet rhythm, neither fast nor slow, his breathing steady as the tide. Years of hauling nets had built a different kind of strength—one that knew how to pace itself for the long haul.
Adrian ran without complaint, his face composed despite the weight pressing into his shoulders. The log was nothing compared to the millstones he had dragged in another life, the full plate armor he had worn while commanding demon legions through endless campaigns. His body was young, still growing into its strength, but his soul was ancient steel forged in wars these instructors couldn't imagine.
Yet he was careful. Always careful. He kept pace with the stronger squires but never pulled ahead. Let them see competence, not dominance. Let them see endurance, not the supernatural stamina of a soul that had already lived a lifetime of war.
By the time the bell tolled release, the sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of blood and amber. The squires collapsed across the mess benches like felled trees, too exhausted even to celebrate survival.
The hall buzzed with weary chatter, though most voices were hoarse from shouting through the drills. Stew slopped into bowls—more water than meat, but hot and filling. Bread cracked under tired hands, the simple food tasting like a feast to bodies pushed past their limits.
Brann devoured his meal like a beast, barely pausing to breathe between bites. Finn ate with calm efficiency, methodical as everything else he did. Edric sat red-faced and sore, staring at his bowl as though contemplating whether he had the energy left to lift the spoon.
"If this keeps up," he muttered, "I'll be bones before the Trials end. Just a skeleton in armor, rattling around the training yard."
"You'll adapt," Adrian said flatly, spooning stew without looking up. "Your body learns. Give it time."
"Easy for you to say." Edric shot him a look that was half-resentful, half-admiring. "You barely broke a sweat. One day I'll figure out your secret."
Adrian gave no answer. His secret was centuries of blood, of wars fought in a life these boys would never comprehend. He spooned another mouthful of stew and let the silence answer for him.
The bell tolled again, sharp and final, cutting through the mess hall's chatter like a blade through silk. The familiar sound, yet different—deeper, more urgent. The squires quieted immediately, looking around with sudden uncertainty.
Stewards entered, their gray tabards marked with the Watch's insignia. "Form lines!" one barked. "You meet the Watch tonight. Move!"
Confusion rippled through the ranks. This bell was not part of the usual cycle they'd learned that morning. Murmurs rose as squires pushed back from tables, exhaustion forgotten in the face of unexpected duty.
"Patrols?" someone whispered nearby. "Already? I thought we had weeks before—"
"Quiet!" A steward's voice cracked like a whip.
They shuffled out into the cool evening air, a welcome relief after the day's heat. Torches lined the path toward the gates of the inner wall, their flames dancing in the breeze. Long shadows stretched across the cobblestones like dark fingers reaching for them. The capital loomed behind them, its lights beginning to kindle as darkness fell, but ahead lay the city's darker roads—where monsters sometimes prowled and only vigilance kept the sleeping citizens safe.
At the gates stood a single knight.
He was broad-shouldered, solidly built without being massive, the kind of frame that suggested endurance over raw power. A lantern-staff was planted firm in the stone before him, its carved runes glowing with steady white light that illuminated a face carved by years of night watches. Scars marked his cheek and jaw—not the decorative dueling scars some nobles wore with pride, but the rough-edged marks of real violence survived. His eyes were like steel sharpened on hardship, reflecting the lantern light as he studied the approaching squires.
His armor was plain—no gilding, no house crest, no decorative etchings. Just battered plate that bore the dents and scratches of actual service, worn with the ease of a man who'd spent more nights in it than out.
When he spoke, his voice carried through the night like a war drum, deep and commanding without needing to shout.
"I am Sir Aldric Marrowfall. I command the patrols of Arathor's walls and streets. From tonight until the Trials end, you will serve under my watch."
He lifted the lantern-staff slightly, and the rune-light flared brighter, casting his shadow long and hard across the assembled squires.
"You will learn discipline in the yard, yes. Sir Varic will break your bodies and rebuild them stronger. But discipline without courage is ash. A knight who can swing a sword by day but trembles by night is no knight at all." His eyes swept across them, measuring, judging. "You are the shield of this kingdom. Not just against demons beyond the walls, but against the darkness that creeps within them."
He let the silence hang, heavy as an executioner's blade.
"Steel sharpens in the yard. Courage sharpens in the dark. You will sharpen, or you will break. There is no middle ground."
A murmur spread through the squires. Some stood straighter, squaring their shoulders as if already trying to prove themselves. Others shifted nervously, the reality of their new duty settling like a weight.
Edric leaned close to Adrian, voice barely a whisper. "What does he mean, patrols? I thought we'd just train in the yards. March around, learn formations—not actually go out there."
Adrian didn't answer immediately. His eyes were fixed on Marrowfall's lantern-staff, studying the etchings carved into the iron frame with the focus of someone who understood craftsmanship. Light runes—old, steady, carefully tended and renewed over years. Not the cheap, mass-produced work used in village lamps that burned out after a season. This was a master craftsman's work, a tool built to endure endless nights of service without failing.
The kind of tool that kept knights alive in the dark.
Sir Aldric raised a parchment scroll, its edges worn from repeated handling. "Your names will be assigned in squads of ten. Each night, different squads will march the streets of Arathor. You will learn the difference between shadow and threat, between noise and danger. You will learn what it means to be the first shield of this kingdom."
His voice hardened, taking on an edge that made several squires flinch. "The gates beyond will come later. For now, you will learn within the walls. Do not mistake that for safety. The city has dangers of its own—thieves who would cut your throat for copper, smugglers dealing in forbidden goods, cultists who worship what should not be named, and worse things that slip through cracks in the world." He paused, letting that sink in. "A knight who cannot keep order in the streets has no place beyond the walls facing demons."
He unrolled the parchment, its surface covered in neat script. Names began to flow from his lips, read with the efficiency of long practice. Nobles and commoners alike stiffened as they were sorted, some groaning at unfamiliar companions, others grinning nervously at friends drawn together.
When Edric's name was called, he elbowed Adrian with a nervous smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Adrian's own name followed soon after, the word Blackthorn echoing under the torches with that peculiar weight it always carried.
Whispers stirred, just as they had in the Registration Hall.
"Blackthorn..." "Border family..." "I heard they held Northwatch against a demon army with just fifty men..." "They say the baron's half-demon himself. How else could they survive out there so long?"
Sir Aldric's voice cut through the murmurs like a sword through silk. "Quiet your tongues. Out there—" he gestured toward the dark streets beyond the gate "—names mean nothing. Out there, only your eyes, your steel, and your courage matter. A Blackthorn bleeds the same as a Veynar. A Halborne dies the same as any farm boy. The darkness makes us all equal."
The gates of the inner city groaned as guards barred them for the night, their heavy iron reinforcements sliding into place with finality. Shadows pooled in the streets beyond, turning familiar thoroughfares into uncertain territory.
Sir Aldric's lantern flared brighter, pushing back the darkness in a circle of white light. "You march tonight, but you do not fight unless ordered. You watch. You learn. You report. The city sleeps because we do not. That is the compact knights make with the people we defend."
His gaze swept the squires, hard and unflinching, reading them the way a master smith might read heated metal for flaws. "Remember this: cowardice on patrol endangers not just you, but every soul behind these walls. Every mother sleeping in her bed. Every child dreaming in safety. Every merchant who trusts his goods will be there in the morning. I will not tolerate cowardice. Fail in courage, and I will see you sent home in shame, your family's name spoken with disappointment for generations."
The squads shifted uneasily, adjusting grips on their wooden training swords—weapons that suddenly felt inadequate against the threats Sir Aldric described. Shoulders brushed in nervous solidarity as squires unconsciously sought comfort in proximity.
Adrian felt no nerves. If anything, the darkness within the city called to him, familiar as an old enemy turned reluctant companion. He had lived in shadow before, commanded armies beneath red moons, stalked through demon-infested wastes where every shadow held death. Compared to that, the night streets of Arathor were nothing but another proving ground—and one far safer than those he'd already conquered.
Sir Aldric lowered the lantern slightly, his final words carried with quiet steel that somehow carried more weight than his earlier declarations.
"Welcome to the Watch."
The bell tolled one last time, its deep note echoing across the city, announcing to the sleeping capital that the Watch was changing, that new guardians walked the walls.
The first patrols began.