The patrol bell rang different this time.
Not the familiar evening toll that sent squads into Arathor's streets—a sound they'd all learned to respond to without thought—but something deeper, more primal. Brass mixed with iron, resonating through the dormitories like a war drum calling ancient warriors to battle. The sound vibrated in the chest, stirred something fundamental in the blood.
The squires scrambled from their bunks, pulling on armor and boots with the practiced speed of three months' conditioning. But uncertainty flickered across faces, hands hesitated on sword belts, whispered questions passed between cots in the darkness.
This wasn't routine. Everyone knew it.
Adrian was already fully dressed by the time the others stirred, standing at the window watching torches being lit along the walls. He'd heard the different tone immediately, his soul recognizing it for what it was: a summoning beyond the safe confines of the capital. A call to real danger, not the controlled patrols of city streets. His gray eyes tracked his roommates' movements with that same analytical calm he always wore, cataloging their reactions.
Edric fumbled with his belt, fingers clumsy with nerves and sleep. "That's not the city bell," he said, voicing what they all knew, needing to hear it confirmed.
"No," Adrian agreed simply, his voice steady as stone. "It's not."
Finn checked his blade with methodical precision, the fisherman's habit of triple-checking his equipment asserting itself. His dark eyes were sharp, alert, already processing possibilities. "Beyond the walls, then."
Brann grinned as he strapped on his sword, though the expression carried an edge it hadn't before—excitement mixed with something that might have been apprehension if he'd admit to it. "Finally. Real work instead of chasing drunk merchants and penny thieves."
"Be careful what you wish for," Finn muttered, but he was already moving toward the door.
They filed into the courtyard where hundreds of squires gathered in the pre-dawn darkness, their breath steaming in the cold air. The sky overhead was still black, stars fading as the faintest hint of light touched the eastern horizon. Torches lined the walls in regimented rows, casting flickering shadows across nervous faces and creating a perimeter of light that made the darkness beyond seem deeper, more threatening.
The atmosphere was different from evening musters. Heavier. More real. This wasn't practice.
At the front stood Sir Aldric Marrowfall, his lantern-staff blazing brighter than usual, the runes carved into its frame glowing with barely contained power. Beside him stood Sir Varic, arms crossed, his scarred face carved from granite in the harsh torchlight. Behind them, a dozen other knights in full armor—veterans all, their blades already glowing with spirit flames white and steady.
*The presence of so many senior instructors and combat veterans sent a ripple of unease through the formation. Squires shifted, gripped sword hilts tighter, exchanged glances that asked the same silent question: What's happening?
"Squires of Arathor!" Varic's voice cut through the murmurs like a blade through silk, commanding instant silence. Every eye snapped forward. "For three months you have trained within these walls. You have learned discipline in the yards, endurance in the drills, and the weight of steel in your hands. You have walked the city's streets and proven you can stand watch without flinching."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep across them, measuring them.
"Tonight, that training faces its first true test."
Sir Aldric stepped forward, his weathered face grim in the torchlight, every scar thrown into sharp relief. "Reports came in at midnight. A merchant caravan was attacked on the forest road, fifteen miles northeast of the capital." His voice carried the flat certainty of someone delivering bad news without embellishment. "Three wagons, eight dead, five wounded, goods scattered. The survivors made it to the nearest waystation and sent riders."
A murmur rippled through the squires. Eight dead. That was more than most of them had ever heard of in a single incident.
"Goblins, by the tracks," Aldric continued. "A hunting party, maybe twenty strong, possibly more. They hit fast, killed efficiently, took what they could carry and vanished into the Thornwood."
Twenty. The number hung in the cold air like a noose.
Twenty goblins. Against squires who'd never faced a real monster, whose only combat experience was sparring matches and chasing thieves through city alleys. Some faces went pale. Others set their jaws, trying to look brave.
"Normally," Varic said, his voice hard as iron, "we'd send a full knight patrol to handle this. Hunt them down, exterminate the nest, secure the road. But you are no longer children swinging wooden swords in a training yard. You carry steel now. Real steel. You've proven yourselves in the city's streets against human threats."
His eyes swept across them again, harder this time.
"Now we see if you can prove yourselves beyond those walls, against threats that don't bleed human blood."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even Brann's grin had faded.
"You will not face this alone," Sir Aldric added, his tone slightly less harsh. "Each squad of ten will be led by a veteran knight. We've done this a thousand times. We know how goblins fight, how they think, where they hide. Your job is simple: follow orders. Fight as you've been trained. Trust your squad. Trust your leaders."
Varic's voice cut back in, sharp as a whip crack. "And if you show cowardice—if you run, if you freeze, if you endanger your brothers and sisters through incompetence or fear—you will be removed from the trials permanently. Not as punishment, but as mercy. Better you wash out here than get yourself and others killed when the stakes are higher."
The weight of those words settled like iron chains on every shoulder. This wasn't just a test. This was real. People had died on that road. And they were being sent to hunt the things that killed them.
Adrian stood motionless, his face betraying nothing. Around him, others shifted nervously, but he simply waited. He'd hunted goblins before—commanded armies of them, in fact. Understood their pack tactics, their cowardice when faced with superior force, their viciousness when they sensed weakness. Twenty goblins were nothing. Less than nothing.
But he couldn't say that. Couldn't show that. So he simply stood like any other squire facing his first real combat: calm on the surface, presumably nervous underneath.
Edric's breathing had quickened beside him. Finn's hand kept drifting to his sword hilt, checking it was still there. Even Brann had lost his characteristic swagger, his face set in harder lines.
"Form your squads!" Sir Aldric barked, his voice snapping through the tension like thunder. "Squad leaders, front and center! We march in ten minutes! Check your weapons, your water, your gear! Once we're beyond the walls, there's no running back for forgotten equipment!"
The courtyard erupted into controlled chaos as squires scrambled to their assigned positions. Squad leaders—all veteran knights—began calling names, forming their groups. Adrian heard his name called by a tall woman in scarred plate armor, a knight with cold blue eyes and a greatsword strapped to her back.
"Blackthorn! Halborne! Marrowfist! Finn!" She continued down the list, assembling her squad of ten with practiced efficiency. "On me! We're Third Squad, northeast sweep. I'm Knight-Captain Voss. You'll call me Captain or ma'am. You'll do exactly as I say, when I say it. Clear?"
"Yes, ma'am!" The response was ragged but earnest.
Knight-Captain Voss's eyes swept across her newly assigned charges, measuring each one with the practiced eye of a veteran. Her gaze lingered on Adrian slightly longer than the others—recognizing the Blackthorn name, perhaps, or simply noting his unusual composure.
"Goblins are fast, vicious, and cowardly," she said bluntly. "They'll try to separate you, pick off stragglers, go for throats and hamstrings. Stay together. Watch each other's backs. If you get isolated, you die. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Good." She turned toward the gates where other squads were already forming up. "Move out. We've got a long march ahead and dawn's burning."
As they marched toward the gates, Edric leaned close to Adrian, his voice barely a whisper. "Have you ever... I mean, goblins... have you actually..."
"Yes," Adrian said quietly. It wasn't a lie. Just not the whole truth.
"What are they like?"
Adrian considered his answer carefully. "Fast. Vicious. They work in packs. Aim for the throat."
"Comforting," Edric muttered, but his grip on his sword tightened with determination.
The great gates of Arathor groaned open, revealing the dark road beyond. Torches lit the path for the first hundred yards, but beyond that—darkness. The Thornwood loomed in the distance, a black mass against the lightening sky.
Three months of training. Three months of wooden swords and city patrols and controlled environments.
All of it had been preparation for this moment.
As Adrian passed through the gates, leaving the safety of the capital behind, he felt something shift inside him. A familiar sensation, like an old coat being put back on. The weight of real danger. The clarity that came with knowing death was possible.
Behind him, Edric whispered a prayer. Beside him, Finn's jaw was set in grim determination. Ahead, Brann cracked his knuckles, nervous energy finding an outlet.
And Adrian walked forward into the darkness, his face calm, his heart steady.
He'd fought in wars these squires couldn't imagine. Twenty goblins were nothing.
But for them—for Edric and Finn and Brann and all the others taking their first steps beyond the walls—this was everything.
The first blood. The first real test.
The moment when training became war.