Dawn broke cold and gray over the waystation, the sky heavy with clouds that promised rain before nightfall.
The squires roused themselves with groans and winces, bodies stiff from wounds that had tightened overnight and exhausted sleep that had done little to restore them. Every movement was a reminder of yesterday's battle—bruised ribs protesting as someone sat up, lacerated muscles pulling as arms reached for discarded clothing, the sharp ache of injuries that seemed worse on the second day than the first.
Healers made final rounds through the barracks, their gray robes swishing as they moved from cot to cot. They checked bandages for seepage, changed dressings that had soaked through overnight, administered last doses of pain-dulling tinctures from clay bottles, and made the hard decisions about who could march under their own power and who needed to be loaded onto the supply wagon like cargo.
"You," a healer said, pointing at Derrin, the noble's son with the concussion. "Wagon. No arguments. You walk, you risk permanent damage."
Derrin started to protest, then thought better of it when a wave of dizziness hit him just from sitting upright. He nodded mutely.
Adrian was already dressed and equipped when the others began stirring, standing at the window overlooking the forest road. His armor was secured, his sword belted at his hip, his travel pack ready beside his cot. He watched the sun struggle to break through the gray clouds, weak light spreading across the treeline they'd fought in yesterday. The column of smoke from the troll's burning corpse had finally died down overnight, leaving only a dark smudge against the morning sky—a funeral marker for the creature that had nearly killed them all.
"You really don't sleep, do you?" Finn's voice came from behind him, quiet and observant as always.
Adrian glanced back. The fisherman's son was sitting on the edge of his cot, rewrapping the bandage on his calf with practiced efficiency—the kind of competence that came from years of treating cuts and injuries on fishing boats. The wound had been deep, cutting through muscle, but Finn's face showed only concentration, not pain. Either the tincture was working or he'd learned to hide discomfort well.
"I sleep," Adrian said. "Just not as much as most people seem to need."
"Border training again?" There was no accusation in Finn's tone, no challenge. Just that same analytical curiosity that characterized everything about him—the need to understand, to catalog, to make sense of anomalies.
"Something like that," Adrian confirmed, offering the same non-answer he always did.
Finn nodded, accepting it without pressing further. He'd gotten what he needed last night—enough truth to build understanding on, enough answers to satisfy the immediate questions. The rest could wait. He tied off his bandage with a neat knot and began pulling on his boots.
Across the room, Brann struggled one-handed to put on his armor, his face twisted in pain and frustration. His right arm was still bound in its sling, the shoulder swollen and purple from bruising. Every attempt to use it, even slightly, sent visible spasms of agony across his features. He fumbled with a buckle, dropped it, cursed under his breath.
Edric moved to help him without being asked, their movements coordinated by three months of living in close quarters. "Here, let me."
"I can do it myself," Brann growled, but there was no real heat in it. Just wounded pride.
"Sure you can. In about an hour, with twice the pain." Edric's hands moved efficiently, securing straps and buckles. "Save your strength for walking. It's fifteen miles back to the capital."
Brann grimaced but didn't argue further. "Thanks," he muttered.
Around them, the rest of the squad prepared with similar quiet efficiency. The banter that had characterized their first months together was gone, replaced by somber focus. They'd seen real combat now, felt real fear, watched friends get cut down. The illusion of invincibility that every young warrior carried had been shattered against goblin blades and a troll's massive club.
They were different now. Older, in ways that had nothing to do with time.
Knight-Captain Voss entered the barracks, her presence immediately commanding attention. Her armor was freshly cleaned despite the early hour, her greatsword strapped to her back, her expression all business. But Adrian noted the dark circles under her eyes, the slight tightness around her mouth that spoke of her own sleepless night.
She'd been weighing her decision about him. Deciding what to report, what to keep quiet, how to handle the squire who'd revealed impossible power.
"Formation in ten minutes," Voss announced, her voice cutting through the morning sounds. "We march within the hour. Wounded who can't walk under their own power get the wagon. Everyone else moves on foot. No exceptions, no complaints. We've got fifteen miles to cover, and I want to be inside Arathor's walls before nightfall."
Her eyes swept across the assembled squires, pausing briefly on Adrian—a look that carried weight, warning, and something else. A reminder of their conversation, perhaps. Or a promise of scrutiny to come.
"Move," she commanded. "I want this squad formed up and ready before the other units. Show them that Third Squad doesn't let a few goblins and a troll slow us down."
The squires scrambled to finish preparations. Armor was secured, weapons checked, packs shouldered. Those helping the more seriously wounded moved with careful efficiency, supporting weight without causing additional pain.
Adrian shouldered his own pack and moved toward the door, but Voss's voice stopped him.
"Blackthorn. A moment."
*The other squires filed past, shooting glances back at Adrian—some curious, some sympathetic, some still wary after yesterday's display. Edric hesitated in the doorway, but Finn pulled him along with a subtle shake of his head. Not our business. Not yet.
When the room had emptied, Voss turned to face Adrian fully. Up close, the exhaustion was more evident—not just physical, but mental. The weight of command, of responsibility, of impossible decisions.
"I thought about it all night," she said without preamble. "What I saw. What you did. What I should report to the senior instructors."
Adrian waited, saying nothing. Sometimes silence was the best response.
"I could destroy your career before it starts," Voss continued, her voice low. "One report about irregular sword spirit, inhuman strength, potential security risk. They'd pull you from the trials, investigate your background, possibly imprison you until they were satisfied you weren't demon-touched or worse."
"But you won't," Adrian said. Not a question. An observation.
"No." Voss's eyes were hard. "Not yet. Because despite everything, you saved lives. You saved my life. That counts for something." She paused. "But understand this, Blackthorn—I'm watching you now. Not as an enemy, but as someone responsible for the squires under my command. If you're a threat, I need to know. If you're unstable, I need to know. If that power you showed is going to endanger others, I need to know before it happens."
"Understood," Adrian said quietly. "I'm not a threat. I'm just trying to survive and become a knight."
"We'll see." Voss studied him a moment longer. "I'm filing a report that says you showed exceptional combat ability and strategic thinking during an ambush. That you moved quickly to protect your commanding officer when she was in danger. Nothing about the crimson flame, nothing about stopping a troll single-handedly. Just... exemplary performance under pressure."
Relief flickered through Adrian, though he kept his expression neutral. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me." Voss's voice turned harder. "This isn't mercy. This is a tactical decision. You're valuable—that much is clear. But if you prove dangerous, I'll end you myself. No hesitation. No remorse. Clear?"
"Clear."
Voss nodded once, curtly. "Good. Now get to formation. And Blackthorn? Whatever you are, whatever you're hiding—learn to hide it better. Because next time we face real danger, I might not be the only senior knight watching."
She strode past him toward the door, then paused at the threshold. "One more thing. Your roommates—Halborne and Finn. They know something. I can see it in how they look at you, how they position themselves near you. Keep them in line. If they talk, if they spread rumors, I'll have to act."
"They won't talk," Adrian said with certainty. "They're loyal."
"For your sake, I hope you're right." Voss stepped through the door, leaving Adrian alone in the empty barracks.
He stood there for a moment, processing. The report would be sanitized, his true capability hidden behind vague praise. But Voss knew. And she'd be watching. And if he slipped again, if he revealed too much...
The cage was tightening. Slowly, carefully, but undeniably closing around him.
Adrian took a deep breath, centered himself, and followed Voss outside.
The Third Squad stood in formation in the waystation's courtyard, looking battered but standing. Edric caught his eye, a question in his expression. Adrian gave the slightest shake of his head—not now—and took his place in line.
The supply wagon was being loaded with the worst wounded—Derrin with his concussion, Mara with her deep arm wound, the squire who'd lost fingers. They'd ride back to Arathor in relative comfort while the rest marched.
Other squads were forming up as well, their own wounded being assessed, their own losses being counted. Third Squad had been lucky, in a way. They'd all survived. Other squads hadn't been so fortunate.
As the sun finally broke through the clouds, casting weak light across the courtyard, Sir Aldric Marrowfall appeared—his lantern-staff already lit despite the daylight, a beacon marking the Watch's authority.
"Squads!" his voice boomed. "We march for Arathor. Keep formation. Stay alert. The road is safer this close to the capital, but yesterday proved that safe is relative. Watch each other's backs. Support your wounded. And remember—you survived your first real battle. Not all squires can say that. Hold your heads high."
A ragged cheer went up from the assembled squires, tired but genuine.
"Forward march!"
The column began moving, boots crunching on the packed earth road. Third Squad fell into rhythm, their pace slightly slower than usual to accommodate the wounded but still steady, professional.
Adrian walked in formation, aware of eyes on him from multiple directions. Voss, marching at the front, occasionally glancing back. His roommates, Edric and Finn, flanking him in an almost protective formation they probably weren't even aware of. Other squires from different squads, whispering among themselves about the squad that had faced a troll and lived.
Fifteen miles to Arathor. Fifteen miles to safety, to familiar walls, to the next phase of training.
And fifteen miles to wonder what awaited him when they arrived. What questions would be asked. What tests would come. What new complications his partial revelation had created.
The road stretched ahead, and Adrian walked it with his friends beside him and his secrets clutched close.
The first mission was over. The real trial—surviving his own exposure—had only just begun.