The gates of Arathor appeared on the horizon like a promise of sanctuary—or judgment.
After fifteen miles of steady marching under a gray sky that never quite decided whether to rain, the capital's outer walls rose tall and imposing against the clouds. Ancient stone, scarred and pitted from demon sieges centuries past but standing proud and unbroken beneath the kingdom's crimson and gold banners. Guard towers punctuated the walls at regular intervals, their archer positions manned by watchful soldiers whose eyes tracked the approaching column with professional assessment.
The road widened as they drew closer, packed earth giving way to proper cobblestone paving, flanked on both sides by farms and settlements that grew progressively denser with each passing mile. Smoke rose from cottage chimneys. Farmers paused in their work to watch the squads pass, some raising hands in silent salute, others simply staring with the wary respect common folk gave to armed warriors.
The squads had maintained proper formation throughout the march, but discipline had begun to fray at the edges as exhaustion accumulated like a physical weight. Even the uninjured showed signs of wear—slumped shoulders despite attempts to stay straight, feet dragging slightly with each step, the way squires leaned subtly against each other for support they wouldn't admit needing.
The wounded in the supply wagon hadn't made a sound for the last hour, lost in pain-dulled stupors induced by the healers' tinctures. Derrin lay with his eyes closed, breathing shallow but steady. Mara stared at nothing, her bandaged arm cradled against her chest.
But as the gates came fully into view, something shifted in the column's atmosphere. Invisible but palpable, like wind changing direction.
Backs straightened despite protests from bruised muscles. Chins lifted despite exhaustion dragging them down. Hands found proper positions on sword hilts. Feet fell into sharper rhythm.
They'd survived. They'd fought real monsters—goblins, a troll, things most citizens would never face in their entire lives—and returned. Bloodied, battered, but unbowed. And now they were coming home to walls that had stood for centuries, coming home as warriors rather than children.
Knight-Captain Voss called the halt a hundred yards from the massive gates, her voice carrying despite evident exhaustion. "Squads! Halt and reform!"
The column shuffled to a stop, breaking formation slightly as squires adjusted positions.
Voss's voice cracked like a whip. "Straighten up! You're squires of Arathor, not a rabble of defeated soldiers crawling back from failure. You fought. You survived. You protected each other. Now you march through those gates with pride, or you don't march through at all."
She walked along the formation, her eyes sharp, pulling at a strap here, adjusting a cloak there, transforming chaos back into order through sheer force of will.
"Third Squad," she said as she passed Adrian's position. "You faced a troll. A troll. Most knights go their entire careers without seeing one. Hold your heads high."
The squads reformed with renewed determination. It wasn't perfect—too many bandages visible, too much dried blood still staining armor despite attempts to clean it, too many limps and favored injuries—but it was something. A statement. A declaration that they'd faced darkness and endured.
Adrian stood in formation beside Edric and Finn, aware of the weight of what was coming. Beyond those gates waited questions. Investigations, possibly. Scrutiny from instructors who might hear sanitized reports but would still wonder. Other squires who'd heard rumors, who'd ask questions, who'd want to know about the squad that killed a troll.
"Ready?" Edric murmured beside him, his voice tight with tension that had nothing to do with his bandaged ribs.
"No," Adrian admitted quietly. "But we go forward anyway."
Finn snorted softly on his other side. "Story of being a squire, I think. Never ready. Always moving forward."
Sir Aldric Marrowfall stepped to the front of the entire column, his lantern-staff raised high despite the daylight. The runes carved into it flared to life, glowing white and steady—a beacon, a symbol, a promise.
"Squires of Arathor!" His voice boomed across the field, carrying to the walls where guards watched. "You marched out into danger because the kingdom called. You faced monsters because citizens needed protection. You bled because others might live in peace. Today, you return as more than you were—blooded, tested, proven!"
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"Not all who marched out will march back through these gates. Remember them. Honor them. But know this—they died as knights die, shields raised between darkness and light. You carry their memory forward now. Make it worth their sacrifice."
The solemnity of his words hung heavy over the column. Several squires lowered their heads. Others set their jaws, determination hardening features still soft with youth.
"Now," Sir Aldric said, his voice shifting from eulogy to command. "March through these gates as warriors of Arathor. Show your kingdom what you've become."
The gates swung wide, their massive hinges groaning, revealing the inner city beyond. Streets. Buildings. People. Life continuing as it always did, protected by walls and the warriors who stood upon them.
The drums began—a slow, measured beat from atop the walls. Not a victory march, but acknowledgment. Recognition. The Watch receiving its returning soldiers.
The column moved forward.
Adrian walked in rhythm with his squad, his steps measured, his expression calm despite the churning uncertainty beneath. Eyes watched from the walls—guards, instructors, other squires who'd remained behind for different training. He felt their gazes like pressure against his skin.
Somewhere in that watching crowd was judgment waiting to fall.
As Third Squad passed beneath the massive gate, Adrian caught fragments of conversation from the watching guards:
"—heard they faced a troll—"
"—Third Squad, the one with—"
"—barely any casualties, how did—"
Whispers. Always whispers. The beginning of reputation, for good or ill.
The inner city opened before them—familiar streets they'd patrolled for three months, now seen with different eyes. Eyes that had watched friends bleed. Eyes that had seen monsters up close. Eyes that understood, finally, what all this training had been preparing them for.
The column proceeded toward the academy grounds, where instructors waited to receive them, to hear reports, to assess damage and performance.
Where Adrian would discover whether Voss's sanitized report would be enough, or whether questions would be asked that he couldn't safely answer.
Edric leaned slightly closer as they marched. "Whatever happens next, we're with you."
Finn nodded on the other side. "Brothers-in-arms. That means something."
Adrian felt something tighten in his chest—gratitude, perhaps, or the weight of friendship he hadn't expected to find. "Thank you."
"Don't thank us yet," Finn muttered. "We might all be investigated together."
Despite everything, Adrian almost smiled. Trust Finn to find the tactical reality in any situation.
The academy gates loomed ahead, and beyond them, Sir Varic stood waiting with several other senior instructors. His scarred face was unreadable, but his eyes tracked the returning squads with the intensity of someone cataloging every detail.
When those eyes found Adrian, they lingered.
*Just for a moment. Just long enough to send a clear message: I'm watching.
The gates of sanctuary had opened. But Adrian knew that sometimes, the walls that protected you could also become your cage.
The first mission was over. The consequences had only just begun.