The academy's command hall felt more like a courtroom than a briefing room.
High stone walls rose toward vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, their surface carved with the names of fallen knights from centuries past—a permanent reminder that duty often ended in death. Narrow windows set high in the walls let in shafts of pale afternoon light that cut through the dimness but did little to warm the space. The air smelled of old stone, weapon oil, and the faint metallic tang of armor worn by generations of warriors.
At the far end of the hall sat a long table of dark wood, polished smooth by time and countless hands. Five senior instructors waited behind it like judges at a tribunal. Sir Varic occupied the center position, his scarred face carved from granite, his eyes sharp as sword edges as the returning squads filed in. His presence alone commanded absolute attention—he'd trained hundreds of squires, buried dozens, and knew the difference between potential and posturing at a glance.
To his left sat Instructor Halbrecht, the hawk-nosed lecturer on runes and history, his gray-trimmed cloak marking his scholarly status among the warrior elite. His expression was thoughtful, analytical, the look of someone preparing to dissect reports for useful data.
To Varic's right sat two other senior knights Adrian didn't recognize from his months of training. The first was a woman with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a severe braid, cold blue eyes that swept across the assembled squires with the precision of someone reading tactical formations rather than seeing individuals. Three scars marked her left cheek in parallel lines—claw marks, probably. Her armor was functional rather than decorative, marked with the scratches and dents of active service. Knight-Commander Sylara Vex, judging by the rank insignia on her pauldron.
The second was a broad-shouldered man whose armor bore the patina of decades of service—not neglected, but worn in ways that spoke of countless battles, countless repairs, countless near-misses that had dented but never quite destroyed. His beard was iron-gray, his hands scarred and thick-knuckled, his eyes carrying the weight of someone who'd sent too many young warriors to their deaths and never quite forgiven himself for surviving.
The squads stood in precise ranks before this panel of judgment, formation perfect despite bone-deep exhaustion. Three months of drilling had made proper stance automatic, a reflex that transcended physical condition. But beneath that discipline, tension thrummed like a plucked string. Whispers had already spread during the march—about casualties, about close calls, about Third Squad's encounter with a troll.
Knight-Captain Voss and the other squad leaders stood at attention off to one side, their own exhaustion visible in the set of their shoulders, the tightness around their eyes. They'd led squires into real combat for the first time. Whatever happened next, those decisions would be weighed, judged, added to records that followed them for their entire careers.
Sir Varic let the silence stretch, his gaze moving deliberately across each squad, cataloging bandages, noting missing faces, measuring the change that combat always brought. When he finally spoke, his voice was granite grinding against granite.
"At ease." Though his tone suggested ease was the last thing anyone should feel. "You have returned from your first deployment beyond the walls. Some of you distinguished yourselves. Others learned hard lessons about their limitations. A few learned nothing at all and will not have the opportunity to repeat their mistakes."
He paused, letting those words sink in like cold water.
"We will hear reports from each squad leader. They will assess your performance, your conduct under fire, your ability to follow orders and adapt to changing circumstances. Based on these reports and our own observations, we will determine who among you is fit to continue training—and who should seek other paths of service to the kingdom."
The weight of those words settled over the assembled squires like a funeral shroud. Who is fit to continue. Failure was always an option. Always lurking. The trials weren't just about proving you could be a knight—they were about proving you should be one.
Adrian stood in Third Squad's formation, his face carefully neutral, but his mind calculating. Voss had promised a sanitized report. But how sanitized? What details would she include? What questions would the senior instructors ask? And would they be satisfied with vague answers about "exceptional performance," or would they dig deeper into exactly how he'd stopped a troll?
Beside him, Edric's breathing was slightly elevated, stress showing in the way his jaw clenched. Finn stood perfectly still, but his eyes tracked everything—the instructors' expressions, Voss's posture, the positioning of guards by the doors. Always analyzing, always preparing.
Brann, despite his injured shoulder, stood straight with chin up, defiance written in every line of his body. He'd survived. He'd fought. Whatever judgment came, he'd face it standing.
"First Squad," Varic said, nodding to a grizzled knight Adrian recognized from patrol rotations. "Report."
The knight stepped forward, his voice clipped and professional. "First Squad deployed to the western approach, sir. Encountered an orc raiding party, estimated twelve strong. Engaged successfully. Two squires wounded, none killed. Objectives achieved—raiders eliminated, merchant convoy protected, area secured."
Varic's eyes narrowed slightly. "Casualties among the enemy?"
"Total, sir. No survivors."
A nod. "Acceptable. Return to your position."
The report was efficient, emotionless, reducing combat to numbers and outcomes. Several squires in First Squad stood slightly taller, pride showing despite their exhaustion.
"Second Squad," Varic continued. "Report."
This squad leader was younger, his voice carrying a tremor he tried to hide. "Second Squad deployed to the southern road, sir. Encountered... encountered a goblin war party, estimated forty combatants including a chieftain." He swallowed hard. "Three squires killed in action. Five wounded. We... we completed a fighting retreat to a defensible position and held until reinforcements arrived from the waystation garrison."
Silence fell, heavier this time.
"Three dead," the silver-haired Knight-Commander Sylara said, her voice like ice over stone. "Names."
The squad leader recited them, voice breaking slightly on the third. Adrian didn't recognize the names, but several squires in Second Squad had tears tracking silently down their faces.
"Their families will be notified," Varic said, his voice carrying an unexpected gentleness. "Their names will be added to the memorial wall. They died as knights die—protecting others." He paused. "Return to position, Squad Leader. We will discuss your tactical decisions in private."
The young knight's face went pale, but he saluted and stepped back. Adrian noted the distinction—in private meant either commendation for keeping any alive, or censure for losing three. Possibly both.
"Third Squad," Varic said, and his eyes found Adrian before settling on Voss. "Knight-Captain. Report."
Knight-Captain Voss stepped forward, her scarred armor catching the light, her expression professionally neutral. Adrian's pulse quickened slightly, though he kept his breathing controlled. This was it. Whatever she said now would shape everything that followed.
"Third Squad deployed to the northeastern forest road, sir," Voss began, her voice steady and clear. "Primary mission: investigate reported goblin activity and secure the merchant route."
"And?" Varic prompted.
"And we encountered significantly more resistance than intelligence suggested," Voss said. "Ambush by approximately forty goblins, not the reported twenty. Additionally, the force included a troll—unanticipated and not mentioned in any scouting reports."
Murmurs rippled through the assembled squires. A troll. Most of them had only heard stories.
The broad-shouldered senior knight leaned forward. "A troll. And you survived with—" he consulted a document "—one squire requiring medical evacuation for concussion, several minor wounds, but no fatalities. How?"
Voss didn't hesitate. "Disciplined formation, sir. Effective use of terrain. Quick adaptation when the situation escalated beyond expectations." She paused deliberately. "And exceptional performance from several squad members who demonstrated advanced combat capabilities."
There it was. Vague enough to be safe. Specific enough to satisfy curiosity without inviting deeper investigation.
"Elaborate," Varic commanded, his eyes sharp. "A troll is not defeated by 'discipline' alone. What specifically turned the engagement?"
Voss met his gaze steadily. "The troll focused its attack on me, sir. While I engaged it directly, the squad maintained defensive formation and handled the goblin forces. When an opportunity presented itself, we utilized the standard anti-regeneration protocol—fire applied to a critical wound. The troll was eliminated, the goblin forces broke, and we completed a tactical withdrawal to the waystation."
It was masterfully done. Every word true, yet carefully omitting the crucial detail of how that opportunity had been created, who had created it, and the crimson flame that had blazed for just an instant.
Knight-Commander Sylara's cold eyes swept across Third Squad. "Which squad members demonstrated 'exceptional performance'?"
"Multiple members, sir," Voss said without missing a beat. "Squire Marrowfist showed aggressive offense under pressure. Squire Finn maintained defensive discipline despite injury. Squire Halborne provided crucial support despite his wounds." She paused. "And Squire Blackthorn demonstrated remarkable tactical awareness and combat effectiveness, including a critical intervention that saved my life during the troll engagement."
Every eye in the room turned to Adrian.
He stood at attention, expression neutral, meeting the instructors' gazes without flinching. Inside, his mind raced through possible follow-up questions, preparing responses that would satisfy without revealing.
"Blackthorn," Varic said, his voice carrying across the hall. "Step forward."
Adrian obeyed, his boots clicking against stone as he moved to stand before the panel of senior instructors. Up close, their scrutiny was almost physical—eyes dissecting him, looking for tells, for signs of whatever had allowed a first-year squire to make a "critical intervention" against a troll.
"You're from the border," Varic observed. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, sir. Northwatch. House Blackthorn."
"And your family trains their children in combat from an early age," Halbrecht added, his scholar's eyes curious rather than suspicious. "Necessary, given the constant demon presence at the northern wall."
"Yes, sir."
"Tell me," Varic said, leaning forward slightly, "how does a fifteen-year-old squire save a Knight-Captain from a troll?"
The question hung in the air like a drawn blade.
Adrian chose his words carefully. "Speed and positioning, sir. The troll focused entirely on Knight-Captain Voss. I moved to flank, struck a critical blow while it was distracted, and created the opening for her to deliver the killing strike. Teamwork, as we've been trained."
"Speed," the silver-haired Knight-Commander repeated, her eyes narrowing. "Fast enough to intercept a troll mid-strike?"
"Fast enough to exploit an opening, sir. The creature was slow to react to threats from multiple directions."
It was deflection wrapped in humility, giving credit to training and teamwork rather than individual capability. Adrian had learned this dance well—how to diminish achievements while still accepting recognition, how to seem skilled without seeming too skilled.
The broad-shouldered instructor spoke for the first time. "Your sword spirit. What color has it manifested?"
Adrian's heart rate spiked, though he kept his expression unchanged. The dangerous question. The one that could unravel everything.
"White, sir," he said evenly. "As with all first-year squires."
It was a lie. But what else could he say?
Voss remained perfectly still, her face showing nothing. She wouldn't contradict him. Not after choosing to sanitize her report. But if anyone else had seen—if any of the other squad members had told a different story—
Varic studied him for a long moment, his scarred face unreadable. Then he glanced at Voss. "Knight-Captain. You observed Squire Blackthorn's spirit flame during combat?"
"Briefly, sir," Voss said carefully. "In the chaos of the engagement, I observed his blade was active. The specific color..." She paused. "Was difficult to discern clearly amid the violence."
Another masterful deflection. Not a lie, but not confirmation either.
The silence stretched uncomfortably.
Finally, Varic nodded slowly. "Return to formation, Blackthorn. We will be monitoring your continued development with interest."
Adrian saluted and returned to his position, aware of eyes following him—curious, suspicious, assessing. Edric let out a breath he'd been holding. Finn's expression remained neutral, but Adrian caught the slight relaxation in his stance.
They'd survived the first round of questions. But "monitoring with interest" was not reassurance. It was a warning.
Varic continued through the remaining squad reports, but Adrian barely heard them. His mind was already calculating next steps, preparing for increased scrutiny, planning how to continue hiding in plain sight.
When the debriefing finally ended, Varic stood. "You are dismissed to your quarters. Rest. Tomorrow, training resumes. And remember—you are no longer children playing at war. You are blooded warriors now. Act accordingly."
The squads filed out in silence, the weight of judgment and survival heavy on young shoulders.
As Third Squad passed through the doors, Edric leaned close to Adrian. "That was too close."
"It's not over," Finn added quietly from the other side. "They'll be watching now."
Adrian nodded, saying nothing. They were right.
The cage was tightening. And he'd have to be even more careful going forward.
Or the secrets he kept would destroy everything he'd built.