The First Trial

The scent of damp earth and iron wafted through the stone archway beneath which I walked alongside the others, down to the yard that would host the recruitment trials. There was just the air of anticipation. The sun had barely crested the horizon yet more than a hundred young men lay in scattered clusters, murmuring to one another while checking out the competition.

I said nothing.

I had no friends here. No allies. Just the weight of what was to come.

The judges who would preside over the trials were already at hand, lined up at the yard's far end. They were dressed in armor that appeared well-worn, tested in battle. No one spoke, but just their presence commanded respect. The central one, a man with dark black hair, shouted.

"If you believe this is some bloody noble's game, then walk out now." His voice was gravelly; it rose above the murmur of the crowd. "If knighthood is about titles and wealth, you can leave. We don't need dreamers. We need warriors."

No one moved.

I looked around, recognizing the faces of whom would be my competition. Some were the types who seemed to belong there — sons of soldiers, designed for warfare. Others had the glazed look of boys who had never seen a battlefield, they only heard about one.

The knight continued. "This is not a competition of who wants it more. This is a test of survival. You will break bones. You will bleed. You will creep before you get up on your feet. And most of you will fail." He let the words hang, then waved toward the field behind him. "Begin."

No instructions. No ceremony. One word, and the recruitment trials began.

The First Test

It started with endurance.

We were made to run, laps around the outer walls of the keep, through the deep mud and uneven ground. Some stumbled in the first few minutes, fumbled, gasped for air.

I pressed on through the fire in my legs. My whole life, I had been running from something—fear, pain, my own mother's wrath. Now I was running toward something instead.

The second test was strength.

One after the other, we were ordered to raise the toil tumbled stones and walk across the terrain, our muscles shrieking in rebellion. The knights were silent, their eyes sharp, hunting for hesitation, for weakness.

Then came the first real test — combat.

We were separated and handed wooden swords. The second my opponent got in front of me, I understood I was outmatched. He was taller, broader. His posture was firm, rehearsed.

The knight in charge of us gave us no time to prepare, barking, "Fight."

The first strike landed hard, so quickly I barely had time to raise my sword to parry. The shock traveled up through my arms, nearly dislodging the weapon from my hand. I stumbled backward, but I didn't fall.

Again, he swung. This time -- I avoided, I moved to the side, I waited for an opening. He was more powerful, but he was not as fast. I had to use that.

I went low, for his ribs. He pivoted, the blow grazing his side, and in the next breath brought the hilt of his sword down into my shoulder. Pain flared, but I set my jaw firm, refusing to let the knight see me flinch.

My opponent scored but landed a clean shot to my floating rib. I dropped to one knee, wheezing. The watcher knotted briefly as we approached.

"Not bad," he said quickly, and continued on.

I had lost.

But I had not been dismissed.

Returning Home

I was sore all over by the time I got home. My ribs screamed where the wooden blade had hit me, and my arms were leaden. But I had survived.

When I walked in, the house was quiet. A faint burnt-bread smell filled the air, the single candle on the table flickering dimly.

My mother I expected nothing from. She never asked where I was, never cared when I came home bruised. I have learned never to count on kindness.

Yet, tonight was different.

She stood next to the hearth, arms crossed, her eyes piercing as she scanned my rumpled figure. Her eyes slid over the bruise forming along the lines of my jaw, the stiffness in my movements.

For a second, she said nothing. Then — so soft I barely heard it —

"Did you win?"

I hesitated. "…No."

Her expression did not change, but something shifted in her bearing. She averted her eyes and grabbed for a wooden cup and drew it full of water. When she set it on the table, she did not look at me.

"Drink."

It wasn't tenderness. It wasn't warmth. But it was something.

And that, for its part, was surprising.

I settled into the only chair in the room, and the wood floor creaked under my weight. Every breath sent pain through my ribs. My arms throbbed from the trial's merciless demands, the muscles quaking with fatigue. I was not the strongest recruit, or the fastest. But I hadn't been the first to go down, either.

I looked at the cup of water my mother had placed on the table, the flickering candle casting a long shadow behind it. She had already turned back, her back to me as she stirred something in the pot above the flames. She hadn't said another word since I told her I lost.

The silence hung between us, dense and unyielding.

It was the cup to the water without ice, so I just grabbed the cup and forced myself to sip, letting the water linger in my mouth before swallowing. It tasted of the wooden rim, stale and warm, but I drank it regardless. My throat was dry. I had been digging dirt all day, surrounded by boys who were bigger, faster — better prepared.

A dull anger roiled in my chest, but it didn't go out toward them; it went back to me.

I had hardly made it into the fight. One punctuating shot, and I was on my knees. The knight running my match did not even appear impressed, only indifferent. Not bad, he had said, and then he had moved on.

Not bad.

It wasn't good enough.

I put the cup down harder than I intended, the sound shattering the silence. The stirring of my mother's hands faltered for just the second before returning to the original rhythm as if the intervening moments had never occurred.

I wanted to say something — to ask why she had even recognized my loss, why she hadn't scoffed or told me I was weak like she used to when I was younger. But the words stuck in my throat. I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

I leaned back, closing my eyes briefly.

Knighthood.

And for all of the years I had dreamt about what it would be like to be in the armor, to fight, to be able to hold my own in the fight, to walk amongst the warriors and be recognized as one of them. But today, reality had pierced that illusion with a blade.

For years, I trained alone, swinging wooden rods at night, trying to reproduce the techniques I had witnessed the guards use at the town gates. But an actual fight — an actual opponent — was different.

I heard the fight play inside my mind, the weight of the wooden sword in my grip, the look of my opponent's feet, how they came up out of their stance right before they hit. I should have seen it coming. I should have—

A breath escaped through my teeth as my ribs protested the motion.

I opened my eyes and took a slow breath.

This was only the first day.

And I had survived.

The Burden of Knighthood

The knights running the trials hardly spoke to us after the tests were complete. There was no congratulation, no encouragement. Just a simple order:

"Be here again tomorrow."

That was all. No praise. No certainty of success. Just the next step forward.

I passed some of the other recruits on the way home, their faces as tired as mine. Some were smiling, as if satisfied with the turns they had made. Others were silent, anticipating the worst.

I didn't know which one I was at the time.

But I did know one thing.

The men who had handled the trials were no ordinary knights. They were battle-hardened, veteran fighters. The kind who'd fought actual wars, not the mock tournaments noble sons participated in. Their armor wasn't shiny for show. Their blades were smeared with dings and scratches, evidence of battles they had survived.

If I was to walk amongst them, I would have to be more than not bad.

I would need to be better.

The idea stirred a restless aplitude in my tired limbs. I wanted to rise, to swing a sword once more, to make things right as I had in the battle. But my body was at its breaking point.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I would do better.

I had to.

....

Before I went to bed, I was sure my mother would have something to say — some insult, some warning, anything. But she didn't.

All she did was put down a bowl of brothy soup in front of me and sit on the other side of the room looking at the dancing candle flames.

It was the first time in years she had prepared something for me without complaint.

I didn't know how to interpret it.

So I ate quietly, letting the heat of the soup settle in my belly, even as the questions hung long after their last drop had vanished.

I set the bowl down carefully, the wood still warm from where my fingers had gripped it. The stillness of the house pressed on me like a heavy mist, neither comforting nor suffocating — just present. My mother had already moved on, back to her thoughts, her world.

For a while I sat, hearing the soft cracklings of the fire and the distant sounds of wind weaving between the trees outside. It was the type of quiet that felt heavy, as though something unuttered hovered just below it. But she didn't say anything. Neither did I.

Eventually, I got up, took the bowl to the sink and rinsed it out. The water was icy on my hands, a stark contrast to the warmth of the meal. My fingers, sprained from days of handling the sword too tight, throbbed softly, but I paid it no mind.

I towelled off my hands on the cloth hanging nearby and faced her again. She hadn't shifted much, sitting still at the table, fingers drumming mindlessly on the wood, her eyes gazing far away.

"I'll be upstairs," I said, my voice low but steady.

She didn't make eye contact, just a minuscule nod.

I waited a moment longer, hanging, waiting, expecting something — I wasn't sure what. But when she fell silent, I turned around and walked toward the stairs.

Every step bellowed up at me from the weight I put on it, the wood creaking in protest. The upstairs was colder than the main floor, thin and still air. My room was small, enough only for a bed, a chest and a narrow window looking out onto the dirt road entering the village.

I put my head in my hands for a moment, then sat on the side of the bed and ran a hand through my hair. The day looped and looped in my mind — the trials, the failures, fleeting success, the way the other recruits looked at me. Some with curiosity, some with silent amusement, some with nothing.

I leaned against the wall with my eyes upon the ceiling.

It would start all over again tomorrow.

Another round of trials. One more step toward something big — if I survived it.

I closed my eyes.

Sleep arrived late, but arrived all the same.