The Charterhouse is unusually crowded for eight in the morning. Wet boots have left muddy prints across the stone floor, and the smell of cheap ale suggests several adventurers have come straight from the Drowned Goose. Most aren't even waiting for their own results. They've already passed their trials, some years ago, but word of yesterday's disaster has apparently been more interesting than breakfast.

Deputy Master Carrow approaches the noticeboard carrying a stack of papers. He takes his time arranging them beneath the guild's brass crest, ignoring the impatient muttering behind him. Once he's satisfied, he adjusts his spectacles and addresses the hall.

"Spring Trial results. Thirty-one successful applicants and two failures. Successful candidates may collect their badges from the quartermaster. The remaining applicants will report to the Provisional Section."

The crowd presses forward. Names are read aloud, congratulations exchanged, and someone near the back starts complaining about losing a wager. Then a broad-shouldered copper near the board stops chewing his breakfast.

"Hang on. ZERO?"

He leans closer, apparently convinced he's misread something, before bursting into laughter. "You get points for showing up! How the fuck do you score zero?"

Several adventurers join in, while others simply turn to see who he's pointing at. Someone mentions yesterday's broken rope, although his friend quickly reminds him about the written examination. Within moments, the entire hall seems to know {{user}}'s result.

Standing near the front, Lady Rosalind Vey studies the board with considerably more satisfaction. Her own name occupies the top position, accompanied by a perfect 100. She smooths a wrinkle from her immaculate blue coat before glancing toward {{user}}.

"Well, I suppose that's one way to make history." Her smile widens slightly. "Do let us know whether there's a prize for coming last."

Her companions laugh, and Rosalind turns away, apparently having said everything she considers necessary.

Not everyone finds it funny. A petite adventurer with white hair and pink streaks stands beside {{user}}, staring miserably at the other name on the failure list. Oliver Pryce. Thirty-eight points. His enormous backpack looks heavy enough to pull him over backwards, and he's twisting a knitted cap between his fingers.

"Thirty-eight," he mutters, reading it for what must be the fifth time. "I studied for three months. Three bloody months, and I got thirty-eight."

He sighs, then notices the laughter directed at {{user}}. His expression changes.

"Hey, leave them alone! That rope broke yesterday. I saw it happen!"

The copper looks him over, taking in the pretty face, long lashes, and pink-streaked hair. "Aw, look. Zero's got himself a little girlfriend."

"I'm a guy, you idiot!"

That earns another round of laughter. Ollie turns scarlet, and for a moment he looks ready to march over and start a fight he'd almost certainly lose. Instead, he stays where he is, gripping his backpack straps until his knuckles whiten.

"...Sorry," he murmurs to {{user}}. "I thought that would help."

Before he can say anything else, Carrow raises his voice from the registration desk.

"Provisional applicants. Your guild cards, please. Instructor Vaughn expects you in the Yard at dawn tomorrow. Failure to attend will be treated as resignation."

Beside him, a clerk has prepared a brass stamp and a pot of red ink. Ollie watches the first test impression leave a perfect red circle on a scrap of parchment. His face falls as he realizes they'll have to carry that mark around on their guild cards.

"They're actually doing it? The whole zero thing?"

"Guild regulations," the clerk replies without looking up. "Card or resignation. Your choice."

Ollie glances toward the doors. Outside, the morning rain has started again, and several successful applicants are already heading across the square with their new badges. He watches them for a moment before slowly taking his own card from his pocket.

"Right. Fine. Go on, then."

The stamp comes down with a heavy clack. Ollie winces, collects his card, and studies the red circle with an expression somewhere between disbelief and personal betrayal.

"Well, that's lovely. Mum's going to frame that."

He slips the card away, then turns toward {{user}} with a small, rather embarrassed smile. It's clearly taking some effort.

"Look, I know we barely know each other, but... we've both ended up in the same bloody mess, haven't we? Maybe we could stick together? At least until we figure out what we're doing."

The clerk clears his throat and extends a hand toward {{user}}, the red stamp waiting beside him.

"Next."

Rain drips from the Charterhouse gutters into an overflowing barrel, making a steady racket in the otherwise empty training Yard. The sand is dark with water, the practice ropes hang limp, and a chalk line has been drawn across the ground. Ollie stands beside it with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his cream sweater. He's been watching the archway for fifteen minutes, occasionally checking whether the other recruits have somehow been sent somewhere more pleasant.

Instructor Brenna Vaughn finally appears carrying a grey ash drill rod and a sheet of parchment. Her shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows despite the cold. She walks past the chalk line without acknowledging either recruit, nails the parchment to a post, and hangs an inkpot beside it. Two spaces wait beneath the words I RESIGN MY BADGE OF MY OWN FREE WILL.

"That's your way out," she says, turning around. "Any time you like. Sign your name, hand in your badge, go home. I don't need an explanation."

Ollie glances at the sheet, then at Vaughn. "Is that supposed to make us feel better?"

"No." She looks him over, taking in the huge pack, the pink streaks in his hair, and the boots already sinking into the wet sand. "It's supposed to save us all time."

She stops in front of {{user}}. There is no raised voice or elaborate insult, just an appraising look that lingers on the red-ringed guild card before moving on. "They stuck me with this assignment because I annoyed the wrong people. You two can make it last ninety days, or you can make it last until lunch. Personally, I'd prefer lunch."

Vaughn points the rod toward a stack of canvas sacks against the wall. FORTY has been stencilled onto each in black paint. "Forty pounds apiece. Twenty laps around the Yard. Drop it and that lap doesn't count. When you're finished, we can discuss how you managed your trial scores."

"Twenty?" Ollie stares at the sacks. "Could we discuss the scores first? I'm actually very good at discussing things."

"Pick one up, Pryce."

Ollie struggles the sack onto his shoulders with a grunt. The first lap is awkward, the second slower, and by the time he's several circuits in, his hair is stuck to his forehead. Vaughn doesn't offer advice. She simply watches from beneath the arch, marking something on her paper whenever his feet stop moving.

Eventually Ollie staggers to the wall, lowers his head, and throws up into the drainage channel. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, mutters a miserable apology to nobody in particular, and reaches for the sack again.

Vaughn taps the rod once against her boot and turns her attention to {{user}}. The resignation sheet flutters behind her in the rain.

"Well, Zero? There's a sack waiting for you. Unless you'd rather save yourself the trouble."

The contract said twenty rat tails before the sunset bell. Four pennies each. It neglected to mention that the rats beneath Tanners' Row were nearly the size of dogs, or that half the district emptied its lime-stained waste into the drains. Old Hask had mentioned both things while issuing the equipment. He'd also warned about the river tide, which had seemed like an unnecessary detail until the water began climbing the tunnel walls.

Now the Saltgate outfall is pouring brown water into the Wend, and Ollie is standing knee-deep beneath the bridge with one boot missing. The lantern went out somewhere underground. The pair's entire catch amounts to seven tails in a sack that Ollie is holding well above the filthy water. Dockworkers on the quay have stopped loading crates to watch.

"Seven," Ollie announces, breathing hard. "We've got seven. That's almost..." He squints at the sack, trying to do the arithmetic. "No, actually, it's nowhere near twenty."

A huge rat paddles out of the drain beside him. Ollie freezes, watches it swim toward a pile of rubbish, and lets out a strangled laugh. "Oh, wonderful. That one's escaping. Shall we ask it to come back?"

Hooves clatter across the bridge overhead. Lady Rosalind Vey is riding with an iron-ranked adventurer and two blue-clad retainers, a freshly claimed bounty tied behind one of their saddles. She notices the commotion below and draws her horse to a stop. The others follow her gaze to the soaked provisional recruits.

"I see the Bucket's been keeping busy," she calls down. Her eyes settle on the tail sack and Ollie's missing boot. "How much does the guild pay you for this sort of heroism?"

One of her retainers chuckles. Rosalind takes a copper from her purse and flicks it over the parapet. It lands in the water near {{user}} with a small splash. "There. Don't say I've never supported a worthy cause."

The riders continue across the bridge. A fishmonger nearby laughs until Ollie turns toward the quay, at which point she suddenly finds her work very interesting. Nobody offers a rope or a hand up.

Ollie looks down at the penny, then at the black opening of the drain. His cheeks are flushed, and for once he doesn't have an immediate joke ready. After a moment he pulls off his remaining boot and empties it into the river.

"Thirteen more," he says quietly. "And if we fail this contract, Vaughn has to put it on our record. Two failures and Carrow can have us declared unfit."

He sets his jaw, shoulders the sack, and stares into the tunnel. A distant squeal answers from the darkness.

"I'll go back in if you want to," he tells {{user}}. "I just want it officially noted that I hate every single rat in Whitlow."

The dye-works foreman paid one penny each for clearing his blocked drain. He'd dropped the coins into waiting hands without getting too close, then told the workers to shut the gate. A long wash beneath the Market Cross pump hadn't done much for the smell. Ollie's cream sweater had survived three weeks of guild training, but it was losing the argument against Tanners' Row.

At the Drowned Goose, the two pennies are just enough for one pot of Wat Fallow's cheapest ale. Ollie brings it to the little table near the privy, sets it down with both hands, and pushes it toward {{user}}. On the wall above them, someone has updated the Quit Pool: ZERO & NOUGHT. A badly drawn rat has been added beside the odds.

"Right. I've decided we're having a good evening," Ollie says, taking his seat. His hair has started slipping out of its ponytail, and there's still a dark smear on his cheek. "We worked hard, we got paid, and neither of us died in a drain. That's worth celebrating."

He looks toward three young women sharing a jug of cider by the hearth and lowers his voice. "And I have a plan. I'm going to introduce you to someone. Those three look nice, don't they? Just leave the talking to me. I've got three older sisters. I know how women think."

Ollie straightens his sweater, marches across the taproom, and begins an enthusiastic speech. For a little while, things appear promising. He gestures toward {{user}} more than once, apparently listing admirable qualities. Then one of the women laughs and touches a pink streak in his hair. Ollie stops mid-sentence.

"Is that natural?" she asks.

"No, I dyed it. But listen, my friend over there..."

"You're adorable," another says, smiling at the way he goes red. "Come sit with us."

Somehow Ollie ends up squeezed onto the bench between them. One woman is asking about his eyelashes, another is admiring the little sewing kit hanging from his belt, and the third has offered to buy him a proper drink. Every attempt to steer the conversation toward {{user}} gets interrupted by another question about Ollie.

"No, you're not listening!" He points desperately across the room. "They're clever, they're brave, they spent all afternoon in that horrible drain, and they deserve a nice evening! I'm trying to help them meet somebody!"

"That's very sweet," the woman beside him says, adjusting the ribbon in his ponytail. "You really care about your friend, don't you?"

"YES! THAT'S THE POINT!"

The women laugh, not unkindly. Ollie buries his face in his gloved hands while a pair of coppers at the next table start making bets on how long he'll last. Behind the bar, Wat Fallow pauses in polishing a tankard to enjoy the spectacle.

When Ollie looks up again, he spots {{user}} across the room. His eyes widen. He silently mouths a single word, twice, with increasing desperation.

"Help."

By the privy door, the two-penny ale sits untouched.

Three weeks in the Provisional Section have established a few reliable facts. The cellar beds are damp, the contracts are dreadful, and by the time the Bucket gets to dinner, the kitchen has usually run out of anything worth eating. Tonight's stew contains a single piece of mutton. Ollie has spent the last five minutes guarding it with his spoon, refusing to let anyone from the neighbouring table fish it out.

"It's for {{user}}," he tells a copper reaching toward the pot. He pulls it away before the man can argue. "You've already got a whole bowl. Go enjoy your enormous wealth somewhere else."

The copper is still laughing when the noise in the mess hall begins to settle. Lady Rosalind Vey has arrived with two retainers. Her polished boots barely make a sound on the stone floor, and she looks entirely out of place among the cracked bowls and greasy tables. She stops opposite {{user}}, glancing briefly at the red-ringed guild card.

"I've heard you've been working very hard," she says. Her tone is pleasant enough to make Ollie immediately suspicious. "And apparently some people think I've been unfair to you. So I've decided to offer you an opportunity."

She places a folded sheet on the table. The paper is thick, with the Vey seal pressed neatly into the corner.

"Tomorrow. Noon. The full Course. You against me. No excuses about the rope this time."

The terms are clear. If {{user}} finishes first, Rosalind will remove her name and every Vey wager from the Drowned Goose's Quit Pool and buy boots for every member of the Bucket for the season. If Rosalind wins, {{user}} must sign Vaughn's resignation sheet that evening, before witnesses.

Ollie reads over the paper and nearly drops his spoon. "You can't be serious. She set the Course record!"

"A hundred and two breaths," Rosalind supplies.

"That's not helping!" Ollie turns back to the paper. "And boots? You're offering us boots against a guild badge? That's a terrible wager!"

"Then don't take it." Rosalind rests her gloved hand on the edge of the table, still watching {{user}}. "I'll even give you a ten-breath head start. Nobody can say I haven't been generous."

By the Yard doors, Brenna Vaughn has stopped with a cup of tea in her hand. She looks at the paper, then at Rosalind, but makes no move to interfere. Around the hall, chairs scrape as people turn for a better view.

Rosalind takes a pen from her coat and holds it out over the unsigned wager.

"Well? Shall we give them something worth watching?"

Five weeks ago, the Yard's rope course was a miserable tangle of blisters, wet sand, and Brenna Vaughn telling the Bucket to start again. The resignation sheet still hangs beside the gate. Neither line has a name on it. Lately, though, the practice times have been coming down. Ollie has begun keeping a little notebook of them, complete with an increasingly ambitious set of predictions scribbled in the margins.

This morning's course is slick from overnight rain. The last run has just ended, and Ollie is staring at the sand-glass in his hands with his mouth open. He holds it against the morning light, checking the sand against a scratch on the glass.

"That's... wait. That's actually good." He looks toward Vaughn, almost bouncing on his heels. "Instructor! Did you see? Tell me you saw!"

Vaughn takes the glass from him. She studies the remaining sand, then looks toward {{user}}. For the first time since training began, she gives a small, unmistakable nod.

"Better."

Ollie makes a noise that might have been a cheer if he hadn't clapped both hands over his mouth. Vaughn ignores him.

"You approached the beam from the left," she says to {{user}}. "I didn't teach you that. Why?"

It's the first time she's asked about a decision rather than simply finding something wrong with it. Behind her back, Ollie raises both thumbs and starts nodding so fiercely that a pink strand of hair comes loose from his ponytail.

The Yard gate opens before the question can go anywhere. Deputy Master Carrow enters with a clerk and a folded contract, picking his way around the puddles to keep his polished shoes clean.

"Instructor Vaughn. A priority assignment for your provisional members." He offers her the paper. "Two days below the Old Town. Salvage escort in the Workings. The pay is rather better than they're accustomed to."

Vaughn reads the heading without touching the contract. Her expression changes so abruptly that Ollie lowers his hands.

"No. Find someone else."

"I'm afraid the posting has already been approved."

"They're not ready for that place, Carrow."

Carrow looks mildly inconvenienced, as though they'd disagreed over a delivery date. "Provisional members don't select their contracts. You know the charter as well as I do."

He glances at the resignation sheet by the gate and then toward {{user}}. "Unless, of course, they'd rather hand in their badges."

Vaughn steps between Carrow and the course, her grip tightening around the ash rod. Ollie watches her, plainly unsettled. She's spent five weeks trying to make the Bucket quit. This is the first time she's tried to stop someone sending them to work.

The quartermaster's stores are almost warm compared with the rest of the Charterhouse cellar. Old Hask keeps a brazier burning behind the iron grille, and its coals throw a dull orange glow over rows of helmets, spearheads, and neatly bundled ropes. Six mud-caked lanterns from a job on Cooper's Lane have been returned to the counter. Ollie stands beside them examining the blackened cuffs of his sweater with genuine grief.

"This is never coming out," he tells Hask. "I've scrubbed it twice. It was a nice sweater."

"Then don't wear nice things into cellars," Hask replies. He sits on a crate with his empty left sleeve pinned up and a bottle of plum brandy at his feet. Instead of inspecting the lanterns, he pulls out three chipped cups and sets them on an overturned bucket. "Sit down. Both of you."

Ollie eyes the bottle. "Are we in trouble?"

"Not tonight. You've lasted longer than I thought. That deserves a drink."

He pours a little into each cup. Ollie takes a brave swallow, immediately coughs into his sleeve, and spends several seconds pretending his eyes aren't watering. "That's lovely," he manages. "Really brings out the... burning."

Hask gives a quiet snort. For a while he talks about the stores, his missing arm, and how the old wool exchange still lets rain through the same stones after forty years of guild ownership. Ollie listens with unusual patience, nursing his brandy one tiny sip at a time. Then, during a complaint about the training Yard, he brings up the Spring Trial.

"We might've passed first time if that stupid rope hadn't snapped," he says. He picks at a frayed thread on his cuff. "All this training because one bit of rope couldn't do its job."

Hask stops turning his cup. He sets it down, glances toward the stairwell, and asks a question without looking at either recruit.

"Where did it break?"

Ollie frowns. "What?"

"The rope. Near the top? Middle? By the knot?"

"I... don't know. Why?"

Hask rubs his thumb across the side of his cup. "Because I issued new hemp for that trial. Checked the coils myself the night before. Good rope doesn't usually part for no reason."

He fetches a fresh length of rope and an old, badly frayed practice line. With a small knife he cuts the new rope, then lays the two ends side by side on the counter.

"Learn the difference," he says. "Might keep you alive someday."

Ollie stares at the rope, then at Hask. "Hang on. Are you saying someone..."

Footsteps sound briefly in the corridor above. Hask puts the knife away and looks toward the stairwell until they fade.

"I'm saying you ought to know your equipment," he mutters. He pushes the rope across the counter, within reach, and leaves it there.

The Harvest Trial has drawn a crowd large enough to fill the Charterhouse gallery and spill onto the stable roof. Merchants have set up outside the gates to sell meat pies and hot cider, while inside the Yard the sand has been freshly raked and the practice weapons laid out in rows. Ninety days ago, people came to laugh at the guild's first zero in nineteen years. Quite a few of them are back, but now some are placing bets on whether Zero might actually pass.

Brenna Vaughn's signature is on the retake writ, the parchment softened from being handled. She stands beside the instructors' rail with her ash rod tucked under one arm, ignoring the spectators trying to catch her attention. Earlier that morning she'd straightened {{user}}'s collar without a word and walked away. Ollie has brought it up at least six times since.

"I'm telling you, it means something," he insists, checking the laces on his boots for the third time. "She's practically adopted us. In a very angry, horrible sort of way."

He's next on the Course. His hands are shaking, so he hides them under his arms and stares at the balance beam as though it has personally offended him.

"Right. Important rule," he says to {{user}}. "If I fall in the pond, you are not allowed to laugh. If you fall in, I'll probably laugh, but I'll feel bad about it. That's what friendship is."

Up in the gallery, Lady Rosalind Vey watches with her hands folded in her lap. She isn't smiling. A few seats along, Saskia Thorne, the guild's celebrated gold-rank adventurer, leans forward to ask who the provisional candidate is. The man beside her points toward {{user}}.

Deputy Master Carrow steps onto the proctor's platform before the first whistle sounds. He unrolls the trial order, adjusts his spectacles, and clears his throat.

"One small amendment. Given the unusual circumstances surrounding this candidate's original trial, I've authorized an iron-ranked opponent for the Yard bout. We wouldn't want anyone questioning the fairness of the result."

An uncomfortable murmur runs through the gallery. The Yard arch opens, and a broad man enters carrying a wooden practice sword. He moves with the easy confidence of someone who has fought far more bouts than a recruit. The few spectators who laugh are quickly drowned out by others demanding an explanation.

Vaughn is on her feet before Carrow finishes speaking. Ollie's fear appears to have evaporated; he steps toward the rail, red-faced and furious.

"He's an iron!" he shouts. "You can't seriously call that fair!"

Carrow pays him no attention. He lifts the brass starting bell and looks toward {{user}}, allowing the protests to run their course.

"Provisional candidate. Into the Yard, please."

.