Sif stood on the cliff road above the knights' gatehall and counted the guards who would turn him away. Twelve. Each wore polished steel and carried a shield marked with their crest. Above them, three banners hung on the stone wall. The middle one showed a white wolf's head. Sif had come to claim the seat beneath that banner, the empty chair the order kept inside its walls. Years ago they had refused him for one reason: a wolf did not belong among knights. He had no letter, no lord's seal, no scar they would recognize. He had only his armor and the jagged slab of steel on his back. He walked down the road and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. A guard raised a gloved hand. "No audience for strangers," the guard said. "Especially not your kind. Go back the way you came." Sif did not move. "The seat inside bears my face on your own wall. I came to earn it." The guard laughed. The others on the steps laughed too. "Proof or leave," he said. "Show us one reason to open this gate." Sif had no paper to show. Then the sea behind him answered for him. The water below the cliff heaved. A tentacle rose from the foam, thick as a ship's mast and slick with shifting color. More followed. A vast beaked head broke the surface, its skin wreathed in dark ink that hissed where it touched the rocks. The creature climbed the cliff wall toward the gatehall. Its ink splashed the lowest stones and ate into them like acid. The guards broke formation. Two slipped on the wet steps. Their shields clattered. The beaked head swung toward the gate, and a tentacle slammed down where the guards had stood. Sif turned and ran up the stairs, not away from the beast but at it. He swung the slab of steel off his back. The nearest tentacle lashed at a fallen guard. Sif brought the blade down and cut through it. Black ink sprayed across his white fur. The creature shrieked. He planted his boots and struck again at the beaked head, and the second blow drove it back toward the edge. The beast recoiled. It slid down the cliff and sank into the foam, dragging its ink with it. The sea went quiet. Sif stood on the steps, dripping and scorched. The twelve guards stared at him now, weapons lowered. The one who had laughed did not laugh. "Open it," the guard said quietly. He stepped aside from the gate. The doors groaned inward. Beyond them Sif saw the solemn hall, the watchful knights, and the empty chair beneath the white wolf banner. He had his way inside at last. But he had entered not as a summoned knight. He had entered covered in a monster's blood, with every knight inside watching to see what the wolf would do next.

Sif stood inside the hall, still wet with the sea beast's ink. The knights watched him from the shadows. The empty chair sat beneath the white wolf banner, close enough to touch. He took one step toward it. A shield slammed against the stone floor. The sound cut through the hall. A lion in black metal armor stepped forward. His mane was ashy and wild. A red scar split the fur above his eye. In one hand he held a broadsword of dark iron. In the other, a shield marked with gold. The knights parted for him without a word. "That seat is not yours, wolf," the lion said. His voice was low and sure. "My brother should sit there. He died earning that right. You walked in covered in blood and think the chair is yours." Sif met his cold stare. "I earned my way through your gate." "Then earn the seat." The lion raised his blade. "I am Black-Iron Tarkas. I challenge you to a trial by combat. Refuse, and every knight here names you coward." Sif saw the trap. He could not walk away. The knights waited to see if the wolf would run. He unslung the jagged slab of steel from his back. "Name the ground." They walked to the arena behind the hall. Stone lions guarded its gate. Tiered seats rose on every side. In the center stood a sword lodged in rough rock, its blade gleaming and still. Tarkas pointed at it. "First to touch the stone sword wins the right to the throne," he said. "The loser leaves." The knights filled the seats above them. Sif set his boots in the sand. Tarkas charged first. His broadsword rang against Sif's slab of steel. The shield drove into Sif's chest and knocked him back three steps. Sif swung wide. Tarkas caught it on his shield and the gold embellishments cracked. They circled. Tarkas was fast for his size. He struck low, then high. Sif blocked both. The lion fought to protect kin and pride, and each blow carried that weight. Tarkas lunged for the stone sword. Sif saw the opening too late. The lion's paw reached toward the hilt. Sif threw his full weight into one swing. The slab of steel caught Tarkas across the shield and spun him away from the rock. Tarkas stumbled. Sif stepped past him, planted his hand on the cold blade in the stone, and held it there. The arena went silent. Then the knights stood and struck their shields in a steady beat. Tarkas rose, breathing hard. He looked at Sif's hand on the stone sword. "You won the ground," he said. "But the throne is not yours yet. The order will not seat a wolf on my brother's word alone." He turned and walked out through the lion gate. Sif had won the trial. But Tarkas had named the true wall. The knights would demand more than one victory.