Roland Farter woke before sunrise to the muted clang of armored boots, as the Fenwood garrison stirred into another long day. His first morning light found him on a rough-hewn wooden bench outside the barracks, spooning thin porridge into his mouth. The acrid tang of oats filled his senses, grounding him in this strange reality more effectively than any beverage.
He forced himself to eat in silence, listening to the low hum of soldiers trading gossip: the new recruit who'd fainted at the sight of blood, the blacksmith's apprentice who swore he spotted a wyvern shadow drifting over the northern hills. Roland picked at the last spoonful, then rose to stretch muscles still sore from yesterday's encounter with the terror boar.
Beyond the palisade's gates, Fenwood's timber buildings lay half-awake. Smoke spiraled from chimneys. Laundry hung damp on ropes, and the smell of freshly baked bread began to waft from the baker's hearth. For a moment, Roland almost believed this could be his life: a faceless helper in a quiet frontier town. But reality snapped back as gear racked clattered and torches flickered against stone walls. Danger was never far away.
He paused at the recruitment notice board—a splintered wooden plank where wanted posters and job offerings jostled for space. Soldiers pinned dispatches and bulletins; townspeople tacked pleas for help chasing wolves or rats. Roland hovered near a new posting:
> Town Crier's Notice
Hear ye! Sir Alaric the Great shall address all able-bodied men and women this eve in the Market Square. Rumors of enemy activity beyond the Iron Pass warrant further enlistment.
Rewards: coin, provisions, and a chance to earn the realm's gratitude!
A murmur rippled through the recruits gathered there. Roland's pulse quickened. Sir Alaric—he'd glimpsed the hero only once, from a distance, under torchlight that made his armor blaze like starlight. The hero drew crowds like moths to flame, and Roland had managed to stay at the edge of every gathering.
He stepped back as a tall, broad-shouldered knight elbowed his way forward. Around them, recruits jockeyed for position. Roland wove through the press, careful not to snag his tunic on splintered wood. His goal wasn't to meet the hero—far from it. He simply wanted to find out what new mission might send the hero elsewhere, perhaps further from Fenwood, giving Roland room to breathe.
By midday, the square bustled with activity. Merchants hawked cured meats and spiced wine alongside the notice board. Children swirled between legs, crying "Hear ye!" to anyone who'd listen. At the appointed hour, flanked by standard-bearers and armored guards, Sir Alaric strode onto a raised platform. His hair gleamed gold, and his bearing was regal yet approachable.
Roland watched from the back, tuning his ears to every inflection. The hero's voice rang clear:
> "People of Fenwood, brave defenders of Ardenia's frontier! We stand at a crossroads. The Dark Lord's forces gather strength in the Iron Pass, seeking to spread fear into every heart. But we will not falter. We will not yield our homes, our families, or our very lives!"
A cheer rose, echoing off timber and stone. Women dabbed tears from their eyes. Children craned their necks. Roland felt the pull of that communal fervor, a pulse that bound everyone together. Yet he remained distant—too aware of the mob's fate, too conscious that heroes and their audience often invited catastrophe.
Sir Alaric continued, "We require reconnaissance parties to scout beyond the pass, to disrupt enemy scouts, to keep them off balance. Volunteers will ride at dusk. Armor and mounts provided."
Roland's stomach tightened. A scouting mission meant venturing closer to the heart of danger. His inner monologue screamed: No, stay here, fade into shadows! But his outward voice was measured. He approached a bustling quartermaster and said, "I—I'd like to volunteer."
The quartermaster, a grizzled veteran with one missing ear, glanced at Roland's lean frame and rough-spun tunic. "You? You barely stood your ground yesterday against that boar."
Roland swallowed. "I'm not afraid of scouting—of knowledge. I can carry messages, flag enemy patrols, anything."
The quartermaster grunted. "You'll ride. See the herald at the stables after sundown."
Roland exhaled silently, heart hammering. He'd volunteered and now had to follow through. The day stretched in front of him, seconds unspooling like thread. He retreated to the edge of the crowd, where a vendor sold lemon cakes and spiced cider. He bought a cake—half as much bread—and nibbled as he rehearsed mental checklists: water skin, spare arrows, signalling mirrors.
By late afternoon, he found himself outside the stables, helmet under arm. A dozen scouts padded about, saddling mounts—sleek horses bred for speed and endurance. Among them, a veteran scout draped in wolf pelts and a scar slashing across one cheek barked instructions. Roland approached, nerves coiling.
"I'm Roland Farter," he said, voice low. "Quartermaster sent me."
The scout's dark eyes flicked over him. "Roland, huh? Heard you dug out that boar. I'm Talia—ride near me. Don't slow us down."
She vaulted onto her horse. Roland followed, hoisting himself into the saddle and adjusting the reins. The horse neighed impatiently. Talia turned. "Keep up, peasant."
They set off at a trot down the rocky road leading to the Iron Pass. The day waned; the sun draped the sky in gold and violet. Shadows lengthened, twisting between pines like reaching hands. Roland's horse stumbled on loose gravel; he slapped its flank gently. Focus, Farter. The forest vibes seemed to hum with anticipation.
At the pass's mouth, scouts fanned out in a loose V-formation. Roland rode on the flank, sweating despite the cool air. Somewhere above, ravens wheeled. The mountain walls rose sheer and dark. A cold wind moaned through crevices. The air tasted of stone and danger.
Three hours in, Talia signalled a halt. She pointed to fresh tracks—booted footprints and wagon wheel grooves. "Enemy scouts. Could be mapped supply runs or path guides."
Roland dismounted quietly, crouching beside her. He traced prints in mud with a gloved fingertip. "These head east—toward Fenwood?"
Talia snorted. "More likely they circle around to flank us. Standard Dark Lord trick—to split forces."
Roland's mind raced. "We should lay traps—tripwires or spiked stakes. It'll slow them."
She smiled thinly: "Not a bad idea. You build 'em; we'll keep watch."
They worked silently in fading light: sharpening branches into crude stakes, stringing fibers through underbrush. Roland's hands moved with purpose. His heartbeat slowed; for the first time since arriving here, he felt an odd clarity: that he could affect outcomes beyond mere survival.
Night settled. Lanterns hung from low branches, casting dancing shadows. Scouts stationed in pairs; Roland stood sentinel beside Talia. The forest was a tapestry of softness and threat, every rustle a potential enemy.
At midnight, a twig snapped. Talia hissed. Roland's heart jolted into his throat. He crouched, spear at the ready. Through the lantern glow, a patrol of Dark Lord scouts—ten figures in dark cloaks—slipped between trees.
Roland tensed. Ahead, unknowing, they approached the trap line. Talia raised a hand. Wait for signal. The lead scout stepped on a tripwire. A stake snapped up beneath his chest, pinning him with an inhuman squeal. Others shouted, drawing short swords.
Before they could react, Roland and Talia sprang out from cover. She loosed an arrow that hissed through the air, embedding in a scout's shoulder. Roland charged, gutting two less-armored men with his short blade. The remaining four scattered into the night, tripping over the traps themselves.
Within minutes, the skirmish was over. Moonlight glinted on blades as the wounded surrendered. Talia moved among them, binding wounds with clipped efficiency. Roland stood back, chest heaving. You did it. He'd faced scouts of the Dark Lord and prevailed.
She turned to him. "Good work, Farter. Better than I expected."
His cheeks warmed. "Thanks. Just following orders."
They signalled the rest of the scouts to move out. Roland reclaimed his seat in the formation, silent yet buoyed by success. The night ride back to Fenwood was quieter—no more patrol to ambush, no more boar to fell. Just the steady clip-clop of hooves and the echo of adrenaline.
When they reentered the town gates at dawn, the watchman shook his head. "You're a sight—mounted and bloodied. Well done."
Roland slid from the saddle. His legs wobbled. He felt the distant pull of ache in muscles he'd forgotten he possessed. Yet beneath it all, a spark of confidence flickered: he could be useful, even here as a mob.
Back at the barracks, a steaming pot of porridge awaited—two morning's rations for his trouble. As he ate, he realized that while he craved safety, action sometimes brought its own rewards. The empty promise of obscurity was less certain than he'd thought: sometimes, even mobs had to fight for their lives…and for the lives of others.
He finished his meal, washed his hands, and stepped outside. Fenwood's green fields were waking to another day. And Roland Farter—mob, survivor, reluctant hero—felt the stirrings of something new within him: purpose beyond mere breathing.