Roland blinked awake to the golden haze of dawn filtering through the barracks window. His body ached in unfamiliar ways—bruises bloomed across his arms, and a dull throb pulsed in his side where he'd taken a glancing blow from a scout's sword. He rose carefully, every movement a reminder of last night's skirmish, and limped toward the mess hall.
Inside, the morning bustle seemed muted after the adrenaline-fueled tension of the previous day. Still, the soldiers greeted him with nods of respect rather than their usual nods of tolerance. Talia caught his eye and offered a rare, genuine smile. Roland felt a faint glow of pride—he'd earned his place among them, at least for now.
Breakfast was a small bowl of porridge and a crust of bread, but Roland ate with appetite. Memories of home, of failed manuscripts and silent keyboards, felt distant now. Here, every action produced tangible results: the stake that pierced a scout's chest, the arrow that felled another, the way his hastily rigged traps had turned the enemy's advantage into ruin.
After the meal, the quartermaster approached him, parchment in hand. "Report to the notice board. Soon as you're ready, recruit."
Roland's stomach knotted. Another announcement, another crowd, another chance to see Sir Alaric—or to vanish into the press. He trudged across the courtyard, booting aside stray straw, and found a fresh posting:
> Town Crier's Notice
Hear ye, hear ye! A grand parade in honor of Fenwood's defenders will commence at high sun today. All militia and volunteers shall march behind Sir Alaric's banner. Those who distinguished themselves in last night's defense will be granted audience at the keep's courtyard.
Roland scanned the list of names emblazoned in crimson ink: dozens of soldiers, a handful of militia, and—his name. Roland Farter. The realization jolted him: he had distinguished himself. Fear flickered in his chest. He'd wanted anonymity, but now his name was public.
He turned to leave when a roar of trumpets split the air. From the keep's gate, Sir Alaric appeared, riding a majestic white stallion. His armor gleamed, and a cloak of deep blue billowed behind him. Roland felt the pull of the hero's presence, the same magnetic force that had drawn him to the edges of every gathering since his arrival.
A bugler sounded the call, and the procession began. Roland fell into place behind the hero, along with the other listed defenders. Villagers lined the streets, cheering and waving banners painted with the emblem of Ardenia—a silver griffin on a field of emerald. Children perched on shoulders, mouths agape. Elders wiped tears from their eyes. Roland met their gazes and offered stiff bows, heart hammering.
As they marched, the crowd's excitement swelled. Roof tiles trembled with applause; pots and pans clanged in celebration. A troupe of minstrels struck up a march, drums pounding steady beats that echoed in Roland's chest. For a moment, he forgot the terror boar, the shadow fortress, the mission beyond the pass. All that mattered was the roar of approval, the simple joy of being seen as a savior rather than a casualty.
They halted in the keep's courtyard—a wide stone expanse ringed with banners and torches. Sir Alaric dismounted and strode forward, his stallion led away by an orderly. The hero's presence alone hushed the crowd. Roland and the others formed a semi-circle before him, heads bowed.
Alaric spoke, voice resonant: "Today we honor those who stood against terror—beast, bandit, and traitor alike. You defended Fenwood when its walls almost fell. For that, the realm owes you gratitude." He gestured to the assembled defenders. "Step forward as I call your name."
One by one, names were called: Captain Lanric, Master Archer Berrin, Corporal Savin… until finally, "Roland Farter." A hush fell. All eyes turned to him. Roland's pulse thundered in his ears. He stepped forward, shaking slightly. Alaric extended a hand, offering a gleaming silver medallion embossed with the griffin.
Roland took it, weighty and cold in his palm. The crowd erupted again, louder than before. Roland's cheeks burned. He had wanted to fade into the background, but now he held a symbol of heroism.
Alaric placed a gauntleted hand on his shoulder. "Well done, Roland Farter. May this remind you that even the smallest spark can turn the tide."
Roland nodded, unable to speak. He stepped back, clutching the medallion as though it might vanish. The ceremony concluded with cheers and the clang of celebratory salutes. The defenders dispersed, some basking in glory, others already preparing for the next threat.
Roland lingered in a quiet corner of the courtyard, watching Sir Alaric commend other officers. A squire approached and handed Roland a small leather purse. "From Lady Marianne," the squire said. "She wished you to have this."
Roland opened the purse. Inside lay a single, perfect white rose petal encased in crystal. Attached was a note in delicate script: "For your courage and kindness. You are not just a background player."
A warmth spread through Roland's chest. Marianne—he'd only briefly met her when he knocked over her flower cart, yet she'd remembered him. He pressed his finger against the crystal, feeling the rose's smooth edge.
Footsteps approached. It was Talia, her wolf-pelt cloak trailing behind her. She gestured to the stables. "Horse's ready. We ride at dusk to scout deeper into the pass. You in?"
Roland fastened the medallion around his neck, the rose-petal pendant resting against his heart. He looked at Talia and nodded firmly. "I'm in."
Talia's lips quirked. "Good. We'll need every blade and mind we can get."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of preparation. Roland visited the quartermaster to replenish arrows, checked his water skin, and polished his blade. He found Marianne in the flower gardens, where she arranged blossoms in a fountain's basin. She smiled as he approached.
"I heard about the parade," she said softly. "You wore the medallion well."
Roland's throat tightened. "It felt strange—being the focus."
She tilted her head. "Every hero was once unnamed. Sometimes it takes a spark to light the way." She handed him a sprig of lavender. "Keep this for luck."
Roland accepted it, breath catching. "Thank you."
As dusk fell, the scouting party assembled. Talia, Roland, and four others mounted their horses, the air crisp with approaching night. Torches flickered, casting long shadows across the courtyard stones. Sir Alaric watched them from the parapet, cloak unfurling like wings.
Roland met Alaric's gaze. The hero raised a hand in salute. Roland returned it, determination steadying his nerves. He had stepped into the light—and now he would ride into darkness, spear in hand and purpose in heart.
The column snaked through Fenwood's gates, torchlight dancing on battered armor and determined faces. Beyond the palisade lay the forest's edge, whispering secrets of what lay ahead.
Roland tightened his cloak and drew a steady breath. Three days ago, he'd prayed to remain unnoticed. Now, he had become visible—an actor on a grand stage. But as the trees closed in around them, obscuring moonlight with rustling leaves, Roland whispered to himself: Let them see me, let them know me, let me do what must be done.
And with that resolve hardening in his chest, Roland Farter rode into the night toward the unknown.