The sun was high overhead when Roland Farter reported to the courtyard's eastern gate. He'd slept little, nerves knotting his stomach tighter than any leather belt. His gear felt unfamiliar—saddlebag heavy with dispatch scrolls, water skin sloshing at his hip, and a short sword sheathed at his side that he scarcely knew how to wield.
Talia awaited him beside a row of sleek mount—horses bred for scouting: high-shouldered, keen-eyed, and impatient to run. She ran a hand over her mount's neck. "You ready?" she asked, not unkindly.
Roland forced a nod. "Ready as I'll ever be."
Behind them, five other scouts—each marked by scars, calluses, and quiet competence—mounted their horses. Roland counted them: Garrin, the hulking woodsman; Lira, the blade-dancer; two grizzled veterans named Brask and Hoelan; and a quiet youth, Miri, whose eyes darted like a startled hare.
Sir Alaric himself rode at the front, astride a powerful destrier. His armor gleamed under the midday sun, and he carried the same calm confidence that had drawn crowds in Fenwood. At his side rode the royal scribe, parchment and quill ready.
Alaric pulled reins gently. "Scouts—this mission is simple in instruction but grave in import. We ride to Glenmere. There, you will deliver these dispatches to Marshal Ivor. He holds command of that sector. I trust you'll do so swiftly—and with discretion. Dismissed."
He gestured, and the column wheeled out through the eastern gate. Roland's horse stepped forward, hooves clattering over cobblestones. Beyond Fenwood's walls, the road stretched through sunlit meadows and past trickling brooks. Roland exhaled, trying to settle his racing thoughts. An escort to Glenmere seemed almost mundane compared to ambushing enemy scouts—but that only magnified his anxiety. Even a "minor" quest could go horribly wrong.
The first hour passed in nervous quiet, punctuated by the rhythmic clip-clop of hooves. Garrin rode alongside Roland. He leaned over and grunted, "You'll do fine, Farter. Just don't get separated."
Roland swallowed. "I intend to stay close."
Garrin's laugh was grim. "Good. Last thing we need is another lost peasant story."
Roland focused on the rolling landscape: golden wheat fields swaying in the breeze, distant tree lines anchoring horizons. He reminded himself that Glenmere was barely three days' ride away—a sleepy village that rarely saw more excitement than a traveling peddler.
But fate, as Roland had learned, was not to be trusted.