The morning sun had scarcely climbed above the treetops when Roland Farter found himself trudging into the training ground behind the keep. The air smelled of freshly turned earth and sweat, and the clang of steel on steel echoed across the field as recruits sparred under the watchful eye of Sergeant Brand.
Roland's muscles still pulsed from the mission to Glenmere, and though he'd slept fitfully, his mind buzzed with the adrenaline of his first true assignment. He'd expected some downtime—a chance to rest between tasks—but instead found himself pressed into another routine: training drills alongside the other "mob" recruits.
He glanced at the drills posted on the notice board: footwork exercises, shield formations, and sparring rotations. Then he saw his partner for the morning—a hulking man with a square jaw and arms like oak branches. Garrin. Roland's chest tightened. Garrin had been professional on the mission, but Roland knew the woodsman's temper: Garrin didn't suffer incompetence gladly.
At the far end of the field, Lira, the blade-dancer he'd sparred in Fenwood's tavern, practiced spinning thrusts against a wooden dummy. Her movements were fluid and precise—like water shaping itself around rock. Roland admired her skill, though he'd never be so graceful.
"Roland!" Sergeant Brand's bark cut through his thoughts. "You're up next with Garrin. Move!"
Roland swallowed and stepped onto the training mat—a square of packed dirt framed by low wooden rails. Garrin was already there, stripping his leather gloves and flexing his massive hands. He gave Roland a curt nod.
"Try to keep up," Garrin rumbled.
Roland nodded back, strapping on his padded gloves. He took a deep breath and adopted a basic fighting stance: feet shoulder-width, knees bent, sword held diagonally in front of his torso.
Sergeant Brand paced around them. "Five minutes of controlled sparring. No killing blows—use half-strength thrusts and cuts. Begin!"
Garrin lunged immediately, forcing Roland back with a heavy thrust toward the chest. Roland stumbled, parried clumsily, and felt the wooden pommel spray splinters against his shield arm. He countered with a quick slash aimed at Garrin's upper arm—but Garrin easily sidestepped, catching Roland's wrist and twisting downward.
Pain shot through Roland's arm, but he gritted his teeth and twisted back, wrenching free. He tried to circle around, but Garrin pivoted, following his movement like a predator. Roland's mind raced: he needed to break Garrin's momentum, find an opening.
He forced himself to slow down. He feinted low—footwork from yesterday's drill—and as Garrin shifted weight to block a leg strike, Roland lunged high, tapping Garrin's shoulder pad. The contact was light, but enough to score a point. Roland felt a flash of triumph.
Garrin grunted approval. "Not bad," he said, adopting a more measured pace. The two traded blows—Roland's slashes quick but shallow, Garrin's blows powerful but deliberate. The sergeant called time.
Brand stepped forward. "Roland, Garrin—solid work. Remember: speed can overcome raw strength when used wisely. Dismissed."
Roland exhaled, the adrenaline ebbing. He backed away, massaging his wrist. Garrin offered a hand, helped him up.
"Good fight," Garrin said. "You're getting better."
Roland nodded, surprised by the sincerity. "Thanks. You too."
As Garrin strode off to the next drill, Roland felt a small surge of confidence. Maybe teamwork wasn't impossible, even with someone as formidable as Garrin.
He headed to the water trough, splashing his face. Across the field, Lira finished her practice, sheathing her slender blade with a flourish. She caught Roland's eye and gave a small salute. He returned it.
Moments later, a sharp whistle echoed. Sergeant Brand called out, "Next rotation: three-man groups. You, Garrin, and Lira—assemble!"
Roland's stomach flipped. Garrin hadn't sparred with Lira since their tavern brawl earlier; Roland wasn't sure they even spoke. He jogged over, joining the two at the center of the field.
Brand laid out the exercise: "You'll defend against two attackers. One attacker wields a wooden sword, the other a staff. The third player is the point: you must extract an escort dummy—representing a messenger—from the center of this circle. Work as a team, protect the dummy, and escort it safely across the barrier without dropping it."
He held up a weighted wooden figure about two feet tall. "You have ten minutes. Begin!"
Roland and Garrin eyed Lira warily as she grasped the staff, limbs twining around it like a dancer with a ribbon. Roland took the dummy and nestled it against his chest with one arm. Garrin readied his sword, Lira twirled the staff. They gripped hands in the circle and spread out.
"Attackers, on my mark. Ready?"
A chorus of voices answered. "Ready."
"Mark!"
From the field's edge, two recruits charged—one brandishing a crude staff, the other a blunt sword. Roland felt the weight of the dummy and the pressure in his arm. He turned to Garrin. "Cover my left!"
Garrin nodded and thrust his blade at the staff wielder, forcing the man back. Lira leapt forward, sweeping the sword wielder's legs with the staff and disarming him. In a coordinated move, Garrin spun, using the flat of his blade to bump the staff wielder aside.
Roland made a run for the far barrier—a low wooden rail ten paces away. But mid-stride, the sword wielder recovered and lunged, jabbing at Roland's side. Roland yelped, stumbled, and nearly dropped the dummy. He raised the figure in front of him like a shield. The thug's blade struck wood with a loud clang.
Lira darted in, intercepting the sword wielder and knocking him aside. Garrin ripped the staff from the other attacker, bringing both opponents down in a tangle of limbs.
Roland regained his footing and sprinted for the barrier. Lira and Garrin covered him, felling the attackers with swift blows. Roland jumped the rail, crossing the finish line.
Sergeant Brand blew his whistle. "Success! Excellent coordination. Well done, team."
Roland exhaled, chest heaving, as the group reassembled. Garrin slapped him on the back. "Not bad for a peasant," he rumbled. Lira gave him a genuine grin. "You handled that ruby dummy well."
Roland flushed. Despite the exhaustion, he felt exhilarated. For the first time since arriving in Ardenia, he'd been part of a true team—each member relying on the others' strengths.
Later, as the late-morning sun climbed high, recruits were dismissed for a short break. Roland sat beneath an oak, removing his gloves. He watched Garrin and Lira walk away, chatting quietly. The tension between them seemed eased—a sign that teamwork had thawed old grudges.
Roland sighed, leaning back against the tree. He reached into his tunic and fingered the medallion Sir Alaric had given him—a reminder that he was more than background scenery. He closed his eyes, feeling the soft breeze.
But rest was fleeting. A messenger burst into the training ground, out of breath. "Sergeant Brand! We need you—there's been trouble at the grain stores!"
Brand shouted, "All right, everyone, fall in!" He looked at the gathered recruits. "Scouts, with me. We move now."
Roland sprinted to his feet, retrieving his sword. Garrin and Lira flanked him. They followed Brand toward the eastern barns, where a low wooden structure stored barrels of grain and sacks of flour.
When they arrived, the sight stopped Roland's breath: the door to the grain store was splintered, a trail of spilled wheat leading inside. Mice and startled rats scurried away. A group of three masked figures looted sacks, tossing flour into the air like ghosts.
Brand barked, "Stop! In the king's name!" The thieves froze, turned, and bolted for the back exit.
Garrin charged in after them, axe raised. Lira leapt onto a low barrel and advanced with staff spinning. Roland hesitated—no room for swordplay—but caught sight of a fourth figure slipping past a side door.
He darted forward, cutting off the escapee. The thief spun, brandishing a knife. Roland parried the blade with his sword hilt, then attempted a disarm. The thief backed up, spilling grain.
Roland recalled basic hold techniques and slid his sword under the thief's wrist, wrenching it free. The knife clattered to the ground. He cuffed the man's hands behind his back with a spare leather strap.
Panting, Roland looked up. Garrin stood over two subdued bandits, and Lira held off the third with a swift staff strike. Brand barked orders and bound them all.
Roland's prisoner glared at him. "You've no right—"
Roland stepped close. "You'll answer for this. No more stealing from those who risk their lives to feed the realm."
The man's mask slipped, revealing a gaunt face and haunted eyes. "I have children. Starvation drove me."
Roland's chest tightened. He recognized the desperation, the same that had driven him to odd jobs in his past life. He thought of Glenmere's prisoner—mercy had proven wise before. He squared his shoulders.
"Belligerence will earn you the gallows," he said softly. "Confess now—help me understand, and your sentence might be lighter."
The thief's eyes darted. He exhaled raggedly. "We were paid by someone in Fenwood—a noble. They sent us."
Roland's mind reeled. A noble recruiting thieves to steal grain? That was no petty crime—it was treason. He balled his fist. "Which noble?"
The man swallowed. "Lady Isolde… she promised coin."
Roland's heart pounded. Lady Isolde was a minor aristocrat in Fenwood, known for hosting lavish balls. If she were behind this, the conspiracy reached deep.
He turned to Brand. "Sergeant—this isn't banditry. It's conspiracy. We need to alert Sir Alaric."
Brand's face hardened. "Lead the way, recruit."
Roland mounted his horse at a brisk gallop, Brand and the others close behind, the three captured bandits bound and riding in a makeshift chain. The training ground vanished behind them as they raced for the keep.
At the main gate, Roland spotted Sir Alaric in conference with Lady Marianne. He recognized the noblewoman's flowing green gown and the violet rose in her hair. Roland reined in his mount, causing the others to stop.
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "What's this?"
Roland dismounted and stepped forward. "Sir, we've uncovered an attempted theft of grain stores—financed by Lady Isolde. These men were hired."
Lady Marianne's expression flickered between shock and anger. "Isolde? That… that can't be."
Alaric gestured for Roland to continue. Roland explained the ambush, the thief's confession, and the potential threat to Fenwood's food supply if Lady Isolde's scheme succeeded. Alaric's jaw clenched.
"Brand, detain these prisoners in the dungeon. Lady Marianne, please accompany me to the granary." He vaulted onto his horse. Roland followed, heart racing.
Inside the granary, torchlight revealed overturned sacks and splintered wood. Marianne's eyes filled with tears as she touched the bare floor. "My family depended on those stores to feed the poor."
Roland placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "You didn't know."
She shook her head. "I—I should have known better." She squared her shoulders. "We'll make amends."
Alaric turned to Roland. "You did well to unmask this plot. Roland Farter, you've earned your place by my side."
Roland's cheeks burned. He bowed. "Thank you, sir."
Marianne offered a small smile. "Come with me. We'll help the millers refill these sacks and ensure the people have bread by dawn."
Roland nodded. As they worked side by side—pouring grain, mending boards—he realized that sometimes the unexpected team-up wasn't just among fellow recruits, but with those he admired. Trust and cooperation could unravel conspiracies and rebuild communities alike.
By midnight, the granary was restored. The three bandits lay bound in the corner, awaiting trial. Sir Alaric dismissed Roland to the barracks for rest—though Roland hardly felt deserving of sleep after unraveling a noble's betrayal.
As he returned to his cot, Roland reflected on the day's events: the teamwork drills, the rescue of the dummy carrier, the discovery of Lady Isolde's conspiracy. He'd begun this morning expecting another routine exercise. Instead, he'd learned that strength lay not only in sword and staff, but in unity of purpose—and in the courage to confront unexpected alliances.
Pulling his blanket close, Roland closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he would face new challenges—perhaps more conspiracies or ambushes. But he knew this: he was no mere mob. He was a part of something greater, and those around him—Garrin, Lira, Talia, Marianne—had become more than coworkers; they were comrades.
And as sleep claimed him, he dreamed of fields safe from thieves, of grain stores full, and of a world where even a failed author reborn as a background character could make a difference.