The dawn's first light glinted off the moat waters as Roland made his way back to the training grounds, the events of last night still fresh in his mind. He paused at the edge of the field, watching as a handful of recruits quietly practiced footwork drills while others polished armor. The air smelled of damp earth and oil. After the grain-store coup, Roland had expected to rest—but there was always more to do.
He spotted Garrin and Lira near the far end, testing new shield‐and‐sword combinations. They spared him a nod—silent acknowledgments of shared victory. Roland squared his shoulders and approached.
"Morning," he greeted.
Garrin gave a curt nod. "Report says Lady Isolde's under house arrest. Grain's redistributed." His tone was neutral—no praise, no scorn. Roland sensed tranquillity: the crisis had been contained.
Lira sheathed her sword. "I owe you thanks," she said quietly. "If you hadn't drawn out that thief's confession…"
Roland waved it off. "We did it as a team."
They fell into step together, and Roland realized how far they'd come. Just days ago, they'd fought each other in tavern brawl; now they moved in unspoken harmony. The training ground behind them, they turned toward the barracks.
Inside, Sergeant Brand awaited with a stack of new orders. "Roland, Garrin, Lira—assemble." The three exchanged looks and joined him at a rough table. Brand spread out a crudely drawn map of the Ardenian wilds beyond the Iron Pass.
"Your next assignment," Brand began, finger tracing a winding river, "is escort duty for a medical caravan bound for the front. You'll travel with healers and alchemists; enemy forces and marauders roam those roads. Protect the convoy at all costs—and bring the wounded back alive."
Roland's chest tightened. Escorting noncombatants meant vulnerability—and more delicate coordination than a swift strike. "Understood," he said.
Garrin saluted. "We'll hold the line."
Lira added, "We've earned that much."
That afternoon, they oversaw the loading of wagons: barrels of medicinal herbs, crates of bandages, sacks of dried fruit, and sturdy casks of clean water. The healers—a soft‐spoken woman named Sister Corinne and an elderly alchemist, Master Brandus—stood by, wrapping supplies in cloth and offering quiet prayers.
Roland helped secure a crate, noting how Sister Corinne's gentle touch contrasted with her fierce calm. "Thank you," she murmured. "Your strength steadies us."
He nodded, surprised by her gratitude. Early that evening, they set off under a blood-red sky. Talia rode at the head, flagging ahead for safe paths, while Garrin and Lira flanked the wagons. Roland walked beside the first cart, ready to intercept any threat.
The road was rutted and narrow, edges softened by overgrowth. Night's shadows pooled beneath the trees. The only sounds were creaking wheels and distant hoots of owls. Roland's senses sharpened: every rustle, every whisper of wind could signal danger.
They'd gone three miles when a low horn blew—an enemy signal. From the underbrush, a band of five cloaked figures sprang out, weapons drawn. The healers screamed and ducked behind the wagons. The thieves aimed to seize supplies and possibly capture the alchemists for ransom.
"Get back!" Garrin roared, stepping forward with raised axe. Lira whirled her staff, meeting the nearest attacker. Roland drew his sword, heart pounding.
He lunged at a knife‐wielder lunging toward Sister Corinne, intercepting the blade with his forearm. Pain flared, but he held firm, pressing the attacker back. Master Brandus shouted, "Use the smoke bombs!" The old alchemist hurled a ceramic orb; it shattered with a hiss, billowing gray smoke that choked vision and forced attackers to cough.
Garrin seized the moment, cleaving two swords in half. Lira knocked another attacker off his feet with a spinning strike. Roland drove his sword across the final assailant's chest, stopping short of a kill—he disarmed the man instead, blade clattering to the ground.
Within moments, the skirmish was over. The healers emerged, coughing, but unhurt. Roland's forearm bled, the wound shallow. Sister Corinne rushed to bandage it, her hands deft. "I'm fine," Roland insisted, voice tight, but he let her wrap the cloth tight.
The alchemist snapped his fingers, producing a vial of glowing green liquid. "Apply this if it festers," he instructed. "Escape from magic—rare but painful."
Roland nodded, grateful. The convoy reformed, slowly moving forward as the first embers of dawn crept over the horizon. In the hush, the survivors heard a distant horn—reinforcements arriving from Glenmere.
Talia rode alongside, face set. "They'll escort the rest of the way. You did well."
Roland exhaled, exhaustion and relief mingling. "Thank you—for watching my back."
She inclined her head. "We watch each other's backs."
As they neared the healer's camp at the front lines, tents sprouted like mushrooms in a clearing. Injured soldiers hobbled about, grimacing but grateful. Roland helped unload supplies, handing bandages to Sister Corinne and arranging potion bottles for Master Brandus.
That night, by a flickering brazier, the three scouts—Roland, Garrin, and Lira—sat with the healers. Sister Corinne offered bread and warm broth. Roland sipped, feeling the day's fatigue settle deep in his bones.
Master Brandus cleared his throat. "I've heard your names—Roland Farter, Garrin of the Woods, Lira the Swift. Your deeds echo beyond these tents."
Roland dropped his gaze. "We only do what must be done."
The alchemist smiled. "Yet it is never 'only.' Compassion and courage both shape fate."
Garrin grunted agreement. Lira nodded thoughtfully.
Roland gazed into the brazier's flames, recalling the training games, the grain‐store betrayal, the convoy ambush—each moment had tested teamwork in a different way. He realized this: unexpected alliances had become the backbone of his survival—a once‐failed author now at the center of a living epic.
He lifted his bowl. "To those who watch our backs—and to friends we never expected."
They drank, silence settling with comfort. Tomorrow, they would ride home with wounded in tow; life would resume its uneasy rhythm. Yet Roland felt a deep shift within him: no longer a faceless mob, he was a trusted comrade, a steward of others' lives, and a reluctant hero in his own right.
And as embers faded into ash, Roland Farter let sleep claim him, ready for whatever alliance—or challenge—awaited at dawn.