Roland woke with the first herald's horn, heart still thrumming from the night's discovery. The corridors outside his quarters buzzed with morning preparations—the clang of armor, the bustle of pages delivering orders. He dressed quickly, tucking the red-ribboned notebook into an inner pocket, then slipped out.
His first stop was the armory. Talia was there, inspecting crossbows. She glanced up. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Roland forced a smile. "Just… had some late research."
She arched an eyebrow. "Be careful what you research."
He nodded, guilt and excitement warring in his chest. They parted—Talia to her scouts, Roland to the training yard.
The yard teemed with recruits and veterans drilling shield walls. Roland stepped aside, eyes on the notebook's weight beneath his tunic. He knew today's mission: Lira had convinced Sergeant Brand to let Roland accompany her in a covert patrol through the Darkwood—a dangerous forest rumored to harbor the Dark Lord's servants.
Roland joined Lira at the edge of the woods. Its towering pines cast deep shadows, and the breeze brought whispers of unseen eyes. Lira passed him a drawn dagger and a coil of rope. "Stay close," she said.
They slipped between trunks, following a narrow game trail. Roland's senses sharpened; every crack of twig, every stir of leaves, set his heart racing. He reminded himself: no spoilers. Follow the story.
After an hour, they reached a clearing where moss-covered stones formed a crude circle. Lira knelt, examining runes carved into the lead stone—runes Roland recognized from the manuscript's forbidden pages.
"They're wards," Lira murmured. "Ward against intrusion."
Roland traced the carvings, careful not to disturb moss. "According to my… notes, if someone breaks the ward, it'll trigger a curse—dark mist, illusions."
Lira looked up. "We should leave."
Roland hesitated. Knowledge warred with caution. But curiosity won: "Wait." He withdrew a small crystal he'd found in Glenmere—rumored to reflect truth. He placed it in the runic circle's center.
The crystal pulsed with an inner light. A hush deepened. Then, with a low groan, the ground trembled. Branches swayed though no wind blew.
"Time to go!" Lira shouted. They sprinted back along the trail as a silver mist rose behind them, swirling with ghostly shapes. Roland's boots slipped; he tripped but Lira grabbed his arm and pulled him upright. Together they burst from the treeline just as the ward's veil snapped shut behind them.
They skidded to a halt at the clearing's edge, lungs burning. The wood stood silent once more.
Roland exhaled. "That was… too close."
Lira patted his shoulder. "You've got guts. Not many would risk it."
He swallowed. "I needed to confirm the runes matched the manuscript."
Lira smiled. "Your research saved us from magic."
They returned to Fenwood under a reddening sky, energy and fear mingling. Roland delivered a full report to Brand, who chastised him for the risk but praised the intelligence.
That afternoon, Roland met Master Cedric again—this time in the chapel's side room, away from prying eyes. Cedric studied Roland's face. "You tampered with wards?"
Roland nodded. "I had to know."
Cedric sighed. "Knowledge is dangerous. But you're wise enough to use it." He pressed a small leather satchel into Roland's hand. "Take these—runes for ward-breaking and ward-making. Guard them well."
Roland accepted them reverently. "Thank you."
Cedric's gaze hardened. "Promise me—no rewriting fate. Follow the story."
Roland bowed. "I promise."
That evening, Roland sat alone in the training yard's dark corner, studying the satchel's contents: vials of ash, fragments of crystal, strips of parchment. Each labeled in Cedric's precise hand: "To Break the Ward," "To Guard Against Dark Illusions." He realized his path: he would use the manuscript's secrets to protect others, never to alter destiny's course.
As midnight approached, Roland crept to the scribe's quarters, returning the notebook and securing Cedric's tools. He paused at the door, absorbing the hush and the weight of words yet unwritten.
Back in his bunk, he placed the satchel beneath his pillow and closed his eyes. The boundary between author and character felt thinner than ever. Tomorrow, he would rise as an ordinary recruit—but armed with extraordinary knowledge.
And so Chapter 12 ended not with grand fanfare, but with quiet determination: to honor the story's design, guard its secrets, and live within its pages without drowning in spoilers.