Roland and Princess Althea watched the merchant and mother rush into the square, united in gratitude. The little girl tucked into her mother's arms, the mother's tears of thanks—and Althea's simple act—wove a moment of pure humanity in the bustling town.
Althea turned to Roland, her violet eyes bright. "You—saved a life today, Roland. Not with sword or spear, but with compassion."
Roland bowed his head. "It was your lead, not mine. A princess showing mercy gives more courage to others than any decree."
She smiled, then glanced down the deserted alley where the thief boy had vanished. "What of him?"
Roland hesitated. "He stole to feed his family. He'll need a chance."
Althea pressed her rose-adorned satchel closed. "Then we give him one. Take me to the magistrate's court."
Roland nodded, awed. Together, they strode toward the stone building at the plaza's edge, its austere façade marked by royal insignia. Guards bowed as Althea passed; Roland followed, heart pounding.
Inside, the magistrate—an elderly man with spectacles—rose from his bench. He stared at the princess, then at Roland. "Your Highness—Scout Farter—this is unusual."
Althea placed a hand on the bench. "This boy requires mercy."
Roland led the thief forward. The magistrate peered down at the trembling youth. "Your crime is grave—child endangerment, theft—"
Althea raised a hand. "It is also desperate poverty. I command you—grant him clemency. Provide him and his family with work at court stables in exchange for debt repayment."
Roland's eyes widened; the magistrate hesitated, then inclined gravely. "So ordered."
The thief's jaw dropped. He fell to one knee, eyes brimming. "I—thank you, princess."
Althea reached down, lifting him to his feet. "Rise, and remember today's gift."
Exiting the court, Roland felt light. A princess's compassion had forged a new life for a desperate boy—an act far greater than any battlefield exploit.
They rode to the keep, the afternoon sun gilding their path. Althea's retinue fell in line behind them, guards and pages alike silent in respect. At the gate, she paused.
"Thank you, Roland," she said softly. "For seeing me—not just as royalty, but as someone who can choose mercy."
He bowed. "Your Highness, you remind us that kindness is the greatest valor."
She placed a gentle hand on his cloak. "And you remind me that true courage often wears no armor."
Inside the keep's rose garden, Althea turned to Roland. "Stay a moment. Tell me of your world—your first life."
Roland's throat tightened. He hesitated: could he share the truth of his author past? Then he thought of the boy given a second chance, the dwarf miner spared, and the countless innocents saved by small, unexpected acts. Perhaps honesty was the greatest path forward.
He began to speak, words tumbling out: of failed novels, of a single fleeting success, of midnight typing and harsh rejection. Althea listened, enthralled, as Roland laid bare a life lived in aspiration and shadow.
When he finished, she took his hand. "Your story matters, Roland. Not because it's written in ink, but because you live it."
They stood in the garden's perfume, two souls bound by compassion across worlds. And in that moment, Roland Farter knew that even a "mob" could change history—not through grand destinies, but through the simple choice to help one another.
As dusk settled over Fenwood Keep, Roland walked beside the princess—no longer merely a scout, but a friend of royalty and a bearer of unexpected courage.