Roland squared his shoulders and urged his mount into a steady trot. The road dipped into a shallow valley where the air was cooler, the scent of wildflowers heavy. Behind him, Talia kept pace silently, eyes scanning the tree line for movement. Garrin and the others spread out, maintaining a loose formation as they followed the ribbon of road that wound toward Glenmere.
After an hour, they passed through a small waystation—a cluster of huts where farmers tended goats and a lone inn huddled against the road. Smoke curled from chimneys, and children waved wooden swords at the passing column. Roland offered a sheepish wave; they waved back with wide grins.
Talia leaned toward him in passing. "They think we're the real heroes," she muttered softly. "Don't let it go to your head."
Roland smiled despite himself. "I'll try not to disappoint them."
They rode on, the waystation slipping behind the next rise. Midday sun beat down, silvering Roland's sweat-stained collar. The scrolls in his saddlebag rattled against leather. He fished out one—Sir Alaric's missive for Marshal Ivor—and smoothed it by hand, as though the parchment's creases could steady his nerves.
At the day's midpoint, they halted at a shaded clearing. Talia dismounted and offered Roland a waterskin. He drank greedily, then gingerly tied the scroll inside a waterproof pouch. The others doffed their helmets, wiping brows, sharing crusts of bread.
Garrin sat opposite Roland, carving a hunk of air-dried venison. "You've got questions, I can tell," he said between bites. "Ask."
Roland picked at a pebble on the packed earth. "What if—what if the road's not safe? Bandits, creatures, or worse? What if something happens to the dispatch?"
Garrin nodded. "Then you do like I do: ride fast, keep your wits, and trust your friends. You're not out here alone."
At that moment, a sharp cry echoed from the tree line—a woman's scream, panicked. Swords were drawn as the scouts sprang to their feet. Talia hissed, "Ambush!" and dove behind a fallen log, drawing an arrow. Roland barely had time to drop beside her.
From the undergrowth charged three bandits—hooded, faces masked by cloth. Swords glinted. The scouts reacted with brutal efficiency: Brask cleaved one in two, Hoelan sent another sprawling with a shield bash, and Lira spun through the third with a graceful thrust. Only one bandit staggered away, clutching his wound.
Roland's pulse thundered. He drew his short sword and lobbed it at the fleeing man—his only clear shot. The blade nicked the bandit's shoulder, drawing a grunt. The elven youth Miri lurched forward, stumbling as she chased the man into the woods. Roland hesitated, then tore after her.
"Talia!" he called. "Miri's going after him!"
Talia nodded and sprinted after them, bow strung. Garrin and the veterans secured the clearing, hushing any further ambush.
Roland found Miri at the edge of a brook, the bandit pinned beneath a fallen oak's root. She straddled him, dagger at his throat. The man hissed in pain.
"Drop it," Miri snarled.
Roland skidded to a halt. The brook's water rippled around roots draped in moss. The bandit's mumbled curses turned to pleas. "Spare me," he begged. "I have children."
Miri's knife hand wavered. Roland stepped forward. "Let him go," he said quietly. "We take him back—no killing in cold blood."
After a heartbeat's hesitation, Miri released him. The bandit collapsed, hands raised. Roland knelt, ripping fabric to bind the root's branch and free the man's leg. "You'll answer questions at Glenmere," Roland warned.
Miri nodded, eyes wide. Roland helped the bandit to his feet and motioned to Talia, who had just arrived panting. Together, they led their prisoner back toward the road.
The rest of the column had circled back, harnessing their mounts so the riderless horse could be secured. Garrin approached. "You let her go easy," he said quietly.
Roland exhaled. "He's a man, not a monster. He deserves a chance."
Garrin studied him, then shrugged. "Your call."
As they remounted, Roland felt a shift under his helm: a newfound confidence in his decisions, even uncertain ones. They rode the rest of the afternoon in heavy silence, the prisoner flanked by two veterans.
Early evening shadows stretched across rolling hills. At the edge of a pine ridge, scouts produced signal flares—three red puffs against the darkening sky. "Marshal Ivor's guards," Lira said. "We're close."
They trotted forward, the pine scent sharp in the cooling air. A wooden palisade loomed—Glenmere's outer defenses. Torches wavered on ramparts. Sentinels challenged them as they entered, then bowed at the sight of Sir Alaric's banner.
Roland dismounted and approached a pair of guards. One nodded at the scroll pouch. "Marshal Ivor awaits in the command tent."
Inside the tent, a burly officer with silver-streaked hair—Marshal Ivor—rose to greet them. He offered a curt nod. "Sir Alaric's scouts. I trust your journey was uneventful."
Sir Alaric stepped forward. "We encountered bandits," he said, "but the dispatch arrived intact."
Ivor's eyes flicked to Roland. "This is the scout who recovered the prisoner, then subdued him without needless bloodshed?"
Roland bowed. "I did."
Ivor's weathered face softened. "Your compassion is noted. Ardenia needs more men like you." He turned to a chest. "The Dark Lord's supply lines thicken beyond the pass. I need accurate maps and more frequent updates. Will you remain on my staff of scouts?"
Roland's pulse stilled. Talia glanced at him. He forced a calm nod. "Yes, Marshal."
Ivor glanced at the prisoner, then back to Roland. "Take him to the guardhouse. We shall decide his fate. Meanwhile, refreshments await you."
Sir Alaric clapped Roland on the shoulder. "Well done, Roland Farter. You're proving quite resourceful."
Roland managed a tight smile. As they departed the tent, Talia whispered, "Looks like your minor assignment just got… extended."
Roland's heart pounded—in excitement, anxiety, and a strange thrill. The scroll delivery had become something far more complex: tactical coordination and moral choices. He realized that even a simple escort could forge a man's character.
That night, beneath the lantern-lit eaves of Glenmere's command post, Roland studied new maps. Pines, rivers, hidden passes—all awaiting his annotation. He dipped quill to parchment, drawing lines that might change the war's outcome. His hand, unsteady at first, grew surer with each stroke.
As he worked by flickering candlelight, Roland Farter—the failed author reincarnated into a mob—felt the stirrings of his own story taking shape. Not the grand epic he'd once written, but a tale of unexpected courage, complicating choices, and a reluctant hero discovering his place in a world that wasn't meant for him.
And so, his first assignment ended not with fanfare, but with quiet determination and the knowledge that no day—no quest—would ever be merely "minor" again.