The Drunken Boar tavern reeked of spilled ale, sweat, and something fouler—fear. Flickering lanterns cast long shadows across scarred wooden beams and tables scarred by knife blades. Roland Farter slipped inside just after dusk, seeking a moment's respite and a mug of watered ale. He'd barely sat when a careless elbow from a burly mercenary sent his drink crashing onto a knight's ornate cloak.
"Oi!" the knight bellowed, crimson wine seeping into gold-embroidered silk. His hand darted to the pommel of his sword. "You clumsy oaf—"
Roland leapt up. "I—I'm sorry! It was an accident." He bowed, but the knight's squires and cronies rose around him, steel glinting in lantern light.
Before Roland could retreat, one of the mercenary's friends shoved him from behind. He tumbled across the bench, crashing into a table where a dwarf miner strode in, tankard raised. The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "Back off, lads."
The knight laughed cruelly. "Or what, mongrel? You'll swing your hammer?" He drew his sword, point aimed at Roland's chest.
The miner grunted and swung the tankard. Metal connected with a mercenary's jaw. The knight snarled and lunged, blade cutting a long scar through the dwarf's vest. Cheerful laughter curdled into shouts.
Roland scrambled to his feet, heart hammering. Chaos erupted. Tables overturned. Chairs flew. Swords flashed. People ducked behind barrels and darted for side doors. The knight slashed at the dwarf, who roared and retaliated with a furious swing. Roland spotted a fallen stool and brandished it like a club, stepping between the knight and the dwarf.
A mercenary swung at Roland's head. He ducked, but the stool splintered, shaving his scalp with a stinging cut. Pain bloomed. Roland hissed, stumbled, and fell against a kegs stacked in the corner. He drove his shoulder into the nearest mercenary's gut, knocking the wind from him.
Blood pounded in Roland's ears. He saw the knight backing the dwarf into a corner. Summoning every ounce of courage, Roland grabbed a broken chair leg and charged. With a cry, he swung, catching the knight's forearm. The blade clattered to the floor. The crowd gasped.
The dwarf seized the moment, yanking the knight's cloak down and clubbing him in the face. The knight went down in a thud, eyes glazed. The tavern's brawl broke like a wave—swords dropped, servants rushed in to separate combatants, and the tavern's manager bellowed for order.
Roland, chest heaving, recognized too late that the coast was not clear. Guardsmen, summoned by the tavern's alarm bell, flooded in. They formed a line, swords drawn. The tavern's door slammed shut behind them like a trap.
Roland tried to slip away, but a burly guard grabbed his arm. "You—fight's over, peasant. You're coming with us."
The miner and a few others also found themselves bound and led away. Roland's cut bled through his hair, and his tunic was stained with ale and sweat. They dragged him through dimly lit corridors beneath the tavern—and then he woke, cold stone beneath him and a throbbing ache at the back of his head.
He was in a cell beneath the keep, chained to the wall by one wrist. The air was damp, and rats scurried at the edges of his vision. Light filtered through a grated slit high in the wall.
A soft voice whispered, "Are you awake, lad?" Roland blinked and saw an old jailer, lantern in hand. His expression was gentle, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry, son. They bring you in raw, then sort the guilty from the innocent."
Roland touched the back of his head—bruised, tender. He managed a weak nod. "What… what happens to me now?"
The jailer shook his head. "We'll wait for the knight's testimony. If they think you instigated, you'll face trial. If not… well, you'll be released." He slid a crust of bread and a small bowl of water through the iron bars. "Eat something."
Roland ate slowly, every bite tasting of metal and regret. He replayed the brawl in his mind: the knight's sword, the miner's defiance, his own panic. He'd tried to help, but instead he'd been drawn into violence. He closed his eyes, wishing he'd stayed hidden.
Hours passed, each marked by the dripping of water and the distant clank of armored boots above. Finally, the heavy footsteps of soldiers descended the stairs. Torches bobbed in the corridor. Roland braced himself as two guards unlocked his cell.
He was led back up into the tavern's common room—now eerily silent. The knight, robes torn, sat before a tribunal of guards and tavern staff. Roland was thrust before them. The knight's squires glared; the dwarf miner sat opposite Roland, arms folded and bruised. Roland expected the knight to accuse him, but instead the knight's gaze fell on the dwarf.
"It was this dwarf who struck me first," the knight said, voice wavering. His lie was thin, and the tribunal exchanged glances. One guard spat. "You challenged the knight, dwarf—everyone saw."
The miner stood. "I defended the innocent. The knight drew sword first—this man only intervened to save me." He pointed at Roland. "He tried to break the fight."
Silence. The guards looked from miner to knight to Roland. Finally, the presiding officer—a captain—cleared his throat. "Both of you—stand aside. We'll sort this."
He turned to Roland. "Roland Farter?" Roland blinked. The knight had identified him by name. "I have no complaint against you, boy. You interfered to protect another. That's a… questionable honor." He tapped his sword pommel. "You'll be released. Consider yourself fortunate."
Roland exhaled, relief flooding him. "Thank you, sir."
The captain next addressed the miner. "You, dwarf—assault on a knight is high treason. The knight accuses you, and I see no witnesses to contradict him. You face trial."
The miner's shoulders slumped. He nodded, resignation in his eyes. Roland's relief curdled into guilt. He wanted to step forward, but the captain's gaze warned him to stay silent.
Roland was escorted outside. Marianne stood in the moonlight, cloak drawn. She met his eyes. "Roland." Her voice was soft. "I'm sorry you were caught up in that." She offered him a small vial. "This will heal the cut."
He accepted it, voice hoarse. "Thanks."
She hesitated. "I tried to intervene, but…"
Roland shook his head. "It's not your fault." He looked back at the dwarf's cell door closing. "Maybe I should have said something."
Marianne placed a hand on his arm. "You did what you could."
Roland nodded, uncertain. As he walked away under torchlight, he realized even small acts of help could draw calamity—and that pureness of intent didn't guarantee a just outcome.
He returned to the barracks, vial in hand, and applied the salve. As he drifted into uneasy sleep, he vowed: next time, he would find a way to protect innocents without becoming their judge.