Roland awoke the next morning to the dull ache of his bruised ribs and the faint scent of pine drifting through the open barracks window. His head throbbed, but he was alive—and not in a cold cell. He sat up on the narrow cot and ran a hand through his hair. The cut over his scalp stung, but the salve Marianne had given him held fast overnight.
He swung his legs over the side, planting boots on the creaking floorboards. Around him, recruits stirred—some rubbing sore limbs, others whispering of last night's brawl. Roland dressed quickly and slipped outside. The morning was crisp, dew clinging to grass and the stone walkways.
Off in the distance, he saw the dwarf miner—now in shackles—being led toward the keep's gate. Guards flanked him, faces grim. Roland's chest tightened. He lingered at the edge of the yard until Marianne stepped beside him.
"There's talk of appealing his case," she said quietly. "Lady Isolde's influence might ease the sentence."
Roland frowned. "He tried to help—"
Marianne placed a hand on his arm. "Meet me at the granary tonight. I have… a plan."
Before Roland could reply, he was swept up in the day's duties: drilling with wooden swords, hauling water to the healing tents, and delivering messages to the quartermaster. Every task felt shadowed by last night's events, and he wondered if the miner's fate rested on someone's whim rather than justice.
By afternoon, Roland found himself in the courtyard when Sir Alaric approached, armor gleaming. "Roland," he called, and the crowd parted. "I heard of the tavern fight. You acted with bravery—though perhaps scant prudence." He paused, eyes serious. "But I value courage. Speak with me later."
Roland bowed. "Thank you, sir."
Alaric's gaze softened. "Your compassion for that dwarf—worthy of note."
Roland nodded, uncertain how to respond.
The rest of the day passed in tension. The miner's trial loomed, and Roland's hope that justice would prevail clashed with the reality of power and privilege. He busied himself preparing a report for Alaric on the frontier's food stocks—but his thoughts kept drifting back to the miner's haunted eyes.
That evening, Roland slipped into the granary as dusk settled. The building's heavy wooden door creaked closed behind him. Lanterns cast a warm glow over stacked sacks and barrels. Marianne stood by a table strewn with parchments and a ledger.
"Thank you for coming," she said, voice low. "I spoke with Lady Isolde—she regrets her actions. She's agreed to pay reparations and to petition the captain for leniency."
Roland exhaled. "That's… good."
She handed him a folded letter sealed with Isolde's crest. "Deliver this to the captain at dawn. It pledges her estate's grain stores will feed the poor for a month—and that she asks clemency for the miner."
Roland took the letter. "I'll do what I can."
Marianne's eyes glinted. "There's more. You'll need allies." She pulled a hooded cloak around both of them. When they stepped outside, Torches lit a path across the courtyard. Marianne led him to the stables, where Talia and Lira waited.
"Talia, Lira," Marianne began, "we need your help. Roland will deliver this letter at first light—but there's no guarantee it'll reach the captain's hands. Lira, you're swift and discreet—escort him through the guard quarters. Talia, your reputation with the scouts will keep suspicion low. Can I count on you?"
Lira's nod was swift. "He'll get through."
Talia gave a curt salute. "Scouts know the captain's habits. We'll ensure he reads it."
Roland felt gratitude swell. "Thank you—both of you."
They fell into a plan: under cover of darkness, Roland would slip past the perimeter guards—Lira guiding him, Talia distracting any curious soldiers. Marianne returned to the keep to prepare a false summons for the captain, ensuring he'd appear at her quarters at dawn with the letter in hand.
At midnight, they met by the east wall. Lira slipped over the low battlement with ease and offered a hand to Roland, who was less graceful but eager. Talia kept watch, her crossbow resting on her shoulder. The cold night air bit at Roland's cheeks.
Once over the wall, they wove between guard posts, Lira's soft footsteps leading the way. Roland clutched the letter in his tunic, heart thudding. At the guard house, Lira crept inside, returned within moments with a key she'd filched from a patrolling sentry's belt.
They moved through corridors lined with armor racks. Roland felt like a thief, but his mission was just. At the captain's door, Talia stood watch. Roland whispered a soft knock. A voice called from within.
"Deliver at once," Marianne's forged summons read. The captain emerged, bleary-eyed in night attire. Roland bowed swiftly and pressed the letter into his hand.
The captain blinked, broke the seal, and scanned the contents. His eyes widened at Lady Isolde's pledge. He looked up at Roland, then at the letter. "You—" he began, then closed the letter, his expression unreadable.
"Talia will escort you back," Lira murmured. Before Roland could protest, the key turned in the lock: the captain barred the door behind them and strode away, the letter clutched at his side.
Roland exhaled, relief flooding him. The plan had worked. They slipped back to the granary, cloaks soaked with dew but hearts light.
At dawn, Roland was summoned to the guardhouse. Guards led him in. The captain awaited, flanked by Lady Isolde herself—regal robes trailing on the floor, expression contrite. Beside them stood the dwarf miner, restored to civil dress, wrists free.
"Roland Farter," the captain said, "your letter was most persuasive." He turned to Lady Isolde. "And your cooperation commendable." He nodded to the miner. "You are free to go."
The miner blinked, tears in his eyes. He rushed to Roland and threw his arms around him. "Thank you—thank you."
Roland smiled awkwardly. "Be safe."
Lady Isolde stepped forward. "I owe you an apology—and gratitude." She lifted Roland's chin. "Your courage and persistence served justice."
The captain dismissed them. Roland emerged into bright morning sunlight, blinking. Talia and Lira stood waiting, smiles on their faces.
"You did good," Lira said.
Talia offered a rare grin. "We make a good team."
Roland breathed deeply, the weight of the past day's trials lifting. He looked down at the medallion Sir Alaric had given him, then at the smiling faces of his friends and the freed miner.
"Team," he echoed.
And as the sun rose over Fenwood's walls, Roland Farter felt, for the first time, that he truly belonged.