Princess Althea's Confession
The flickering firelight danced across the clearing as Roland and Sir Alaric shared a silent moment. A soft rustle in the shadows caught Roland's ear. From the tree line emerged Princess Althea, her silken cloak dusted with dew. In one hand she carried a small lantern; in the other, she held a folded letter.
Roland rose. "Your Highness—"
Althea offered them a gentle nod. "I came with a confession of my own." She laid the letter on a nearby stump. "I wrote to my mother today, asking to be recalled to court. I feared for your safety—and mine." Her voice quavered. "I thought if I left, these battles would not touch my family."
Sir Alaric's expression was stern but not unkind. "You would have abandoned us?"
Althea blinked back tears. "I… I was afraid. I used my title to hide behind walls of privilege, not fight at your side. I felt unworthy." She placed a hand over her heart. "But then Roland risked his life for me at the ravine. And Bren, Talia, Lira—they all fought for Ardenia, not crowns. I realized courage isn't born of bloodline, but of choice."
Roland exchanged a glance with Alaric, who nodded. Althea continued:
"I vow to stand with you—no longer a sheltered princess, but a comrade. I will share the danger and the burden."
A hush fell. Then Bren, leaning on his crutch, called out, "To Princess Althea—the bravest of us all!" The others cheered, stamping boots. Althea's cheeks glowed in the firelight as she bowed.
---
The Ominous Omen
As laughter faded, a distant howl drifted down the ridge—long, mournful, unlike any wolf's cry. The scouts stiffened. Talia rose, crossbow drawn.
"Something moves beyond the trees," she whispered.
Lira snatched her staff. Alaric and Roland followed, forming a tight circle around the fire. The howl came again—closer, multiplied by echoes. Shadows flickered beyond the glow.
"What manner of beast—or sorcery—is this?" Althea whispered.
Roland's hand tightened on his sword. "Stay close."
From the gloom emerged shapes—masked riders on black horses, cloaked in tattered banners. They dismounted, faces concealed by bone‐carved masks. No words passed; their presence was a silent threat.
Sir Alaric stepped forward. "State your business!"
A figure nodded, lifting a skeletal hand. In a voice like wind through tombstones, the horseman intoned: "The Dark Lord's envoy sends warnings to those who defy him. Cease your meddling, or share this night's fate." He swept his hand through the air and vanished back into darkness, the riders slipping away like phantoms.
Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of dying embers. Roland exhaled. "He's testing us—spreading fear."
Althea closed her eyes. "His dark magic runs deep."
Sir Alaric sheathed his sword. "We will stand firm." He turned to Roland. "We need to move camp; they know our location."
Roland nodded. "At once."
---
Securing the Perimeter
Under Alaric's command, the scouts extinguished the campfires and reassembled the tents in a concealed grove deeper in the pines. The Brotherhood's informants spread out, deploying silent wards and rune‐forged charms around the new encampment's perimeter. Master Cedric oversaw the placement of wardstones, each etched with runes of binding to repel dark magic.
Roland moved among the sentries, checking their positions and encouraging weary eyes. "Remember, trust no shadow," he whispered, finishing each with a pat on the shoulder. The scouts nodded, fortified by purpose.
As the last tent was raised, Alaric gathered them in a huddle. "Tomorrow's dawn brings war. But tonight we prepare—not just weapons, but our resolve. Rest now, for we fight not as strangers, but as one."
They broke, returning to their tents. Roland lingered, staring at the silver moon through the branches. Failure and fear had driven them here—but unity and courage would carry them through the battle to come.
---
Roland's Final Vow
In the quiet of his tent, Roland pulled his journal from his pack—blank pages awaiting his own words. He wrote:
"I am no longer the background I once feared. I will stand at the forefront of Ardenia's destiny. My failures are the foundation of my strength, and my comrades the ink that writes this story."
He pressed the Rune of Resolve—scratch of silver ink—on the page. As the symbol glowed faintly, Roland felt a surge of clarity. This story was his to write—one of hope, unity, and triumph.
He rolled the parchment, secured it in his satchel, and settled on his cot. Outside, the masked watch stood vigilant, and the forest held its breath. Roland closed his eyes, ready for whatever dawn would bring.