Dawn broke in streaks of amber and rose across the battlefield as Sir Alaric led the main charge against the Dark Lord's fortified line. Rollicking trumpets and war cries erupted from the allied army like a mighty roar, shields clashed, and the earth trembled beneath the thunder of hooves. Roland Farter, however, did not ride at the head of the column. Instead, he slipped away at the first clash, melting into ruined terraces and collapsed walls, where the din of battle masked his every footstep.
He navigated through shattered siege towers and smoking craters, guided by the map he had memorized in the war tent. His target: the enemy's reinforcements mustering along the eastern ridge, poised to turn the tide should they descend upon his comrades. Armed with nothing more than a short sword, a handful of smoke bombs, and Talia's silenced crossbow, Roland moved with the precision of a phantom.
Above him, Sir Alaric's voice thundered in his earpiece—an enchanted device humbly crafted by Master Cedric. If the reinforcements break through, fall back to the east wall. Roland pressed his lips together. He could not let that happen.
At the ridge's base, he found them: a fresh cohort of Dark Lord's soldiers, fatigued but ready, their banners black against the morning sky. Two sentries stood guard over a rough pack of supplies, oil skins glinting in the sun. Roland crouched behind a fallen pike, heart pounding. He hurled a smoke bomb; as the dense gray cloud billowed, he slipped through the clearing, silent as smoke itself. A crossbow bolt from Talia—whisper-quiet—found the first sentry's throat. The second guard spun, but Roland's blade was at his neck before he could cry alarm.
Roland loosed another smoke bomb and sprinted. The enemy troops, choking on the haze, stumbled blindly. Roland darted between them, cutting reins, overturning wagons, and setting alight the stacked forage. Flames roared as he dashed away, leading half the cohort into a trap: hidden pits his scouts had dug under the marshy ground. Men screamed as their feet gave way; weapons clanged on wet earth. From the cover of willow trees, Lira and Bren sprang out, staff and crutch striking with bone-crunching precision. Talia and a squad of masked Brotherhood scouts closed the net, capturing survivors and scattering the rest into the reeds.
By the time Roland slipped back toward the main line, the reinforcements were in shambles—dozens of enemy soldiers dead or captured, their banners torn down. He rejoined Sir Alaric just as the hero breached the Dark Lord's outer gate, banner raised high. Alaric spared a glance: gratitude and surprise flickered in his storm-gray eyes, but he said nothing, turning instead to rally his knights for the final push.
Roland melted back into the shadows, unnoticed by the cheering masses. Behind him, the crippled wagons exploded as hidden charges Roland had placed detonated in perfect sync, sending shockwaves through the enemy's last stronghold. The great gates buckled, and the allied army poured through.
As the dust settled and the final enemy standard fell, Sir Alaric strode past Roland, cloak billowing, triumphant. Soldiers hoisted Alaric upon their shields, cheering his name. Roland slipped away into a ruined archway, where he unshouldered the Rune of Binding dagger and allowed himself a brief, exhausted smile. He had turned the tide in silence—his heroics known only to those few who had stood in the shadows with him.
Later, beneath a blood-red sunset, the allied generals gathered. They lauded Sir Alaric, Princess Althea, and Master Orlandis. No mention was made of the missing supply cohort, the mysterious saboteur who had cut off reinforcements, or the smoke that saved a hundred lives. Yet even as the trumpets blared, Roland Farter watched from the periphery, heart full. He did not need the praise. In the quiet triumph of Blackvale's salvation, he found his reward: the knowledge that, in darkness and in light, a single shadow could change the fate of a kingdom.