The sun had bled itself into the horizon by the time Roland and Elena returned to town.
The air still clung to the warmth of the day, but the streets were thinning out, shutters closing one by one as the lamps flickered awake.
Roland stifled a yawn as they walked back toward the inn, Elena trailing behind him with the quiet bounce of someone who had just achieved something she'd thought impossible.
She kept flexing her fingers, as though the faint ghost of the [Fireball] still lingered in her palm.
"Quit grinning," Roland muttered, hands shoved in his coat pockets.
"You'll give people the wrong idea. They'll think I actually did my job."
Elena tried to suppress her smile, and failed miserably.
"But… it worked. For the first time, it actually worked."
Roland sighed.
Kids and their milestones. One half-decent [Fireball] and suddenly she thought she was Archmage material. He let her enjoy it, though, better her be happy than sulking again.
When they reached the square in front of the inn, they saw Reinhardt's figure returning from the opposite street.
He was walking a touch slower than usual, his shoulders heavier, his brow faintly furrowed despite the polished smile he wore for anyone watching. A couple of the caravan knights saluted stiffly, and Reinhardt gave them a nod that was more automatic than genuine.
Roland's eye twitched.
He might not care much about noble politics, but he'd spent enough years watching exhausted managers try to fake calm while everything behind the curtain fell apart.
Reinhardt's mask slipped only once: when one of the guards leaned close and muttered something about "bandits moving oddly around the hills."
For half a second, Reinhardt's mouth tightened. Then the mask returned, the perfect noble façade.
Roland didn't miss it. He noticed the guards too, more of them than usual hovering near the wagons, hands resting too casually on sword hilts.
Something was off.
Later that evening, Roland ducked out of the inn's common room to stretch his legs.
He had been halfway to sneaking off for a proper nap when raised voices drifted from behind a door at the end of the hall.
"…unreasonable tariffs," Reinhardt's voice cut through, sharp but controlled.
Another voice, lower, oily with practiced deference, answered:
"My lord, the local records are clear. These are the official levies, nothing more."
Roland lingered at the corner, scratching his chin.
He recognized that tone, he had heard it from middle managers covering their tracks, burying incompetence under paperwork.
A pause, then Reinhardt again, this time strained:
"If these numbers are genuine, then half the caravan's profits are already gone before we even reach the capital. Tell me, how is trade supposed to flourish if local lords strangle merchants in their sleep?"
The steward coughed.
"If you have complaints, you may appeal to the royal auditors. Until then…"
Roland tuned the rest out. He'd heard enough. Missing records. Inflated tariffs.
Reinhardt's scowl when he finally emerged said more than words.
Later, over a dinner of stale bread and thin stew, Reinhardt finally spoke. His knights sat stiff-backed around the table, trying to look unbothered, but every one of them was tense.
"Father? What's wrong?"
"The tariffs are three times the standard," Reinhardt said at last, keeping his voice low.
"And the local records show goods missing from the tallies. Conveniently so. When I challenged the steward, he claimed it was 'error in calculation.'"
His mouth tightened.
"But the sums are too precise to be a mistake."
Elena slammed her spoon down.
"That's robbery! Why don't you report it to the Crown?"
Reinhardt sighed.
"Because the Crown is far, and this town is here. A noble doesn't show weakness, not in front of those who would exploit it."
Roland leaned back in his chair, half-lidded eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"So… short version: you're being scammed."
The knights stiffened at his bluntness, but Reinhardt didn't deny it.
Roland scratched his chin.
"Figures. Ledgers don't match, guards are twitchy, half the merchants look like they're waiting for someone to take the fall. If I had to guess, your host lord's in bed with local bandits. Jack up tariffs to squeeze the coin, then if that fails, sic a few cutthroats on the stubborn noble who won't pay."
The table went silent.
Reinhardt's gaze sharpened.
"That is… exactly what I feared."
Elena's eyes widened.
"You think they'll attack us?"
Roland shrugged.
"Wouldn't be surprised. Perfect little script, really. Caravan loses goods, blame falls on bandits, lord pockets the difference. Everyone happy except the victim."
He tapped the edge of his cup.
"Messy, but effective."
Elena glanced between them, unsettled. For once, Roland wasn't joking. His tone was too flat, too certain.
Outside, the evening bells tolled. Shadows stretched long across the square, and in those shadows, a pair of cloaked figures lingered a little too long before slipping down an alley.
Roland's eyes tracked them lazily.
"Called it," he muttered under his breath. "This script's about to go live."
Night fell over the town with an uneasy stillness. The streets emptied too quickly, shutters closing with sharp thuds as if everyone wanted to pretend nothing happened after dark. A handful of lamps flickered along the main road, their flames struggling against the chill wind.
Roland leaned on the inn's balcony, watching. From here, he could see the square below: the caravan's wagons, arranged in a protective circle; guards milling about, but shifting too often, like they couldn't settle. The horses stamped nervously, ears flicking at sounds only they could hear.
Something was brewing.
Behind him, the inn room door creaked open. Elena stepped out, arms crossed, hair let down for once instead of tied.
"You're still awake."
"Insomnia," Roland said lazily. "Side effect of working too many nights."
He tilted his head toward the square.
"Also helps when trouble is coming."
Her brows knitted.
"You think they'll really attack?"
Roland didn't answer right away. His eyes lingered on a shadow moving along the far alley. It stopped, crouched, then disappeared again. Scouts, most likely. Testing the ground.
Finally, he exhaled.
"Wouldn't surprise me. Bandits love when towns look the other way. And this one's practically rolling out the red carpet."
Elena gripped the railing tighter.
"And you're just… calm about it?"
Roland smirked faintly.
"Calm? Nah. Just tired. Big difference."
Inside, muffled voices rose. Reinhardt was meeting with his steward and two knights. The words weren't clear, but the tone was: sharp, clipped, frustrated. Roland caught phrases like "records forged" and "no legal ground here."
The argument ended with a door slamming. A moment later, Reinhardt emerged into the hallway, his cloak half-fastened, his sword at his hip. His face was carved from stone, expressionless but heavy.
Elena spun to face him. "Father—"
"Inside," Reinhardt cut her off, voice colder than usual.
"Do not leave this inn until I return."
Elena's jaw clenched, but she obeyed, stepping back into the room. Reinhardt's eyes met Roland's next. For a heartbeat, the noble mask slipped — there was no mistaking the steel in his gaze.
"They'll come tonight," Reinhardt said quietly.
Roland gave a slow shrug.
"Called it."
"You knew?"
"I guessed," Roland corrected. "Corruption this sloppy only works if it's covered by something noisier. Like a bandit raid."
Reinhardt's hand tightened on the hilt at his side.
"Then you understand why I can't let them succeed."
Roland tilted his head.
"Because of pride, or profit?"
"Because of duty," Reinhardt said, firm. "If I allow them to take what's mine, I lose more than coin. I lose the faith of my men, and the safety of my daughter."
For once, Roland didn't have a retort. He just studied the man. Tired, worn, yet still carrying the weight of his house on his back like it was unshakable.
Finally, Roland sighed.
"Fine. You go play knight. I'll… supervise."
Reinhardt gave him a look, half-irritation, half-gratitude, then turned on his heel.
His knights fell in behind him, silent but resolute.
Down in the yard, torches flared to life. Orders were whispered, weapons drawn. The caravan guards were nervous, shifting their weight from foot to foot, but Reinhardt's knights stood like iron statues.
Roland remained on the balcony, leaning his chin into his palm. He watched shadows pooling in the alleys beyond the square, multiplying with every passing minute.
This wasn't going to be a small scuffle.
"Hahhhhhh figures," he muttered to himself, cracking his neck.
"Not even one peaceful night. Retirement, my ass."
Elena peeked out again, worry etched across her face.
"Is he going to be alright?"
Roland met her gaze, then flicked his eyes toward the square where Reinhardt stood at the front, sword gleaming under torchlight.
"Kid," Roland said flatly, "if anyone's walking out fine tonight, it's your old man."