Obey

You obey.

Because that is what commoners like you have always done. You are peasant-born, after all. A lowborn farm boy, like your father, and his father before him. Dreaming of more, of heroism, of glory, is as futile as wishing the sun would rise in the west. Such things are not for you.

You bend your back beneath the weight of the beast’s carcass, its blood still warm, sticky against your skin. You haul it over your shoulders as Padreg commands, and carry it back to the village.

For Padreg, Lord Addam’s heir, the slayer of the fearsome beast. The savior of the land. They crowd around him as he struts through the streets, torchlight gleaming off his fine armor, his silver sword sheathed at his side, his head held high in arrogant pride.

No one spares you a glance.

You are forgotten again.

Just another unremarkable farm boy.

You return the old iron sword to Farlen, the old soldier who trained you. "I never truly deserved it," you say quietly.

Farlen looks at you but says nothing. There is no need. You both know the truth.

In the tavern that night, the ale flows like a river.

Men drink and boast in Padreg’s honor. The young lord plays his part with relish, loud and proud, basking in their adoration. He tells the tale of the hunt again and again, each time grander than the last, his voice carrying over the raucous cheer.

You sit in the corner, nursing a single cup, bitterness curling in your gut like a coiled snake.

Your eyes drift to Nissa, the tavern girl. The most beautiful girl in the village, with curves that make men weak and a smile that could melt iron. You watch her flirt shamelessly with Padreg, batting her lashes and pressing close.

"I have always wanted to be with a hero, milord," you hear her purr, her voice like honeyed wine.

Padreg’s hand slides boldly to her bottom. She only giggles and leans in closer, whispering something in his ear that makes him grin wider.

You watch as she leads him upstairs to her room. You listen as they begin their coupling, moans, giggles, the creak of the bed frame, his grunts, her gasps, and then her cry that rings through the tavern loud enough for all to hear:

"Harder, milord, harder!"

The hero, claiming his reward.

The tavern’s finest girl, warming his bed.

That could have been you.

Your chest aches with the thought. If only you had been the one to slay the beast… If only your sword had struck the final blow… your whole life could have been different.

You sit there in silence, the noise of celebration fading into a dull roar around you. Alone in the shadows of your own regrets.

Morning comes, grey and bitter.

Padreg emerges from Nissa’s room, shirtless, wearing a satisfied grin. He stretches his arms like a lord of the world, spotting you still lingering near the tavern doorway.

"You there. Peasant. Cedric, is it?" he calls, his voice sharp with command. "A dozen of my father’s best guards are dead. I’ll need new men. You’ve got guts enough to be my man?"

The words hang in the air between you, heavy as a stormcloud.

You feel torn.

A part of you, the part that has known nothing but soil and toil, wants to decline. Return to the farm, to the life you’ve always known. Away from Padreg and his smirking arrogance, away from the hollow ache in your chest. A simple life, honest and quiet.

But another part of you stirs, a part not yet dead. You may not be a hero. You may never win the tavern girl’s affections. But you can still hold a sword. You can still be a soldier. Perhaps enduring Padreg’s arrogance is better than living and dying a nameless farmer.

You stand there, at the edge of a choice: farmer or soldier?