Rebel

You choose to rebel.

Your grip tightens, and with a breathless surge of rage, you drive the iron blade into his back. It slips between the ornate plates of his armor, punching through the mail beneath, and bursts from his chest in a spray of crimson.

"What?" Padreg gasps, his voice thin and disbelieving, staring down at the bloodied blade protruding from him like some hideous growth. His eyes go wide, full of fear and confusion, as if the very notion of a peasant striking him down is beyond comprehension.

"I'm claiming my place in the story, milord," you whisper bitterly into his ear, twisting the blade for good measure. It's not some heat-of-the-moment impulse. No. This is the culmination of years toiling in mud as a peasant, dreaming of glory, only to be told you were born to serve men like him. Not today. Not anymore.

Padreg tries to speak again, but all that escapes his lips is a wet gargle. Blood runs from the corner of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. The arrogant gleam in his eyes is gone, replaced with naked terror, the helpless panic of a man realizing **** will not spare him for his titles.

"Common men defeated the beast," you mutter, eyes locked onto his, "peasants and guards. You were only there to steal the glory at the end. I won't let you do that. I will claim I slew the beast. And then, Padreg, I will take everything you have!"

His hand scrabbles for his sword, but his strength is fleeing fast. He drops to his knees, the steel slipping from his grasp as life drains from him. His mouth opens in a last **** gasp for air, but it is too late. You watch, cold and merciless, as he topples forward, dead.

But you are not done yet.

With grim determination, you set to work on his corpse. You hack at his body until it is barely recognizable, tearing and slashing with brutal efficiency. Blood stains the earth dark as night. By the time you are finished, no one will suspect treachery. No, they will believe Padreg was torn apart by the beast’s fury, as fitting an end as any for a careless noble.

You wipe your blade clean and drag the beast’s carcass through the woods, away from the butchered bodies of Padreg and the guards. Let the carrion birds and time do their work, you think. Soon, there will be nothing left to betray you.

You stagger back to Dunford, dragging the wolf’s carcass behind you. Its sheer size makes the journey slow, but you refuse to leave it behind. You need it to support your story.

When you finally reach the village square, the reaction is immediate.

Gasps. Cries of disbelief. Then, celebration.

The sheepherders and woodcutters, the ones who had lived in fear for weeks, cheer the loudest. They offer to buy you drinks, to sing your praises until dawn. The mayor himself raises a toast in your honor, declaring that Dunford will never forget this night.

Farlen watches in silence, then nods approvingly. He places a firm hand on your shoulder. “The sword’s yours now, lad,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”

You nod, taking the weapon with a grim smile. You did not use Farlen’s sword to kill the beast, but you used it to kill a different kind of monster.

News spreads quickly. Whispers of your victory mingle with darker rumors of the slaughtered noble and his men. But common folk care little for the deaths of highborn men. It is the **** of the beast that matters to them, the end of their nightmares.

The celebrations rage long into the night.

But dawn comes, as it always must, and with it, summons from the keep.

You stand before Lord Addam, Padreg’s father, in the great hall of stone and banners. He is an older man, proud and stern, his eyes shadowed with grief yet hard as iron.

"I ordered my son not to go," he admits, his voice heavy with sorrow and frustration. "But Padreg thought... he took the guards and left without my leave. The beast that killed him... you slew it, did you not?"

"Yes, milord," you answer, your lie smooth, polished by your growing resolve.

Lord Addam studies you in silence, then nods. "Then you deserve a reward," he says at last. "I lost my son, and a dozen of my best men. I cannot leave my lands undefended. How would you like to be my man-at-arms? I will have you knighted. I will make you landed gentry, if you swear to defend my keep and my people."

Your heart pounds. You bow your head respectfully. "I will serve with honor, milord," you promise, giving him the words he needs to hear. "I may be peasantborn, but you will not find a more loyal subject."

Time passes.

You move into the castle, trading your muddy boots and simple tunic for chainmail and finery. You train in the courtyard beneath the watchful eyes of seasoned knights. Your sword grows surer in your grip. Your stance strengthens. Lord Addam keeps his word, and you are knighted before the keep’s lords and ladies, Sir Cedric of Dunford.

Your own father, Beron, now toils upon your lands, a mere serf beneath your rule. You watch him with a strange mixture of pride and pity, knowing the wheel of fate has turned.

You have become wealthy overnight. Respected. Feared. Envied. They say you slew the beast. They sing your praises in the taverns, they toast to your name in every hall.

All it took was a blade in the back of a vain nobleman.

A hero such as you cannot remain unwed. The whispers have already begun. Lords and knights alike eye you with wary respect, but their wives and daughters glance your way with something else in their eyes. Curiosity. Hope. Perhaps even lust.

You think of Padreg. He would have married a lady of high birth, a daughter of some baron or count, and kept secret mistresses for pleasure. He would have filled his halls with laughter and lust, treating women as trophies to hang beside his hunts. You wonder if you are any different.

Do you seek a single, proud lady of noble blood to be your wife? A woman who would bear you trueborn heirs and sit at your side at the table? You could remain loyal to her and avoid complications in your life.

Or do you crave more? A harem of secret mistresses, servant girls, and trained whores to warm your bed and satisfy your lust. You could surround yourself with beautiful loose women, a reminder that you are no longer the farm boy from Dunford. You are a man who carved his own path, claimed what he desired by any means.

You consider the choices. Monogamy or harem?