Soldier

You choose to be a soldier.

"I’d be honored to be a guard at the keep, milord," you say, bowing low before Padreg, your voice steady, your words respectful.

Padreg laughs, a sharp, careless chuckle that bites at your pride. "Good to see a peasant who knows his place," he replies off-handedly. His eyes sweep over you, half-amused, half-dismissive. "You’ll also carry my things. Shouldn’t be too hard, seeing as you’re built like a farmer."

You shoulder his packs without protest. The straps bite into your skin, but you’ve carried heavier burdens all your life. At least now you carry them to Lord Addam’s keep, not to the muddy fields of your childhood.

There, you take your place among the ranks of nameless guards. They give you a rusty steel sword, more relic than weapon, its edge dull but serviceable enough for a man of your station.

Months pass.

You become exactly what you expected: just another forgotten guard in a sea of steel and sweat, a faceless servant of the nobles.

Padreg, meanwhile, lives like a lord unchained. He drinks deep from every cup, tastes every pleasure within reach. Tavern wenches, serving girls, even coin-bought whores, none escape his appetite. You’ve seen him, many times, saunter past with a fresh conquest on his arm, his eyes filled with smug triumph.

Sometimes, you wonder if you should have driven your sword into his back when you had the chance.

But that moment is long gone.

And deep down, you’ve learned something about yourself: it is easier to obey than to rebel.

Easier to let another man make your choices for you.

Easier to be told what to do, than to carry the weight of your own decisions.

One day, Padreg summons you to his chambers.

"You called for me, milord?" you say as you enter, standing at attention.

Padreg gestures lazily at the young woman standing beside him, lounging by the window in a simple servant's dress. "You know Tiffany, right?"

"Yes, milord," you answer at once.

Of course you know her. Tiffany, one of the serving girls at the castle. Lowborn, like you. You’ve seen her many times in the dead of night, her eyes bright, as she slips past you into Padreg’s chambers. You’ve opened the door for her, stepped aside as she entered with a smile and a sway of her hips. And you’ve stood guard outside as her giggles and soft moans filled the air, as Padreg's grunts of pleasure chased sleep from your mind. More than once, you felt your loins stir at the sound.

There was even that one time, you remember it well, when you were sent to fetch Padreg for his father. You had opened the door without thinking, only to find Tiffany atop him, completely naked, her back arched, Padreg’s hands gripping her hips. For a breathless moment, you locked eyes with her as she rode him, her face flushed with desire, just before he spilled himself inside her.

Padreg doesn’t bother with ceremony. He never does.

"Tiffany is with child," he says bluntly, like it’s no more important than the weather. His eyes narrow as he continues, "You know I’m betrothed to a noble girl, don’t you? A bastard would ruin my reputation. No, this won’t do."

His gaze hardens, and he points at you as if picking a tool from a rack.

"I need you to claim the child. Marry Tiffany. I’ll pay you a bag of copper. You should feel honored to raise your future lord’s bastard."

You feel something stir in your chest, but it is not outrage. It is not pride. It is not even despair.

It is acceptance.

"Alright, milord," you answer without hesitation.

Because you know yourself.

You know that you will always take the easy road.

Some men might call you a cuckold. Some might call you a fool.

But you have made peace with what you are.

A guard who does what his master commands.

It feels a little degrading, marrying a woman you have long known as a nobleman’s mistress, your master’s discarded plaything. His leftovers. But you are a soldier, and a soldier cannot complain. Lowborn men like you have always lived on the nobles' scraps, their hand-me-downs, their cast-offs. You have learned to take what you are given and not reach for more.

You marry Tiffany with the quiet resignation of a man who knows his place. You look at her rounded belly and you remember the sounds from Padreg’s chambers, the moans and giggles, the slaps of flesh and the breathless grunts. You remember the moment you walked in on them, her face twisted in ecstasy as she rode your lord's fat cock. The way she smiled at you in the middle of it, not even pausing as Padreg spilled himself inside her, his white sperm dripping from her well used cunt.

It should fill you with jealousy, but instead you feel something darker. A guilty heat coils in your gut. You feel a strange pull toward the thought of accepting another man’s child, another man’s woman. Padreg’s cast-off, your master’s leftover, given to you like a scrap from his table.

Like a loyal guardsman. Like a loyal dog, happy to lick the crumbs from his master’s plate.

There is an excitement in it. A thrill that you are ashamed to name. The pleasure of obedience. The comfort of being told what to do.

"Yes, right there! The young lord's cock used to hit right there!" When you make love to Tiffany, you find her an eager partner. She giggles and laughs beneath you, her moans filling your ears, sweet and familiar. She rides you just as she rode your master, her body practiced in pleasure. And it excites you more than you want to admit, knowing you follow where your lord has gone before.

Maybe you are a cuckold, after all.

In time, Tiffany gives birth to a daughter. You hold the infant in your arms and see at once that she is no child of yours. The curve of her cheek, the sharp blue of her eyes, the proud tilt of her chin. These are Padreg’s features, not yours.

Padreg, of course, claims nothing. He is married now to a highborn lady, and speaks often of the trueborn heirs he will sire. He looks past you in the halls as if you do not exist, as if Tiffany never warmed his bed, as if the child you cradle is not the blood of his blood.

You name the girl Ellyn. It is a simple name, suited to a soldier’s daughter, even if she is not truly yours.

Years pass.

Tiffany swells with child again, the fruit of your nightly lovemaking after Ellyn's birth. This time, when she births a boy, you see your own reflection in the infant’s face. His eyes, his nose, the rough lines of his brow. He is your son, unmistakably.

You name your son Alric. It is a strong name, a name that feels like iron in the hand. You whisper it to him as he lies in his cradle, as if the name itself can forge his future.

As soon as he can stand, you place a wooden sword in his hands. You teach him the forms, the strikes, the guards. He stumbles, but he is quick to rise. You tell him he will one day be a guard like you, loyal and dependable, serving the keep with humble pride.

But Alric shakes his head, his eyes bright with a fire you have never known. "I don't want to be a guard, father. I want to be an adventurer. A hero!"

His words sting, though you try not to show it. A part of you wants to chide him, to pull him back to the muddy earth where he belongs. You want to tell him that he is the son of a common guard, a man who obeys, who bows when ordered, who accepted his master's scraps without question. That his mother was a lustful servant girl, once the plaything of Lord Padreg, given to you like an old cloak. That his older sister is not even truly his sister, but a living reminder of your obedience, a bastard born from Padreg's seed.

You want to tell him that dreams are dangerous for the lowborn. That men like you and him are not meant to reach for the stars. That you tried once, and look where you ended up.

But you do not say these things.

Instead, you let the boy dream. You watch the fire in his eyes and wonder if it is too cruel to extinguish it. Let him believe, at least for now, that he can soar where you have only crawled.

"Keep training, lad," you say, forcing a small smile to your lips. "Keep training, and one day you might."

You know the truth of your life. You were too quick to bow, too eager to obey. You accepted your place as a loyal soldier, accepted your master's leavings with a strange, guilty pleasure. You were content to be the dog at his table.

But your son burns brighter than you ever did. Perhaps that fire will not fade. Perhaps he will rise higher than you dared to imagine. Perhaps he will break the cycle you never could.

You tighten your grip on the hilt of your sword and watch him swing his practice blade again and again, wild and eager. And in your heart, a small ember flickers to life.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

Ending 6: Obedient Guard