The following morning, despite the emotional turmoil of the previous day and the still-strange nature of his new existence, Ragnar felt surprisingly willing to resume service at the Boar’s Joyful Inn. A routine, however simple, offered him a semblance of grounding in this bewildering universe. Moreover, he was curious to test this peculiar “Super Serving” skill he had unintentionally acquired.
As soon as the tavern opened, customers streamed in. Ragnar, donning his apron and a newfound focus, set to work. He quickly noticed the effect of his new ability. His movements were swifter, more fluid. He seemed to anticipate the customers’ desires before they even voiced them. A half-empty mug? He was already there with a full one. A vague glance towards the kitchen? He took the order without waiting. The patrons, visibly impressed by this unexpected efficiency, left more generous tips, and their laughter resonated more loudly. The Boar’s Joyful Inn had never experienced such a lively morning. Borin, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, didn’t stop complimenting him.
Around midday, a different presence made itself felt in the tavern. Three men in leather armor adorned with the emblem of a roaring lion entered, their swords hanging heavily at their belts. A relative silence fell as conversations died down. Borin discreetly approached Ragnar, a worried look on his face. “Those are soldiers of the royal guard. Be polite and courteous with them, okay? They’re… influential in the region.”
Ragnar nodded in understanding, instinctively knowing the need to avoid provoking these men. He served their beers with a neutral smile, observing their exchanges. It was then that he first heard the name of the village where he was: Valenbois. And the name of the town where these soldiers resided: Veridia, the capital. These names resonated strangely in his mind, like words from a forgotten language.
One of the soldiers, a hard-faced man with piercing eyes, seemed particularly interested in Ragnar. He stared at him for a long time, an imperceptible frown creasing his face. As Ragnar brought a fresh round, the soldier addressed him in a gruff voice. “Hey, you, the server. You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Ragnar replied, keeping his tone respectful. “I arrived yesterday.”
“A foreigner, eh?” The soldier narrowed his eyes, as if trying to see through his appearance. “You don’t look like the peasants around here. Where do you come from?”
The question caught Ragnar off guard. What should he answer? Telling the truth would sound like madness. Inventing a plausible origin in this world he knew nothing about was risky. He hesitated for a moment. “From… far away, sir. A place… different.”
His vague answer didn’t seem to satisfy the soldier. “Different how? What’s the name of your kingdom? Who is your king?”
Ragnar felt panic rise within him. He had no idea about the kingdoms, the kings, the customs of this world. He stammered an evasive reply, talking about long journeys and memory loss.
The soldier sneered, an unpleasant sound. “A peasant who doesn’t know his king? Or the name of his land? That’s strange, isn’t it, gentlemen?” His companions exchanged significant glances.
“Maybe he just drank too much bad ale,” Borin interjected, trying to defuse the situation with a nervous laugh.
The soldier ignored Borin. His eyes remained fixed on Ragnar, full of suspicion. “Tell me, stranger. In your ‘different place,’ what are the laws concerning the cultivation of land? Who owns the forests?”
The questions came one after another, trapping Ragnar in his ignorance. He felt the accusing gaze of the soldiers, the atmosphere in the tavern growing increasingly heavy.
Suddenly, the soldier stood up, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “You know what, stranger? A peasant who doesn’t know the basics of his existence is either an idiot, or… an imposter.” With a sharp gesture, he drew his sword from its scabbard. The bare metal glinted in the tavern light, drawing everyone’s attention.
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“Take him outside,” the soldier ordered his companions, nodding towards Ragnar. “Let’s have a little chat.”
Fear tightened Ragnar’s throat. He had no idea what awaited him. His serving skills would be of no use against a sword. The other two soldiers stood up and approached him, their faces menacing.
Just as they were about to grab him, a loud and confident voice echoed at the entrance of the tavern. “Leave him alone, soldiers.”
All eyes turned towards the door. A young woman stood there, her imposing figure filling the frame. She wore sturdy work clothes, her hands were strong, and her piercing blue eyes fixed the soldiers with unwavering determination. Her braided golden-blonde hair framed a face with strong and energetic features. An aura of strength and authority emanated from her.
“Lysiane,” Borin murmured, visible relief in his voice.
The soldier with the sword lowered his weapon slightly, a defiant look still on his face. “Mind your own business, farm woman. This man is suspicious.”
Lysiane strode into the tavern, her sturdy boots clanking on the floor. “Suspicious of what? Of being new to the village? Valenbois is not your territory, royal guard. You have no authority here to harass our residents… or our visitors.”
Her voice carried, filling the tavern with a quiet confidence that seemed to unsettle the soldiers. The villagers, initially silent, began to murmur in support.
“He knows nothing of our world,” the soldier insisted. “That’s impossible for a simple peasant.”
Lysiane approached Ragnar, looking at him with an intense curiosity but without hostility. Then, she turned back to the soldiers. “And if that were the case? And if this man came from a distant place, as he says? Is that a reason to threaten him with your sword in our tavern? I advise you to remember your place, soldier.
And to remember that Valenbois protects itself. If you continue like this, I might just send my men to ‘escort’ you out of the village… and I doubt you’d appreciate their method.”
A tense silence fell. The soldiers exchanged hesitant glances. Lysiane’s confidence, the support of the villagers who were beginning to gather behind her, and perhaps an intuition of her true influence, made them waver.
The soldier sheathed his sword with a grunt. “Alright, farm woman. But we’ll keep an eye on this stranger. If he causes any trouble…”
“He won’t cause any trouble,” Lysiane replied, her gaze not leaving the soldiers. “Now, I suggest you finish your ales and leave our village. Your presence is not wanted.”
The soldiers, visibly annoyed, quickly drank their beers under the cold gaze of Lysiane and the villagers, then left the tavern without a word. Silence returned, slowly broken by sighs of relief and grateful murmurs.
Borin approached Lysiane, wiping his brow with a trembling hand. “Lysiane, I… I don’t know how to thank you. They could have…”
Lysiane waved her hand dismissively. “No worries, Borin. Those young pups from Veridia sometimes forget there’s a world beyond their walls. This man looked lost, not dangerous.” She turned to Ragnar, her piercing blue eyes scrutinizing him carefully. “Are you alright?”
Ragnar nodded, still shaken by the altercation. “Yes… thank you. Thank you very much.” He felt the weight of his own ignorance and vulnerability in this new world. Without this woman’s intervention, things could have gone very badly.
Lysiane offered him a slight smile. “My name is Lysiane Valdios. I manage the farm just outside the village. If you need any help or information… don’t hesitate.” Her insistent gaze seemed to want to pierce the mystery surrounding Ragnar.
Before he could answer, she turned to Borin. “Borin, make sure he has everything he needs. And the next time those royal guards show their faces here, let me know.”
Then, with a final enigmatic look at Ragnar, she left the tavern, leaving behind a respectful silence and a nagging question in the stranger’s mind. Who was this woman, and why had she risked confronting the royal guard to defend him?
