Arthus stood in the doorway of his home, trying to steady the tension building in his chest as pride and fear pulled at him in equal measure while the tall figure approached.
“Welcome, Ser Ritchard,” Arthus said, bowing his head slightly. “It is an honor to host you here, and I thank you for coming to celebrate the birth of my son.”
Ser Ritchard Nefliamus, a noble of the region and protector of the surrounding villages, stepped forward with the calm confidence of someone at ease wherever he stood. His boots pressed lightly against the dirt path, and his dark blue cloak, threaded with silver embroidery, shifted with the breeze as he moved through the cheerful noise of the village with quiet certainty.
He smiled, the expression polite yet genuine, softening the sharper edges of his face, and before Arthus could fully straighten, Ritchard placed a hand on his shoulder and drew him into a firm, familiar embrace.
“Congratulations, my friend,” Ritchard said, his voice deep and steady. “Of course I would come. You and this village are my family, and you will always be treated as such.”
Arthus swallowed, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Your kindness humbles me,” he said. “Thank you, Ser Ritchard.”
Ritchard leaned back slightly, studying him with clear blue eyes that carried warmth along with a sharper curiosity that lingered beneath it.
“Tell me, Arthus,” he said more quietly, lowering his voice as the celebration carried on around them. “What is this talk I keep hearing? The whole town is filled with whispers. They say your son is the chosen one.”
Arthus stiffened, the words settling heavily between them.
“I know the prophecy,” Ritchard continued. “A child born under a darkened sky, when the moon is swallowed by shadow. But there have been eclipses before, and children have been born beneath them. Why is your son different?”
He paused, then added with a faint note of apology, “Forgive me for pressing. You know how I am. Today, the village leaves me with more questions than answers.”
Arthus exhaled slowly, offering a tired, measured smile. “I will show you,” he said. “But first, walk with me.”
They stepped out into the center of the celebration, and the moment the door opened, sound and movement swept over them in a wave of music, laughter, and raised voices. The villagers had spared nothing. Bright cloth draped across tables, lanterns swayed above them, and children ran between the crowd with ribbons tied to their arms while musicians filled the air with the sound of fiddles, flutes, and pipes.
The scent of roasted meat drifted through the square as fire pits turned slowly beneath iron spits, bread broke apart in eager hands, and fruit spilled from clay bowls in bursts of color. Wine passed freely from one person to another, each pour followed by another cheer.
The elder had made certain the night would not be forgotten.
People from nearby villages filled the space, some carrying gifts of honey or cheese, others bringing nothing but their presence, drawn by the promise of something worth celebrating. The eclipse had unsettled them the night before, leaving a chill that lingered long after the sky cleared, yet a child had been born beneath that shadow, and the elder’s words had turned unease into something closer to hope.
Ritchard walked beside Arthus, watching everything with a measured gaze as the villagers greeted him with a mixture of respect and familiarity. His height set him above most, and his presence carried a quiet assurance that steadied those around him.
He was young, just beyond his early thirties, but his name held weight that reached further than his years. The Nefliamus family had guarded these lands since the Battle of Snow and Darkness, when their strength had secured victory at a cost that still lingered in old stories whispered by firelight. Those stories spoke of sacrifice and brutality in equal measure, though none of that darkness showed in the way the people welcomed him now.
“Your elder has outdone himself,” Ritchard said, nodding toward the feast. “This is the kind of gathering people will speak of for years.”
Arthus gave a small, tired smile. “The people needed it. After the eclipse, they were searching for something to hold on to.”
Ritchard watched a child stumble and rise again with the help of a friend, the moment softening his expression briefly before his attention returned to Arthus.
“Even so,” he said, lowering his voice again, “celebration does not answer the question. Do you believe your son is the child of prophecy?”
Arthus slowed, then stopped, the noise of the festival continuing around them while their conversation settled into a quieter space. He looked toward his home before answering.
“Come,” he said. “You will see for yourself.”
Ritchard’s expression shifted, something heavier taking hold as he gave a single nod.
They made their way back through the crowd until the door closed behind them, and the music faded into a distant hum. The house felt smaller, warmer, filled with soft lamplight that replaced the chaos outside with a steady quiet.
The floor creaked beneath their steps as they moved down the hall, and Arthus pushed open the door to the small room where Marvin slept.
The infant lay in his cradle, wrapped in cloth, his breathing slow and even.
Ritchard stepped closer, his movements careful, his attention settling fully on the child as the stillness in the room seemed to draw him in.
Arthus leaned over the cradle, lowering the blanket just enough to reveal Marvin’s shoulder. “Look,” he said quietly.
Ritchard bent closer.
At first, there was nothing. The skin was smooth, untouched, no different from any other child.
Then the light shifted slightly, and the mark revealed itself. A faint moon, part shadow and part silver, with shapes that curled around it like drifting clouds.
Ritchard’s breath caught as the color drained from his face, and his body gave way before he could steady himself. He fell to the floor, his gaze fixed on the child.
“So it is true,” he said, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “He is the one. He will slay the dragon. He will save us all.”
Arthus placed a hand on the cradle, his hold protective as pride and fear rose together once more. “His name is Marvin,” he said, his voice low. “And whatever he becomes, he will not face it alone.”
Ritchard pressed a hand to his chest, steadying himself as he looked up, his expression shifting into something resolute.
“Then let this day be remembered,” he said. “Not only for his birth, but for what begins here.”
He met Arthus’s gaze, conviction burning through the last of his hesitation.
“I swear to you, and to him, that I will stand as his shield and his sword. If he is meant to face what is coming, then he will not stand alone. My loyalty, my strength, my life—they belong to him.”
The room settled into quiet once more, broken only by Marvin’s steady breathing.
Outside, the village continued its celebration, but within the small room, something had already shifted. A promise had been made, one that carried weight beyond the moment, while a child slept unaware of the path already forming around him.