Back in Toleem, Arthus sat in the quiet garden, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared into the sky above him. The clouds moved lazily, drifting across the pale blue, and for a fleeting moment the world seemed calm. Yet in his chest, calmness had long since vanished. The prophecy weighed heavily on his thoughts, and though he tried to quiet his mind, the shadow’s words echoed endlessly.
He thought of his father and his grandfather before him. Men who had lived predictable lives, steady and untroubled by such dark burdens. They had tilled the land, hunted in the forests, celebrated harvests, and died peacefully in their beds. Arthus had always believed his path would mirror theirs—simple, honest, and marked by the rhythms of family and land. But the prophecy had shattered that hope. His son was no ordinary child. The future had become uncertain, sharp-edged, and full of fear.
“Good morning, my friend. How did you sleep last night?”
Arthus turned his head and saw Ser Ritchard walking toward him, his steps firm yet casual. The nobleman carried the air of someone who had made peace with himself long ago. He sat down beside Arthus on the wooden bench, glancing up at the sky as well.
“I slept well,” Arthus answered, and a faint smile touched his lips. “Which surprises me, given everything that is happening.”
Ritchard chuckled softly. “Life is short, Arthus. Worrying about the future brings nothing but misery. My father taught me that before he passed. He told me to live fully, to take each day as it comes, and not to let fear steal the joy of the present.”
Arthus allowed the tension in his shoulders to ease, if only slightly. “Wise words from a wise man,” he admitted. “But I cannot help wondering what lies ahead. I feel hopeless, Ritchard. Waiting has never been my strength, and now all I seem to do is wait.”
Ser Ritchard studied his friend for a moment before rising to his feet. His tone grew more purposeful. “Then perhaps it is time I showed you something.”
He gestured, and two horses were brought from the stables by a servant. Their coats gleamed in the morning light, one chestnut brown, the other a mottled gray.
Arthus stood, confused. “Where are we going?”
“You will see soon enough,” Ritchard replied, his voice holding a trace of mystery.
They mounted their horses and rode together. First through the manicured gardens of the castle, where flowers grew in neat rows and fountains trickled softly, then beyond, into the woods. The path twisted through tall trees, the leaves whispering overhead as sunlight filtered down in broken patches. For a time, neither man spoke, the rhythm of the horses’ hooves filling the silence.
After several miles, Ritchard pulled on his reins and nodded toward a clearing ahead. “Here.”
Arthus followed his gaze, and his eyes widened. Beyond the trees stood a house, small but beautiful, set beside a clear creek that sparkled in the sunlight. Built of the same sturdy brownstone as Ritchard’s castle, it bore a red roof that caught the light and glowed warmly. Three rooms formed its structure—one furnished as an office with a desk and shelves, another as a bedroom, and the last as a guest chamber. Smoke drifted lazily from its chimney, suggesting it was ready, waiting for someone to call it home.
Ser Ritchard dismounted, walking forward with an expression of quiet pride. “You should move here, my friend,” he said firmly. “If Marvin is the chosen child, then he must be close to me. I will ensure he learns all he needs before facing the witches of the west. From this day on, I will be his godfather. No one will question his place or his worth. He will have easier access to everything that can prepare him for the trials to come.”
Arthus stared, stunned into silence. He could hardly comprehend the generosity of what was being offered. His mind raced, torn between gratitude and fear.
Ritchard broke the silence. “What do you think, Arthus?”
“I… I do not know what to say,” Arthus managed at last. “But what of my land? It has been in my family for hundreds of years. I cannot abandon it.”
Ritchard met his gaze steadily. “Do not worry. We will hire someone trustworthy to tend your land. You will not lose it. But Lady Floria and I have spoken of this for days now, and we believe it is the only way to prepare for what is coming. Your son’s future is greater than your farm, greater than either of us.”
Arthus’s throat tightened. He wanted to protest, to hold on to the life he had known, yet he could not deny the truth. “I must ask Elena,” he said quietly. “But thank you, Ser Ritchard. You honor me with your generosity.”
Ritchard placed a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Of course. But we do not have much time. We must act soon.”
Arthus nodded slowly. “Then no time should be wasted. I will return to Elena at once and speak to her. We will make the necessary preparations.”
“Do not thank me, Arthus,” Ritchard said, his tone heavy with purpose. “This is not about friendship alone. It is about the future of our country. I would give all I have for this land and its people.”
With that, Arthus borrowed a horse from Ritchard and began the long ride back to Toleem.
He rode through the night, the moonlight guiding his way across fields and narrow roads. His thoughts churned with every hoofbeat. The idea of leaving his ancestral land pained him, yet he felt hope as well—hope that Marvin might truly be protected, guided, and given a chance to triumph.
At last, before the sun rose, he reached his village. Sliding from the saddle, his legs heavy with exhaustion, he stumbled into his home. “Elena! Elena, where are you?” he called, his voice hoarse.
“Here,” came her gentle reply. He followed the sound to the bedroom, where she sat rocking Marvin in his cradle. The boy’s tiny hands reached up, his cries soft and restless. Elena looked up at her husband, her expression calm, as though she had expected him.
Arthus wasted no time. He told her everything—Ritchard’s words, the house by the creek, the offer to be Marvin’s godfather, the promise of protection and preparation.
Elena listened quietly, and when he finished, she simply nodded. “I am not surprised,” she said. “Ritchard already sent an envoy with news of his plan. I agreed. This is no longer about us, Arthus. It is about Marvin, and about the world he will inherit. We must do whatever it takes to see him triumph.”
Arthus exhaled, his chest loosening as though a great weight had lifted. He thanked the gods for the generosity of his friend and the strength of his wife.