The night grew long and heavy. Arthus lay awake, his body resting but his mind refusing to give him peace. Tomorrow he would leave the land that had been in his family for generations, the soil his father and grandfather had tilled with their hands, the house built with sweat and sacrifice. The walls that had sheltered him as a child would no longer be his to protect.
Beside him, Elena and little Marvin slept soundly. He turned to his side and watched them, his chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. Marvin’s tiny hands twitched against the blanket, his soft cries fading as Elena hummed in her sleep, still half-tuned to her son’s needs. Arthus’s heart swelled with fear and wonder. Fear that he might fail them. Wonder what their future holds. The prophecy, the shadow, Ser Ritchard’s solemn vow — all of it weighed on him like stones pressing into his chest.
Unable to remain still, Arthus slipped quietly from the bed. He stepped outside into the cool night air and lowered himself onto the wooden bench by the front door. The stars shimmered above, cold and watchful, as if they too bore witness to the turning of his fate. He clasped his calloused hands together and whispered to the night, “How can I protect them from what I do not even understand?”
“Arthus.”
The voice startled him. He turned to see a familiar figure emerging from the dark — Artien, his oldest friend.
“Artien, my friend,” Arthus said, standing at once. He embraced him tightly. “Welcome.”
“So it is true,” Artien said quietly. “You are leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Arthus admitted, his voice low. “This matter has grown far beyond me. Ser Ritchard has offered us safety, guidance, and hope for Marvin. I cannot turn away from it. He will help my son prepare for whatever fate has planned for him.”
Artien looked long into his friend’s weary eyes. “I know this burden is greater than any man should bear,” he said softly. “But perhaps that is why the God of Light chose you to carry it. Not because it is easy, but because you are worthy of the chosen one’s father. Do not fret, Arthus. I will watch over your land as if it were my own. Whatever fate brings, we will overcome it together.”
Arthus’s eyes glistened with gratitude. “Thank you, Artien. It eases my heart to know the land is in your care. I will tell Ser Ritchard that you will be the one to tend it. He will ensure you have enough support to manage both yours and mine.”
Artien placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Do not worry, my friend. I am hopeful for the future.”
They stood for a long moment in silence, the weight of years of friendship binding them closer. Finally, Arthus bid him farewell and returned inside. He slipped beneath the covers again, closing his eyes, though sleep did not come quickly.
The morning light was pale when Ser Ritchard’s carriage rolled into the village. His banners, bearing the crest of his house, fluttered in the wind.
“Arthus, are you ready?” Ser Ritchard called as he stepped down.
“Yes, my lord,” Arthus said, stepping out from his house. But as he did, he froze. Before him, gathered in front of his farm, was a crowd of villagers. Men, women, and children filled the road, their voices lifted in holy songs. Some knelt in the dirt with flowers clutched to their chests, others raised their hands in prayer.
The sound struck Arthus like a blow. His eyes filled with tears. He had expected perhaps a few friends to see him off, but this — this was his entire village, united not for him, but for his son.
“Thank you, my friends,” Arthus said, his voice breaking. He raised his hands to quiet them, but they only grew louder. “I leave my farm in your hands. When I return, it will be with Marvin — with hope that endures, and with the dragon’s head carried by my son, for he is the one who will save us all!”
The villagers erupted into cheers. Some wept openly, others shouted Marvin’s name. The faith of the people poured over him like a tide, overwhelming and humbling.
As the carriage doors opened, Elena appeared with Marvin in her arms. She looked calm, a gentle smile on her lips as though the songs were a blessing. Arthus climbed in beside her, but not before casting one last look at his village. The houses, the fields, the old oak tree — each grew smaller as the carriage rolled away. He whispered to himself, “Now Marvin’s journey begins. My son will bring us glory like never before.”
Inside the carriage, Arthus reached for Elena’s hand. She turned to him with tenderness.
“I am proud of you, my love,” she said softly. “I know how much this farm meant to you. Leaving it was not easy. But you did it for Marvin, for our son. That is what matters.”
Arthus smiled faintly, though his throat was tight. He said nothing, but the warmth of her hand in his own steadied him.
The journey back to Ser Ritchard’s estate was smoother than Arthus expected. The carriages were swift and comfortable, the guards vigilant. The family rode mostly in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, anticipation heavy in the air.
When they arrived, Ser Ritchard dismounted first and turned to Arthus. “Here are the keys to your new home. From this day forward, you and your family are my honored guests. You need not worry about anything.”
Arthus bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord.”
Far away, in the capital of Farmonia, the throne room of King Bencort Santorian stood in solemn majesty. The walls were lined with banners of the Santorian line, their colors glowing in the torchlight. The king himself sat upon a throne of carved stone, his brow furrowed as he listened to the words of his minister, Braco.
“So you mean to tell me,” Bencort said slowly, his voice sharp, “that a chosen child was born in my land, and I am only hearing of it now?”
Braco fell to his knees, his voice trembling. “Forgive me, my lord. I feared it was yet another rumor of the peasants. I wanted to be certain before bringing it to you.”
“And where is this child now?” the king demanded, his irritation thick.
“With Ser Ritchard, my lord — the ruler of Toleem village,” Braco answered quickly.
The king leaned back, his eyes narrowing. “And the rumors of Alexious? That he seeks alliance with the witches?”
“Yes, my lord,” Braco said. “Alexious left Lyria this very morning with twenty of his men. They ride west.”
Bencort’s hand clenched the armrest of his throne. His brows furrowed deeper. “We cannot ignore this. The balance of Farmonia may be shifting. Enforce the borders. Send scouts to every edge of the kingdom. Recruit as many soldiers as can be mustered. If prophecy holds truth, we have little time to prepare.”
He rose from the throne, his cloak trailing behind him. “Summon my carriage. I ride to Toleem at once. I will see this so-called chosen child with my own eyes.”
Braco bowed low, though fear lingered in his eyes. The throne room grew silent once more, the weight of destiny pressing down on Farmonia.