Much to their dismay, the Chosen One they called forth wasn't the gleaming knight they'd pictured in their long, dusty dreams. No radiant armor, no hopeful gaze fixed on some far-off horizon, no noble heart swelling with courage.
No, Henry Savoy wasn't that.
He wasn't that at all.
He was loud, brash, a man whose words hit like fists of Iron Mike, whose laugh was more like a shout. And there he was, cussing up a storm, half the words they didn't even recognize, fighting with them like it was his birthright. It wasn't long before the monks, or whatever they were—hooded and quiet in their strange silence—had enough of it.
There was no reasoning with this guy.
So the youngest of them, hardly out of boyhood, muttered some spell, and ropes—ropes that weren't just ropes, you see, but threads of shimmering magic—bound him tight.
Henry stood frozen, mouth sealed tight by some mystical nonsense, like they'd slapped a gag on his soul itself.
Not one more insult, not even a single curse word could crawl out of his lips, bound up tight as he was, tossed into the back of their wagon like some piece of unwanted baggage. They traveled in silence, the wheels groaning under the weight of it all, the trees sliding past in a blur of green and nightblack.
It felt like hours before anyone dared speak.
"Is he really the One?" came the whisper, soft like a secret, from the youngest of the robed men, his voice barely a ripple in the thick air.
"I'm certain. The invocation worked. The Summoners told us herself," replied the older man, the leader, at least in Henry's eyes. Seemed like the kind of guy who relished control, all calm authority, a steady hand on the reins.
"I don't know, Father... He seems..."
"Seems what, son?" The older man's voice was sharp, slicing through the quiet like a knife.
"Trouble, Father. He seems like trouble."
Henry's lips twitched at that.
Damn right, he thought, trying with all his might to wrench some words out, any words, something, anything. All he managed was a mumble, a garbled sound that wasn't even close to coherent.
They all looked at him, curious, but only the young one had a look of pure disgust painted across his face.
"Remove the patch from his mouth," the old man commanded.
"But, Father!" the young monk shot back, his voice a knot of protest.
"You forget yourself, boy. Do as I say."
A pause.
Reluctance dripped from the young monk's movements as he clasped his hands together, muttering under his breath, "Ourus Doman."
The patch across Henry's mouth shimmered, glowing for a second before bursting into tiny shards of light that faded into the air.
Henry wasted no time.
"YOU LITTLE SHIT! You think I don't look the part? Have you seen yourself? You look like you've been dragged through the filth behind a pig cart! And your clothes—what, haven't washed them since last year? And the smell! Good God, you stink like death rolled in piss and shit!"
The young monk turned pale, his face stiff with shock and shame, but Henry wasn't done. "You're talking about trouble? You're—"
"Enough!" barked the old man, his palm snapping out toward Henry, and suddenly the air itself seemed to thicken, heavy and electric. The atmosphere in the wagon shifted, charged with a power that squeezed Henry's throat tight. His voice was ripped from him mid-sentence, his mouth still moving, but nothing came out. That old geezer had some quick tricks up his sleeve.
The old monk's stern eyes drilled into Henry's. "You will learn respect, Chosen One, or you will learn silence."
Henry glared back, his jaw clenched, but there was no point fighting. His voice was gone again, locked away somewhere he couldn't reach, though the anger burned just as hot. Fine, he thought. Let them play their games. He was good at waiting.
The young monk still looked rattled, his face beaded with sweat, his voice trembling as he muttered, "Father, perhaps we should reconsider. He's no hero. He's not the one for the prophecy. There's still time—"
"No," the old man cut him off, voice hard as stone. "The divine will is clear. The Ilyras has spoken. This man, whether he believes it or not, is the Chosen One. His path will lead us to salvation, crooked as it may be. And he will follow it."
Henry snorted silently, eyebrows raised. Salvation? Him? These poor fools had picked the wrong guy, that was for sure. If they thought he was gonna lead them anywhere but straight into chaos, they were delusional. They must've been sipping something strong in that temple of theirs. Stronger than his drinks, he thought.
The wagon rattled on, deeper into the forest, and Henry's mind whirled like a storm. He couldn't fight them, not now, but he'd find a way out. He always did. Sure, he wasn't some "Chosen One," but surviving?
That was his thing.
Hell, he'd fought tooth and nail to make the Walking Stick the best damn bar in the city back home. This wasn't any different. It was just another kind of fight.
"We'll reach Oberden by dawn," the old man said, turning his gaze back to the road ahead. "Her Holiness will be waiting. She will judge him."
Henry settled back against the wagon's wooden boards, silent but plotting, his mind a relentless, grinding machine. Yeah, let whoever judge him. He'd make damn sure they never forgot their criticisms.
And soon, the dawn crept in like a slow-burning cigarette, casting the first light over the road ahead, and Henry hadn't slept a wink. His mind was too full, too restless, buzzing with questions that had no answers, like a bad hangover that wouldn't let up.
He sat there, bound still, staring up at the sky beyond the canvas roof of the wagon, thinking, what the hell kind of joke was this?
Maybe he'd passed out back in the bar, maybe this was some twisted fever dream. Or, hell, maybe Wally the Weirdo had been right all along with his crazy-ass conspiracy theories.
Wally used to go on and on about hidden worlds and secret realms, about how everything's connected, like invisible threads tying it all together.
"There's a nugget of truth in every lie," Wally would say, his eyes wide like he was always on the edge of some great cosmic revelation.
Henry used to laugh it off, dismiss it as drunken nonsense, but now?
Now, trapped in this strange, silent cart with monks muttering nonsense about things he'd never heard of, casting magic like some Harry Potter novel, Henry couldn't help but wonder.
Maybe the guy had been onto something.
But mostly, his mind kept circling back to one question, a big, glaring neon sign in his head: How the fuck do I get back home?
That's the thing that really got him, gnawing at his brain like a bad itch. He wasn't a hero, wasn't anyone's Chosen One, and he wasn't cut out for saving worlds. He was a bartender, for God's sake. A damn good one, sure, but a bartender all the same. His life was back in the Walking Stick, serving drinks to regulars and handling drunks with too much mouth and not enough money. This world—whatever it was—wasn't his. It wasn't even real, as far as he was concerned.
A bad trip.
A dream.
A dream within a dream.
Something.
But until he figured out how to get back, he'd play along.
The monks started to move, their silent rituals breaking as they peeled away the white cloth covering the wagon cart. The sun spilled in, warm and too bright for his tired eyes. Henry squinted, sitting up a little, and what he saw made him pause. Fields stretched out in every direction, endless waves of wheat and crops bending gently in the breeze. Farms dotted the landscape, vineyards too. That caught his attention. At least there was wine in this world.
That's a start, he thought.
Off in the distance, at the horizon's edge, the walls of a city rose, towering and bright, shining gold and white in the morning light. They were massive, impossibly so, the kind of grand structure that made your stomach drop just looking at it. Symmetrical, mechanical almost, like it had been crafted by some perfect, inhuman hand.
Henry knew a thing or two about craftsmanship—he'd spent enough years surrounded by the art of distilling, by the delicate process of turning fruits and vegetables into liquid gold. And this?
This place had none of that soul.
It was grand, sure, but cold. Sterile.
It wasn't alive in the way he knew how.
Still, as they got closer, those walls grew, towering higher and higher until Henry felt like he was being swallowed up by them, like an ant staring up at a mountain. The dread hit him in a way he hadn't expected.
This isn't home.
That thought hung in his chest, heavy and sharp. He felt more alien here than ever before. More out of place. He could almost taste that cold pint he'd left behind, the one he'd never get to drink—and, unfortunately, the one that he'd never get to pour himself.
That 3:00 A.M. ale.
"We're here," came the young monk's voice, breaking Henry out of his thoughts. The kid leaned over the edge of the cart, a smile on his face like he was pleased to see the city. That smile pissed Henry off. There was something too smug about it, too satisfied, like the kid was in on a joke Henry wasn't part of.
"Open the gates!" the monk called out.
Guards lined the walls, marching toward a small door beside the massive gates. The whole thing was so absurdly large, you had to tilt your head all the way back just to take it in. Henry watched as the guards banged on that little door, calling out to whoever was on the other side. There was a shout, a distant reply, and then the whole wall groaned.
Hinges creaked, bolts rattled, like an old man's bones popping as he stood.
The gates swung open slowly, reluctantly, revealing Oberden.