The tavern was unusually quiet. Not the serene kind of quiet where travelers whispered over mugs of ale, but the tense, unnatural silence of people afraid to speak too loudly. Outside, the winds howled, carrying the faint scent of ash and smoke. Somewhere beyond the hills, the world was falling apart, but in this little pocket of reality, everyone was holding their breath.
Sam leaned against the bar, idly spinning an empty tankard. The barkeep had long since retreated to the kitchen, leaving Sam alone with their thoughts. Thoughts they would've much preferred to ignore.
"Chosen one," Sam muttered under their breath, letting the tankard wobble to a stop. "More like chosen idiot."
The words tasted bitter. Not because they weren't true, but because they carried the weight of something heavier—grief, guilt, and maybe just a pinch of resentment.
They'd tried to stop them. Tried to convince their best friend, their partner-in-destiny, that the ominous cave glowing with unearthly light was not the place to charge in sword-first. But no. The chosen one had smiled, that maddeningly confident smile they always wore, and said, "It's what heroes do."
And now, that smile was gone forever.
Sam closed their eyes, but the memories wouldn't fade. The fight. The flash of steel. The sudden, gut-wrenching silence when the chosen one fell. They hadn't even gone out in some glorious blaze of heroism. No last words, no triumphant sacrifice. Just one misstep, one cruel twist of fate, and it was over.
A crash behind the bar startled them out of their thoughts. Sam turned to see the barkeep fumbling with a stack of plates, their hands shaking. No one in the tavern could relax anymore. Not with the news spreading like wildfire: the chosen one was dead, and the dark forces gathering beyond the mountains were stronger than ever.
A chill ran down Sam's spine. They drained the last drops of their drink and pushed the tankard aside, leaning their forehead against the cool surface of the counter. They'd spent the last few days running from that truth, burying themselves in the comfort of dimly lit rooms and cheap ale. But the world wasn't going to wait for them to figure things out.
The door creaked open, and the wind carried a gust of rain into the room. A figure stepped inside, their cloak dripping water onto the floor. The tavern's patrons—what few were still there—fell silent, watching as the stranger moved with purpose. Their boots clicked against the wooden planks until they stopped directly in front of Sam.
"You're Sam, right?" The voice was low and rough, carrying the kind of authority that demanded attention.
Sam didn't bother looking up. "Depends who's asking."
The stranger reached into their cloak, and for a brief moment, Sam tensed. But instead of a weapon, the stranger pulled out a small, ornate box. It was no larger than a loaf of bread, but it pulsed faintly, as if alive. They placed it on the counter between them.
"You'll want to see this."
Sam squinted at the box. "I'll want to leave," they said, shoving it back toward the stranger. "I've had my fill of cursed artifacts, thanks."
The stranger didn't flinch. "This isn't for you to decide. It was meant for the chosen one, but since they're… indisposed, you're the next best thing."
Sam sat up, narrowing their eyes. "Next best thing? Do I look like someone who saves kingdoms?"
"No," the stranger said bluntly. "You look like someone who drinks too much and avoids responsibility. But unfortunately for both of us, the prophecy doesn't care."
Sam snorted. "Great. So now I'm the backup plan? Sounds about right."
The stranger leaned closer, their voice dropping to a whisper. "This isn't a joke. The artifact chose you. Not me. Not anyone else. You."
Sam stared at the box, heart pounding. It was glowing faintly now, casting soft, golden light across the bar. The kind of glow that seemed to whisper promises of greatness and danger in equal measure.
"You can't be serious," Sam muttered.
"I don't have time to convince you," the stranger said, standing back to their full height. "The world is crumbling as we speak. If you walk away, you're leaving it to burn."
Sam laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "The world didn't seem to care when they fell. Why should I?"
The stranger's gaze softened, but their tone remained firm. "Because you were there. You saw what they couldn't. And maybe, just maybe, you'll do what they never had the chance to."
Sam didn't reply. The glow of the artifact seemed to pulse in time with their heartbeat, tugging at something deep within. A spark of curiosity. Or maybe, a spark of something more dangerous—hope.
"I'm telling you, you've got the wrong person," Sam said, though their voice lacked conviction.
The stranger sighed. "Maybe. But we're out of options. If you won't do it, who will?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswerable. Sam stared at the box, knowing full well that opening it would change everything. That it would drag them into a world of prophecies and perils they had no business being part of.
But wasn't that always how these things went?
With a resigned sigh, Sam reached for the box. The moment their fingers touched it, the glow intensified, flooding the room with light. The tavern disappeared, replaced by an endless expanse of white.
And just like that, Sam's ordinary life was over.