When the blinding light faded, Sam found themselves standing in the middle of an empty field. The tavern, the stranger, the smell of cheap ale—everything was gone. Instead, there was grass stretching out in every direction, swaying gently under a dull gray sky. The box was still in their hands, glowing faintly, as if mocking them for touching it.
"What the hell just happened?" Sam muttered, turning in a slow circle. "Did I get teleported? Am I dead? Is this… some kind of cosmic joke?"
As if in answer, the box pulsed in their hands, and a voice echoed in the air around them. It wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of authority that demanded attention.
"Samuel Whitlock, you have been chosen as the successor to fulfill the Prophecy of Ashen Light."
Sam froze. "Oh, no. Nope. Not doing this. You've got the wrong person."
"The chosen one has fallen. You are their appointed companion, and as such, you are bound to their destiny."
The words slammed into Sam like a punch to the gut. They shook their head, gripping the box tighter. "There's got to be a mistake. I'm not chosen for anything. I'm just a sidekick, alright? A glorified pack mule with a decent sense of direction."
The voice ignored their protest. "Do you accept the mantle of the chosen?"
"What happens if I don't?"
"The Prophecy will fail. Darkness will consume the world. The ashes of your failure will scatter across eternity."
Sam frowned. "That sounds bad, sure, but let's be honest. It sounds bad no matter who takes the mantle. Why don't we just admit the Prophecy was a terrible plan and call it a day?"
The voice paused, as if it hadn't anticipated this line of reasoning. Finally, it said, "The Prophecy cannot be abandoned. It is written into the fabric of existence."
"Yeah, well, existence needs better writers," Sam muttered.
Before they could argue further, the box pulsed again, and the air shimmered. A figure materialized in front of them, glowing faintly with a golden aura. Sam's heart twisted as they recognized the face. It was the chosen one—or at least, a ghostly imitation of them.
"Sam," the apparition said, their voice softer than it had ever been in life. "It's good to see you."
Sam's throat tightened. "You've got some nerve, showing up like this."
"I didn't have a choice," the apparition said. "The Prophecy bound me to this role, even in death."
"Great," Sam said bitterly. "So now I get to be haunted by you and save the world. Lucky me."
The chosen one—or whatever this thing was—didn't flinch. They simply folded their arms, looking far too composed for someone who had died so recently. "I know you're angry. But the world needs you now more than ever."
"Do you hear yourself?" Sam snapped. "I'm not a hero. I'm not even qualified to pretend to be a hero. You think just because some stupid box picked me, I can waltz into destiny and fix everything?"
The apparition stepped closer, their golden light dimming slightly. "I picked you, Sam. Not the box. Not the Prophecy. Me."
Sam blinked. "You… picked me?"
The chosen one nodded. "When we started this journey, I told you I couldn't do it alone. I meant it. You've always been the heart of this team, even if you didn't realize it."
Sam looked away, their chest tightening. "Yeah, well, your team's down to one member now. And last I checked, hearts aren't great at slaying dragons."
"You won't be alone," the chosen one said. "There are others who can help you."
"Oh, wonderful," Sam said with a sarcastic grin. "More dead people?"
The apparition actually smiled. "No. Living ones. But they're not going to come to you. You'll have to find them."
"Great. A scavenger hunt for misfits," Sam muttered, rubbing their temples. "This just keeps getting better."
Before they could complain further, the ground beneath them rumbled. Sam stumbled, clutching the box as the grass around them began to wither. Black cracks spread through the earth like veins, and the sky darkened, filling with swirling clouds.
"What's happening?" Sam yelled, their voice barely audible over the growing roar.
"The darkness awakens," the voice from the box intoned. "You must act swiftly, or all will be lost."
"Yeah, no pressure!" Sam shouted back.
The apparition's glow brightened, cutting through the encroaching shadows. "Sam, listen to me. Take the box to the northern hills. There's an old temple there—"
"Of course there's a temple," Sam muttered. "There's always a temple."
"Inside, you'll find the first piece of what you'll need to fight the darkness," the apparition continued, ignoring the interruption. "But you'll have to move quickly. The enemy already knows you've been chosen."
Sam's stomach dropped. "The enemy? You mean the one that killed you?"
The chosen one's expression darkened. "Yes. And they won't stop until the Prophecy is destroyed."
The cracks in the ground widened, and the shadows surged forward. Sam felt the air grow cold, their breath coming in shallow gasps. The apparition's light flickered as the darkness closed in.
"I can't do this," Sam whispered. "I'm not ready."
"No one ever is," the chosen one said softly. "But I believe in you."
The light flared one last time, and the apparition dissolved into golden sparks. Sam barely had time to process the loss before the ground beneath them gave way. With a scream, they tumbled into the abyss, clutching the box like a lifeline.
When they finally hit solid ground, the world around them was pitch black. The box in their hands flickered, its glow dim but steady. Sam groaned, sitting up and brushing dirt off their clothes.
"Well," they muttered, "that could've gone worse."
The box pulsed in response, and Sam sighed. "Guess it's time to find this stupid temple."
They stood, squinting into the darkness. For the first time, they felt the weight of what lay ahead—not just the danger, but the responsibility. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. But it was theirs now.
"Plan B for destiny," Sam said under their breath. "Let's see how this goes."
With that, they took their first step into the unknown.