Is it wrong to dream of being a hero in a world of magic and mystery?
You know, a sprawling realm where ancient forests whisper secrets, towering castles pierce the sky, and hidden crypts pulse with forgotten power? A place where boys like me—small, scrappy, and full of fire—can rise from nothing to become legends?
**Expectation:**
I'd leave my little village of Thornwick behind, a satchel slung over my shoulder and a grin on my face. I'd join a band of adventurers—maybe a grizzled swordsman, a witty rogue, and a mage with a sharp tongue—seeking fame, fortune, and a bit of mischief. We'd register with the local guild, a dusty hall filled with maps and tales, and set off into the wilds the very next day.
There'd be battles, of course—clashing steel against snarling beasts, my hands glowing with the healing magic I'd discovered last year at eleven. I'd save a beautiful girl from jaws of death, her eyes wide with awe as I stood over the smoking ruins of a monster I'd felled. She'd blush, her voice trembling with gratitude, and something would spark between us—something thrilling, forbidden, maybe a little naughty.
Then there'd be nights at the tavern, boasting to wide-eyed barmaids about the day's heroics, my laughter mingling with the clink of mugs. I'd rescue an elven healer from a leering brute, her delicate fingers brushing mine in thanks. Or I'd spar with a fierce beastkin warrior, her tail flicking as she teased me into joining her crew. Sometimes I'd flirt too much, stirring jealousy among my admirers—drama, yes, but the fun kind.
Sometimes this, sometimes that, sometimes…
I'd grow into the hero of the tales my mother used to tell—tall, strong, with a heart big enough to save the world. I'd meet girls of every kind—elves with silver hair, dwarves with fiery spirits, maybe even a mysterious sorceress with a smirk that promised trouble. Isn't it natural for a boy of twelve to dream of glory and a little romance? To want a life bursting with magic and wonder?
Is it wrong to chase those dreams in a world where power sleeps in every shadow—no, to build a legend out of them?
I was so, so wrong.
"Rattle… clank…"
The sound of chains drags me back to reality, a cold, damp reality that smells of mold and despair. No grand forests or gleaming castles here—just a basement, its stone walls slick with moisture, its air thick with the weight of my own stupidity. I'm Ren Ash, twelve years old, and instead of a sword, I've got shackles. Instead of a party of adventurers, I've got *her*.
Anya Valentine. The lord's daughter. Beautiful, yes—golden hair like sunlight, violet eyes that pierce right through you—but twisted in a way I never saw coming. She didn't swoop in to thank me for saving her. No, she saw me in the village square, heard whispers of my healing gift, and decided I was hers. Not a partner, not a friend—a possession.
I'd dreamed of protecting a girl from monsters, but now I'm the one trapped, chained in her family's estate while she gazes at me like I'm some prize to be polished and kept. My hands, the ones that glowed with golden light to heal a girl's broken arm, now ache against iron. My dreams of adventure? Crushed under the weight of her obsession.
"Ren, my sweet," her voice echoes in my memory, soft and sickeningly sweet as she knelt before me today, offering food I refused. "I love you. You'll see that soon."
Love? This isn't love—it's a nightmare spun from a fantasy I was too naive to question. I thought magic would lift me up, make me a hero. Instead, it's why I'm here, a boy with a power too rare to stay free.
The torch flickers, casting shadows that twist like the beasts I'd imagined slaying. My parents—Garrick and Elara—are out there, probably searching, their faces haunted by my absence. I was an idiot to think I could wander too far from home, chasing tales of glory without a plan. Now I'm caught, not by a dragon or a minotaur, but by a girl whose beauty hides a cage.
Is it wrong to dream of being a hero in a world of magic? Maybe not. But dreaming without seeing the shadows—*that* was my mistake.
The chains clink as I shift, my green eyes narrowing in the dim light. I'm not dead yet. Not broken. My healing magic hums faintly in my palms, a spark of defiance Anya can't snuff out. I'll escape this—somehow, someway—and when I do, I'll turn this nightmare into a legend of my own.
But for now, I'm just a boy in chains, learning the hard way that even in a world of fantasy, heroes don't start as heroes. They start as prey.
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