City Of Kandor
"Run, kid! Don’t look back, just run!"
The woman’s voice was sharp with fear, cutting through the clatter of their footsteps on the cobblestones. She was young, maybe in her twenties, her face pale under the flickering alley torchlight.
The boy ahead of her, sixteen or seventeen, threw a frantic glance over his shoulder. "Who are they? What did I do? You still haven’t told me anything!"
"Survive first, questions later!" she snapped, shoving him forward as they rounded a corner into a darker, narrower lane. The sounds of pursuit—heavy boots, snarling voices—echoed not far behind. "This isn’t a game! Move!"
"This is bullshit!" the boy yelled suddenly, skidding to a halt. He planted his feet and turned, his hands coming up in clumsy fists. "I’m done running! Let them come!"
"You idiot!" the woman hissed. She didn’t have time to argue. With a quick, sharp whisper and a flick of her fingers, a sudden gust of wind wrapped around the boy, lifting him clean off his feet.
"Hey! What the—put me down!" he shouted, kicking uselessly in the air. "I said put me down! Now!"
She was already running again, one hand outstretched as if pulling him along on an invisible leash. "Will you shut up? Your yelling is a beacon! Do you want to die?"
He continued to struggle and curse, but the magical current carried him forward, bobbing alongside her as she sprinted through a maze of back alleys, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Finally, she ducked behind a crumbling wall, into the shadow of a rocky hillside. With another whispered word, the wind dropped him unceremoniously onto the dirt.
Before he could get a word out, she grabbed his arm, her grip like iron, and yanked him toward a barely-visible crack in the rockface. He stumbled after her into the cool, dark mouth of a cave.
"Get in, all the way, move!" she ordered, shoving him deeper into the darkness. She spun back to the entrance, raised both hands, and spoke a series of low, guttural syllables.
The air shimmered. Outside, the rough stone around the entrance seemed to blur, then solidify, morphing seamlessly into what looked like a solid, moss-covered boulder, completely hiding the opening.
Inside, the only light was a faint, greenish glow from a small crystal she pulled from her pocket. It illuminated their faces—his flushed with anger and confusion, hers tight with exhaustion and fear.
They stood in silence for a moment, listening. Only the sound of their own breathing, and the distant, fading shouts of their pursuers.
The boy rounded on her, his voice a furious whisper. "Okay. We’re ’surviving.’ Now talk. Who are you? Who were they? And what the hell is going on?"
She studied the boy in the dim light. Her frown deepened, a mix of disbelief and crushing disappointment. "You’re supposed to be the one? The one the stars foretold? Who’s meant to save us all from the Dark Lord?" She let out a short, humorless laugh. "You’re loud. You’re immature. I have no idea if you can channel a drop of magic, or even hold a sword without cutting your own foot off. And we’re supposed to put the fate of the world on your shoulders?"
"Lady, I don’t have a clue what you’re babbling about!" He shot back, his own temper flaring. "All I know is I was on my way home, and then you show up with a bunch of thugs on your tail, snatch me, and start talking crazy! The rebels are fighting the Dark Lord. It’s got nothing to do with me. And frankly, I don’t care."
"Of course it doesn’t matter to you," Morgana snapped, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "That’s the whole problem. Don’t you understand? People died. Good people. Warriors, scouts, friends of mine... they sacrificed themselves, created diversions, laid down their lives in the last two days just so I could make it to your village, just so I could find you and get you out before his scouts did. So the least you can do is shut up and listen to why!"
She took a step closer, the green glow of the crystal casting sharp shadows on her face. "My name is Morgana. I am the High Priestess of the Silver Grove. And you... according to a prophecy older than the kingdom itself... are Merlin."
Merlin just stared at her. The name meant nothing to him.
Morgana saw his blank look and pressed on, her tone shifting from anger to a weary, solemn gravity. "Long ago, before the Dark Lord rose, before the kingdoms fractured, the first seers looked to the heavens. They spoke of a time of absolute shadow, when a tyrant would rise with power stolen from forbidden places, a blight that would choke the land and sky."
She paused, making sure he was listening. "The prophecy said that in that darkest hour, a savior would come. Not from the noble lines, not from the armies of men. But from beyond. A child blessed by the wandering stars. He would descend from the sky in a shower of light, a foundling with no past, marked by a sigil hidden on his skin. He would possess a connection to magic unlike any before him—not just the ability to cast, but to command it, to speak its true name. His power would be boundless, but his heart would be the key. Only a spirit untainted by the world’s cynicism, a will that chose compassion over conquest, could wield such strength without being consumed by it."
She looked him up and down again, the doubt clear in her eyes. "He would be the Catalyst. The one who doesn’t just fight the Dark Lord, but who unravels the very source of his power. He would heal the wounds in the world the Dark Lord has torn open. The prophecy ends with a single line: ’And the star-born son shall decide not the fate of the Dark Lord, but the fate of magic itself.’"
The cave was silent after her words faded. The weight of the ancient tale hung in the damp air.
Mervin blinked. Then he snorted. It was an undignified, disbelieving sound.
"Are you... are you actually serious?" he said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "A ’shower of light’? I fell out of a damn tree when I was seven and broke my arm. My ’sigil’ is a birthmark that looks like a squashed potato. I can barely light a candle with a spell my gran taught me, and half the time it sets my sleeve on fire. You’ve got the wrong guy, Morgana. Seriously. You’ve risked all these lives for a farmer’s kid who’s late for supper."