Arthur grunted, stirring awake. His eyes fluttered open. The green glow of the cave slowly came into focus. He was still inside, leaning against a cold rock. Sleep had hit him hard.
He reached for his chest, for the cool iron of his pendant.
His fingers touched only bare skin.
Panic, cold and sharp, shocked him fully awake. He sat straight up, his hands flew to his neck, then patted his chest, over and over.
The pendant, a gift from his parents, was gone.
"Looking for this?" a soft voice asked.
Arthur scrambled to his feet, spinning around. His hand reached for where his sword should have been. But his sword was missing too.
He was defenseless.
An old man sat near the pond, leaning against a big rock. He was not more than ten feet away. He looked tall and thin. Long, silver hair flowed to his shoulders and seemed to shimmer in the green light.
In his hands, a small pendant danced, twinkling. It glowed with a faint red light. It looked like Arthur's pendant, but somehow… different.
"Wh-who are you?" Arthur asked, his eyes darting around. He was sure he'd been alone when he fell asleep.
Someone must have come in. Now his sword was gone, and his favorite keepsake was stolen.
"This pendant…" the old man muttered, his eyes fixed on it. "Where did you get this?"
Arthur tried to stay calm, but his heart pounded like a drum. He looked around again. No sign of his sword anywhere.
"Don't worry, child. I am not going to harm you." The old man's voice was soft again. "Now, more importantly, this pendant. Where did you get it?"
When he spoke this time, Arthur felt a strange pull, drawing him closer to the old man. His voice was soothing. It felt like he could trust him.
"My parents. They gave it to me," Arthur replied, almost without thinking. His voice still shook a little.
"No. This is wrong." The old man looked down at the pendant, then up at Arthur. "Something is very wrong here."
Then, Arthur really looked at the old man. In the steady green light of the crystals, he'd missed it before. The old man's face was terribly pale, almost see-through.
A dark, ugly stain spread across his clean white robe, dying the fabric dark red. It was wet. It was blood. The old man was hurt badly, a big injury on his stomach.
"The Mauler! Did it get you too?" Arthur exclaimed.
The old man let out a small chuckle, but winced with pain.
"Something as weak as a Forest Mauler is not enough to wound me like this, child. You don't have to worry about that. This wound… this was the work of men."
Arthur hesitated for only a second before rushing to the old man's side.
"You need a healer! We have to get you back to the city!"
Even though the old man had asked strange questions and taken his things, he didn't seem like a threat now. He just looked like someone very badly hurt.
"The time for healers is past, young boy." The old man's eyes met Arthur's, and a strange calm settled over Arthur. "What is your name?"
"Arthur. Arthur Greymark."
"Greymark…" The old man paused, then shook his head slowly.
"No, something is still wrong," he muttered, looking up at Arthur again. Then, with no warning, he reached out a hand, his palm hovering just over Arthur's chest.
Arthur flinched, taking a quick step back.
"What are you doing?!" he asked, the strange calm instantly gone.
The old man chuckled faintly.
"You can call me Ezriel. And you, boy… something is very wrong with you. Your Fate threads are tangled. I have never seen anything like it. You were not meant to be a knight."
"H-how did you know that?!" Arthur was shocked. With just one look, this stranger knew what had happened to him so long ago.
"I was a Rook," Arthur said, the words spilling out, his fists clenched tight. "And then, the Valewyn family stole my fate. They switched it with their heir's."
But Ezriel just shook his head.
"A Rook? Rooks, knights, bishops… they are all just pawns in the long game, young boy," he said calmly.
"This pendant, it is yours, no doubt. But that also means you were supposed to be a Candidate. Not a mere Rook."
Arthur was confused. There were only two Rooks in all of Eldermoor: the City Lord and the head of the Valewyn family. No one dared to call a Rook "mere."
"A Candidate? A candidate for what?" Arthur asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Ezriel smiled again, a strange, peaceful look on his face.
"My time is almost up. But it seems Fate wants me to make one last move."
Before Arthur could react, Ezriel reached out again and tapped him lightly on the chest, right over his heart.
A burning, terrible pain exploded through Arthur. It was like being hit by lightning, a fire that burned him from the inside out. He cried out, clutching his chest, his legs giving way.
Through the haze of pain, he felt a new heat, a different kind of burning, spreading across the skin where Ezriel had touched him.
The worst of the pain faded quickly, leaving him gasping and trembling. He tore at his shirt, looking down at his chest.
There, etched onto his skin, was a new mark. It pulsed with a faint, inner light. It was a complex symbol he didn't recognize. It looked like a crown, its points sharp and clear. A shimmering ring of stars encircled it. Or were those squares? Like a chessboard pattern, laid over the crown itself. Woven into the design of the crown, he could see tiny fragments, the tip of a sword, and what looked like pieces of a broken tower.
It felt ancient, powerful, and yet, strangely familiar.
The old man was leaning heavily against the rock now, wheezing. His breathing was shallow. His eyes, though dimming, held a last spark of urgency.
"Remember, boy… reveal that mark to no one." His voice was a ragged whisper.
His eyes fluttered. A final, shallow breath escaped his lips. Ezriel was still.