In a lonely keep nestled deep within the highlands of Gilgamar, a man sat hunched over a great oak desk. The flame on the desk leaned with the draft, its light crawling over the stone walls and painting long shadows that reached toward the corners of the room. They shifted with each flicker, becoming shapes that did not belong, things that seemed to move on their own.

  For a moment, Lord Alistair thought he saw them stretching farther, grasping at the edges of his vision. The same had been said of the valleys below, that the shadow no longer marched as armies once did, but crept unseen, taking what it pleased. Entire villages vanished now without fire or sound.

  He adjusted the candle, and the shapes retreated.

  Maps sprawled across the desk, inked with circles, scribbles, and thick red X’s that consumed whole towns.

  Candles had burned down to nubs, their wax hardened into pale rivers. The air was heavy with sleepless thought.

  The man’s frail beard framed a sharper, better kept mustache. His eyes, weary but precise, studied the remaining unmarked towns, the few places where life still dared to linger.

  He muttered softly to himself, as if reciting a verse from some ancient prayer.

  "From darkness shall rise the light,

  and reclaim what the night has stolen."

  A prophecy, born from despair.

  Eight winters ago, the fairies had vanished. Their songs, their glow, their healing touch, gone from the realm overnight. They had been the living balance of Gilgamar, the source of all gentle magic and good. Without them, the world had turned inward. Shadows began to stir, whispering from the edges of fields and forests. Then the disappearances began. Entire villages swallowed by night.

  Now, dark magic walked the land openly, and men gave names to the horrors that ruled it. The whisperer. The corruption. The shadow given form.

  The king of Gilgamar, once blessed by the light of the fair folk, had long since locked himself away in his citadel. The capital’s gates were sealed. The rest of the realm left to rot.

  So the people clung to the prophecy: From darkness shall rise the light. They believed it spoke of a hero, a child of destiny, a new light born in a world of shadow who would purge the realm of evil and restore the king’s courage.

  But the man at the desk, Lord Alistair, suspected the meaning ran deeper.

  Outside, the sound of horses and carriage broke the stillness. Alistair straightened, quickly setting his parchments aside. Boots struck stone in the hall beyond his door, followed by a knock.

  "Master Alistair, sir," came a muffled voice.

  Alistair’s expression softened. "Come in."

  The door opened, and his subordinate entered. Alistair greeted him with a firm, familiar embrace.

  "I see you still live, Fister."

  "If my life were ever at risk, my lord, I would hope you’d send another," Fister replied with a dry smile.

  They shared a brief laugh before Alistair gestured toward the hearth. "Sit, my friend. You look half frozen."

  Fister did as told, warming his hands by the fire.

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  "We have found him, my lord," he said. "In the village of Huble, as you suspected. A working hand for the local inn called The Bumbling Stump."

  Alistair leaned back, pleased. "And his memory?"

  "He remembers nothing from his first decade or so of life. The innkeeper has confirmed this." Fister hesitated. "Yet…"

  "Go on," Alistair prompted.

  "He’s pint-sized, my lord. Not a hair on his head. Lively as a child, wild as a beast."

  Alistair nodded slowly. "Is it the look of a warrior or the strength of his blade that we value?"

  "There is no strength here, my lord," Fister replied grimly. "Neither in combat nor leadership. The town speaks ill of him. They call him a plague – an embarrassment."

  Alistair rose and rested his hands on the desk. "Fister, come now. Even I am considered an embarrassment by some. To what extent is this not jealousy?"

  Fister frowned. "I found him sleeping in the pig pen behind the inn. He claimed the mud gives way to his form."

  Alistair’s teeth clenched, the mask of composure slipping for a moment.

  "Come." He motioned his servant closer to the desk, maps and notes scattered across it. "A light from darkness."

  Fister shook his head. "My lord, you can’t mean what I think."

  Alistair’s tone hardened. "The fairies are gone, and with them, the balance of magic. The capital hides behind its walls. Shadows rise from every forest, whispering names of power. We’ve sent every lord and knight to scour the realm for a savior, and each has fallen to the same darkness they swore to destroy. Eight winters of failure. Eight winters of night."

  He looked up, conviction flickering in his eyes. "Perhaps we’ve misread the prophecy, Fister. Could it be that the light born from darkness is not noble or pure. Might a bad seed bloom in this forgotten world."

  Fister stood silent, discomfort twisting his face. "My lord, before you make any conclusion, you must see this man yourself. You’ll see reason then. Times are hard; they weigh on us all…"

  Alistair turned sharply. "My fellow lords call this a fairy’s curse. The vengeance of those we cast aside. But I tell you this: the darkness has purpose. It moves with design. The fairies’ disappearance was not by chance, it was balance shifting hands."

  Fister swallowed his throat. "I do not disagree, my lord."

  "How long must we bash our heads against the same wall?" Alistair’s voice thundered through the keep. "How many boys must be cast into the flame before we look where no man dares?"

  Fister lowered his gaze in submission.

  Alistair’s tone softened. "They seek a boy of divine spirit. But perhaps divinity was never the answer. Perhaps the prophecy meant what it said: Light from darkness."

  "Yes but… Why him out of all others?" asked Fister.

  Alistair’s thoughts raced, too many threads tangled for one clear answer. He stared into the firelight, the glow reflecting in his tired eyes.

  "What does it mean to be born, Fister?"

  Fister opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated.

  His lord continued. "Are we born when we first see light? Or is it when we realize who we are?"

  Fister frowned. "A question better fit for scholars, my lord."

  Alistair no longer held back his thoughts. "And this boy’s memory? Is it true he knows only of darkness?"

  Fister shifted uneasily. "I can confirm both he and the innkeeper tell the same story. The boy does not remember his life until he appeared at the inn as a child. He only knows of the present, in his small and forgotten village. A dull tale, but hardly a grim one, my lord. They live as if no evil exists in the world."

  Alistair raised his hand, silencing him. His voice grew firm, certain.

  "Then I have found our hero," he said. "The boy whose fate will unite the realm."

  Fister bowed his head. He did not understand, but he followed orders.

  "Shall I send for this man, my lord?"

  Alistair’s thoughts drifted briefly before snapping into focus. "No. Bringing him here is far too risky. We’ll be safer in the forgotten side of the realm."

  "My lord?"

  "Men of power hide in their towers while the world rots outside them. No more. Send word to The Bumbling Stump that I seek an audience with…"

  He looked at Fister expectantly.

  "He is called Basic, my lord."

  Alistair blinked, caught off guard by the name, then nodded. "Basic? I seek an audience with Basic… for the fate of the realm."

  He lowered his voice. "No one must know of this. If word spreads… That I lay the whims of the realm on the back of an outcast, those with hope left in their hearts will think we’ve abandoned them."

  Fister hesitated. "But what of your obligations? Who will rule in your stead? Our people cannot stand idly by as you wander across Gilgamar."

  Alistair smiled faintly. "You shall rule in my stead. As far as anyone is concerned, I am off on another expedition – a quest for an ancient item in an ancient tomb. Promise me this, Fister."

  Fister’s face tightened. His master was leaving him to rule in troubled times. Alistair was risking one of the last bastions of freedom for what seemed like madness.

  "So your mind has been made." He bowed deeply, "I live to serve, my lord."