It was the morning of my special day, and I was being squeezed into the most uncomfortable set of ceremonial armor the chantry had.

Don’t get me wrong, the armor looked nice, but it was clearly designed more for luxury than practicality. Too much gilding, too big epaulets. Even the battle skirt felt heavier than it should have.

When it was finally done being fitted and I was finally done complaining, I had the chance to admire myself in a full body mirror. I looked dashing. Stunning, even. A sleek and intimidating warrior. I looked like the chosen one, I had to admit.

Finn was there, trying not to laugh at my misfortune. And of course Morgan was there to oversee the whole thing. The head of the chantry couldn’t allow any detail of the day to be off-kilter.

“Well, despite your whining, the task is done and you look mildly presentable.”

“If by ‘mildly presentable’ you mean ‘intimidatingly gorgeous’ then I agree,” I snarked back at him.

He rolled his eyes and dismissed the outfitter. “And that brings me to the next topic: you need some advice on public speaking before we put you before the Council.”

I gave him a look. “Really? I’m the chosen one. Isn’t that enough for them?”

“You know it isn’t. This meeting is important, Gwyn. It will decide all our fates. We have to convince the Council that we are necessary, and that you are necessary. If we fail, it could mean the end of the chantry, and thus, the world.”

I sighed. “Right. So what problem do you have with the way I do things today?”

“Your snark, Gwyn. The Council won’t find it amusing like your sparring partners do. There’s more to it than that, but I think our guest can explain better than I can.”

“Guest?” I quirked an eyebrow.

Morgan led me out of the changing room and through the twisting corridors of the chantry until we emerged in the high-ceilinged central hall of the chantry. Priests and warriors milled about from place to place and attendants adjusted art along the walls.

Near the entryway, a masked woman was waiting. She wore black, and her mask was wolf-like. She moved with lithe swiftness towards us. Her voice was distorted, rough, like heard through water.

“Ah. The esteemed chosen one, and her entourage. I’m Councilor Lupa. I suspect you’ve heard of me?”

Of course I had. The Council only consisted of three people: Lupa, Capra, and Ibis. The holders of those roles changed every so often, but the masks were distinctive, and the names always the same.

“Let’s talk somewhere private, yes? Morgan won’t be needed for this conversation.”

I smirked a little, and Morgan graciously swept away from us to attend other matters. Finn and I led Lupa to a side room that was out of the way, largely soundproof, and had doors that could lock.

“So,” I said, “What’s this about? Morgan criticized my snark, but I don’t think a Councilor would show up just to curb a bit of sarcasm.”

She nodded. “There are grander matters than attitude involved in what you’re about to do.”

I scowled. “This whole fuss is so ridiculous. I’m the chosen one, and the chantry is going to save the kindred from our enemies. What’s to have a meeting about?”

Sharply, Lupa said, “Everything. My colleagues and I are skeptical of your claims. Of your chantry. This meeting will determine whether we, as a Council, believe you are what you say you are. If it goes well, the whole island calls you chosen one and we let your chantry handle preparations for this war you claim is on the horizon. But if you fail to convince us, the chantry will slink back into hiding and you will have no prestige, no power.”

My scowl deepened. “I see.”

“I’m not your opponent, Gwyn, but I’m not on your side, either. I’m doing this as a favor to Morgan, and because I think the chantry’s military would be… useful, to the Council’s interests. You need to have at least a basic grasp of diplomacy, to keep up with the debate.”

“Isn’t Morgan going to do most of the talking? I’m just there to look impressive.”

“Not quite. While your high priest will handle all the basic arguments, you are still required to participate. The Council will field you questions, try to trip you up. You are Morgan’s vulnerability, a warrior with no experience in debate. They – by which I mean ‘we’ – will attempt to gauge your merits as a champion, as a general, as a leader.”

“I can lead. Any warrior of the chantry will tell them that.”

“That is insufficient. We must know your mind, your belief, your knowledge. Are you willing to prepare? Or is this a waste of my time?”

The question hung in the air. I wanted to be spiteful. I wanted to protest this entire thing. But I already had. Doing any more wouldn’t help me become chosen one.

I sighed. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

“The first item is simple: avoid too much mention of the chantry and its activities. If you must, focus on the aid you provide, and the good you’ve done. Stick to emotional appeals and don’t discuss details.”

Finn frowned. “Wait, why? What problem does the Council have with us?”

Lupa glanced at him – as much as she could, through her mask – and said, “To your priests and your followers, the chantry is a beacon of hope. To some, the chantry is dangerous. You receive tithe. You field a military force. You collect wealth and food in a central fortress, and you are lead by an elite caste. Priest, that is called feudalism.”

That agitated Finn. “What? No, we do good work. We’re good people.”

“That is irrelevant. The fact remains that you have built a power structure here, one sustained by the work of the common folk. Look at your halls, your art and shrines. This place is opulent compared to much of the island, and that is thanks to the tithe you receive.”

Lupa glanced back at me and added, “You should call them donations, by the way. Never tithe. Makes it sound nicer, more community-focused.”

Finn was still worrying it over, but I just nodded.

She continued, “Stay away from faith. I know religion is important to your chantry, but it isn’t one shared by most of the island, and the Council will not appreciate it being leveraged as an argument. Yes, your prophecy is a core part of the case being made, but you must reframe it. This is a delicate matter.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’d say it’s more than important. It kind of builds the foundation for this whole place. Hard to avoid it.”

“Yes. As I said, it is not about avoidance so much as framing. Instead of saying you support a war of prophecy, say you support a chantry-backed militia and common sense defenses. In practice, those policies will be the same, but one is a much easier to sell to someone outside your faith.”

Finn butted in, “So you want her to lie. Or, should I be saying, ‘tactically obfuscate the truth’.”

“Do you want to be honest, or do you want to accomplish the chantry’s goals?”

He had nothing to say to that, and just slumped against the nearest wall.

I motioned for Lupa to continue. “Donations, common sense precautions, and stay away from religion. What else?”

“My colleagues, they disagree on much. When Ibis presses you, emphasize that the chantry will shoulder the burden for this task, and tell her that you will do everything in your power to keep the citizenry calm. When Capra presses you, focus on details like the raider threat and the rough history of our people. Take Morgan’s lead, but avoid parroting him. Think you can handle all that?”

I nodded, slowly. “Hopefully. I think I understand most of it, at least. I’m as ready as I’ll be.”

“Good.” Lupa rose. “This meeting never happened. I look forward to meeting you for the first time tomorrow.”

I grinned bemusedly at her as she swept away, leaving me alone with Finn. “Well, that was interesting.”

Finn shook his head. “One word for it. Do you feel comfortable lying to the Council like this? I wouldn’t.”

I shrugged. “What’s the harm? If it gets us closer to our goals, I’m up for just about anything. This is important, Finn. The good we’ll do with Council backing far outweighs a few white lies.”

He sighed. “If you say so, boss.”

I told him to cheer up, he refused, and we ate lunch. A few folks congratulated me (prematurely, but properly), and I didn’t see any sign of Duncan in the banquet hall, which vaguely disappointed me.

Morgan came and found us as I was finishing my meal.

“Ah, good, you’ve eaten. Let’s go.”

A coach was prepared, and we rode through the countryside. Green fields, blue sky, and distant mountains. We stopped at one village and I gave them a fake smile while Morgan discussed boring administrative details.

It only took two hours to reach Haven, but they were an incredibly boring two hours, and I spent most of it reading. Relics of the fallen empire were a hobby of mine, and I’d recently found a neat little travel journal in decent condition.

At long last we arrived. The township of Haven was a quaint little affair, a cluster of rickety buildings kneeling in the shadow of the sky-slicing mountain that housed the Council’s parliament. A faithful local was happy to put us up for the night, that we might rest before the morrow’s meeting.

I spent the first half of the night listening to Morgan stress, mutter to himself, and rehearse his lines. Finn slept, like some kind of sensible person. Eventually I crawled onto a free bed too. A part of me felt vague worry, but I dismissed it.

I’m the chosen one. Nothing can possibly go wrong.

I slept.

“Name’s Gwyn. I’m the chosen one.”

The raider eyed me skeptically in response, which was unfortunate for him and infuriating for me. I ducked underneath the swing of his oafish ax and swung a leg out to trip him. He obliged.

“You know, hero of prophecy? I’m a big deal, okay. I refuse to believe you haven’t heard of me; everybody’s heard of me.” I folded my arms (careful not to poke myself with my own sword) and scowled down at him.

A bit of burning thatch fell between us and I remembered I had a job to do. The whole village was on fire, or at least most of it. Being right on the coast made the fires easy to put out, but first someone (me) had to clean up the pesky idiots who’d set the fire; preferably before they made off with a small treasure of fish and seaborne salvage.

The raider grunted, lurched to his feet, and made another overcommitment of a lunge, though this time he had the decency to swing low. I sidestepped his strike, fed my irritation at his disrespect into a ball of fury, and blasted him with red lightning.

Crimson light danced across his skin and cast his face in a hellish glow. He stumbled into the nearest wall (which nearly fell on him) and screamed his pain to the world. I admired my handiwork and let the lightning flicker and fade from my fingertips; there were raiders more deserving of it, after all. I let my rage slip back below the surface of my thoughts and casually executed him with a single swing.

I saw my patrol partner, Gavin, dueling a raider over a sack of plunder, while a second bandit stumbled back to her friends, nursing her wounds. The village militia (all four of them) were poking spears in the vague direction of the raiders, three of whom were loading plunder into their boat as fast as they could. One glanced at me nervously.

I smirked in response, then leveled my attentions at the fleeing scoundrel. She was bleeding, and she’d dropped her weapon. Easy prey; she’d make a strong message to these thieves.

I pointed at her, spread my fingers, and again channeled my anger. I remembered the fly that had bit me that morning, and I remembered the annoying drudgery of standing around for hours, and I remembered an argument I’d lost (unfairly) a week ago. Anger came easily, a deep well that I’d carefully cultivated, a font of power groomed for a purpose.

I turned my anger into magic, and shoved it out of my body as more searing-red lightning. Sorcery, the art of agony. Unrivaled suffering ripping through my target. Harmless to the flesh, but very, very disorienting.

I sprinted for the raider woman and ran her through before she had the chance to grit her teeth and power through the pain. Behind me, I heard Gavin finish off his opponent.

I found the raider who’d noticed me before, and I held his gaze as their ship slowly drifted away from the village, laden with stolen goods (though not as many as they’d have liked). I put a boot on the back of the dead woman, and pointed my sword at him. I saw the fear in his eyes, and I smiled.

They wouldn’t be coming back.

The chantry arrived not long after to help the hamlet recover. They set up a tent for the wounded, stamped out the last of the fires, and offered blankets and soup for the weary. This wasn’t the first coastal raid, and it wouldn’t be the last; everyone knew their role.

My role was to sit back and relax after a long day of being the chosen one. I sat on a slightly-singed bench and rifled through the pockets of the raider woman I’d killed. Gavin noticed my rifling and sauntered over.

“Find anything good, magpie?” He knew my quirks as well as anyone from the chantry.

“Not so far,” I said as I tossed aside a pouch of coin and an unremarkable whetstone. Her pockets were meager, but I noticed a glint of something metallic around her slowly-cooling neck and brushed aside a bit of hair. “Shiny!” She had an iridescent black rock threaded into a necklace. I slipped it off her and rolled the rock around between my fingers.

Gavin was skeptical of my find. “It’s a rock.”

“It’s pretty, and now it’s mine.”

“Right. Well, I’m going to go help do some rebuilding. Enjoy your rock.” He gave me an amused wave and joined some villagers and chantry folk working to put a door back in place.

I fiddled with my trinket for a few more minutes before slipping it into a skirt pocket and getting up to go wander.

I saw Morgan speaking with someone from the village, and Finn ducking into the medic tent, and Duncan dragging a net in from the shore.

She looked happy about it, too. Duncan was chatting up a local and making little consoling gestures as she trudged her way through the sand. She dropped off the net and whatever was in it with another villager, and nodded at something he said. She turned around, and our eyes met.

She froze, her face took on an unreadable expression, and she hurriedly turned away and looked for another menial task to perform.

I was still having trouble changing my internal concept of Duncan from ‘rival’ to… well, that was half the problem. If she wasn’t my competitor, who was she? A part of me felt like I shouldn’t bother thinking about her anymore. And yet… I couldn’t stop. She’d consumed my thoughts for so long that it was impossible to just stop noticing her and the things she did.

With an effort of will I wrenched my gaze away from her. I distracted myself by meandering towards Morgan and eavesdropping on his conversation.

“Don’t worry,” he assured the villager, “everything will be back in order before you know it. But please, take it easy for a few days, and skip tithe this month. Right now what’s most important is the wellbeing of your village.”

The villager looked worried. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want the chantry to suffer for our losses, after all you’ve done to help.”

Morgan held up a hand. “I insist. It’s for the good of us all that your village recovers and prospers.” He smiled benevolently. “If you feel that isn’t enough, you can always visit the chantry for a sermon. We’ll be glad for the audience, and for the company.”

Relief passed over the villager, which turned to a mix of gratitude and awe when they caught sight of me. “Chosen one! Thank you, thank you dearly for driving off those raider scum. You were magnificent.”

I smirked. I was, wasn’t I? “I don’t think they’ll be coming back any time soon.” I let a bit of red lightning arc between my fingers. “Sorcery has that kind of effect on people.” I dismissed my magic and shot Morgan a smug look.

He hid his annoyance well, but I could see it in the way his wrinkles shifted. “Yes, chosen, excellent work. I look forward to hearing all about it later.”

That was his way of telling me to shove off and let him take care of business. I graciously obliged and drifted away from him in search of Finn.

My best friend wasn’t exactly hard to find; where else would a healer be but the medical tent? I strolled inside and swept up beside him, clasping him on the shoulder. He was in his healer’s robes, hunched over a man on a cot.

“Buddy, pal! How go the ministrations?”

Finn wobbled a little under my weight, but kept his hands steady as they passed over a glistening red gash on a villager’s arm. His hands glowed forest-green, and they hovered centimeters away from the gouge without touching flesh.

He gritted his teeth and replied, “They were going better before you showed up.” He gently pulsed a few more bursts of green light at the wound, which stopped bleeding and began to extremely slowly close. He sighed. “Alright, you’re good to go. Don’t use that arm much for a day, but after that it’ll be fine.”

The villager thanked him profusely, stared at me with reverence, and then scampered off to do whatever.

Finn wiped his hands (which were already clean) and said, “What do you want now, Gwyn? I’m busy, and your talents aren’t particularly helpful in this setting.” He gestured to the two other wounded lying on cots. “Unless you plan on torturing the ax injuries closed?”

“While a tempting offer, I’m still testing those capabilities on rats.” I grinned, and my beaming face was infectious enough to wear him down and produce a good-natured eye-roll in response.

“Well, thanks for not making more work for me. Listen, I’ll be done here shortly, and then we can go do whatever you’d like without any distractions. But please, let me focus on healing.”

I sighed dramatically and tossed my hair. “Fine. But you owe me a sugary treat. Of the pastry variety.”

“Deal. Now scurry.” He shooed me away with a wry smile and I strutted out of his tent and into the open air.

The smoke scent was starting to fade, which I found regrettable. I liked woodsmoke. It was a nice change from the endless sea salt breeze and the chantry’s incenses. Maybe it just reminded me of fire.

I went for a walk.

The beach sand was the color of crushed pearl, washed smooth by steady tides. The evening’s cloudy light cast the water gray. The black and red of my outfit was the only splash of color along the entirety of the coast, and even then it was overshadowed by my skin and hair, which were about the same shade of white as the sand.

When I got to a good spot, I knelt by the water and started cleaning my sword. I really should have done that earlier, but my gluttony for trinkets got the better of me. I used a dirty rag to wipe off the blood, new spots added to the aged collection soaked into the cloth.

I was going to miss this. No, that wasn’t true. Intimidating cheap raiders was fun, and seeing the looks of awe on villager faces was rewarding, but there was something missing. Something gnawing at me, quietly but steadily. I wanted more.

I was meant for greatness. I had a destiny, a great and glorious role to fulfill. I was the chosen one. Two days, and I’d finally get to embrace that destiny. No more tiny little villages. No more tiny little conflicts. There was a war out there waiting for me. A chance to etch my name into the world’s foundations. A chance to be what I was always meant to be.

I noticed myself washing the same spot for a third time, and put my sword away with a sigh. I was impatient. I knew that. But knowing didn’t make it any easier to ignore that itching under my skin. Being closer than ever before just made the anticipation worse.

Nervousness was unbecoming of me. I was too talented, too powerful, and too pretty to be nervous about anything. When people saw me, they had to fight the urge to kneel. I was the chosen one, and the whole world knew that, even those arrogant raiders trying to play coy.

And yet… I wasn’t the only one stressing about this. I could feel that anxious energy in the air every time I walked though the chantry’s halls. I could see it in the way Morgan slouched whenever he thought nobody was looking, and I could see it in the way Gavin and the other warriors threw themselves into training every chance they got.

Our purpose was approaching, and even the most fervent were afraid of failure. After all, our whole world was at stake.

For some reason, that didn’t bother me as much. Maybe I just couldn’t conceive of a world where I lost. Maybe I just believed we could overcome any tragedy. Or maybe being the chosen one was just more important to me than what came with it.

It didn’t bear thinking about too deeply, so I didn’t. I made my way back to the village and joined the chantry folk as they returned to the fortress.