Princess Whiskerton greeted me when I came home. I petted her a few times, then fed her some scraps of meat, to which she purred appreciatively and set about devouring. When she was done, she curled up on my lap and fell asleep.

My room is nice. The walls are all lined with shelving packed with books, and I have a few lockboxes for the more delicate and valuable works. I was sitting on my bed, which has comfortable sheets and a few beige pillows. There are a few chairs and pillow piles scattered about for when I don’t want to read on my bed. My sword was in a chest with the rest of my weapons, in the corner. I hadn’t brought it with me to the council.

I live in the temple, like most of our warriors. We eat and bathe in the temple, or sometimes in the village with other followers of the faith. We each have a purpose. We each have a place in the prophecy.

I just tortured a man.

I kept petting my cat. I’d only run so far as my horse, then mounted it and rode the rest of the way. The temple was situated close enough to the council that it only took me a few hours by horseback to get home, but most of the day was still gone. I didn’t know if Finn had tried to follow me.

They denied me.

I focused on my cat’s breathing and tried to slow mine down, but my ribcage still felt pressed in and there was a dark, angry cloud making it hard to think about anything but the miserable bastards who had taken from me the only thing that mattered.

I wanted to laugh, or cry, or shout, but I just sat there. I let myself fall back onto my bed and stared at the ceiling. It was painted with images of the chosen one that I wasn’t. It depicted legends of the hero I wasn’t. I wanted to burn the paint off the ceiling, but then my books might catch fire, and I wasn’t going to let two human rights violations occur in one day.

My books. My books had the solution.

I gently scooped Princess Whiskerton off my lap and onto the bed, then slipped over to one of the lockboxes and carefully opened it.

The books on the shelves were all in good condition. Some of them had simple covers, others had a little more color. Some were handwritten first editions, some were second or third editions with printing press lettering. They were musings on prophecy from the temple, stories dreamed up by writers in other villages, and scientific documents put together by scholars. I collected all of them and loaned them freely, on the condition that those who read my collection also contributed to it.

In the lockboxes were a more precious treasure: relics from the fallen empire. Waterlogged journals, torn scraps with barely legible handwriting, and faded illustrations. Pottery shards, moth-eaten fabrics, and rusty metal. A ravaged history of our cultural heritage, pieced together through years of trading with older families and scavenging driftwood from the sea.

When our ancestors fled the fallen empire, they didn’t take much art with them. They took tools and supplies, but very little art. The ancestor spirits rarely talked about the fallen empire, except to mourn its passing or warn of repeating its mistakes. Until earlier that day, I’d never heard of Empress Aurelius or the city of Garac. I would have to record those names when I had the free time.

All I’d ever learned was this: some hundreds of years ago, the kindred had an empire that spanned a dozen worlds, or perhaps less. They knew sorcery, and alchemy, and prospered. Then the Gates broke, and the empire collapsed, and our ancestors survived by fleeing to the island we now called home.

I knew that in the last days of the empire there was a man named Nero who tried to stop the exodus. I knew that our island was the only place on the surface of the world that still bore life. And I knew that our ancestors blamed the highborn of the empire for its ruin.

That was it. The grand sum of my research was two paragraphs. But there had to be more. I started digging.

I was looking for something, anything that mentioned prophecy, or fate. Not even our prophecy, just something that gave precedent for my temple’s faith. If I could find evidence that the fallen had heard of such prophecies, it might be enough to sway the council back in my favor. It might be enough to cast Vesta as a petty, bitter liar.

A pottery shard depicting grand sailing vessels. A play about a boy prince who drove an icy sword into his father’s heart. A list of library locations. A shipping manifest that mentioned human cargo. The pieces of a cleaved tower shield, an heirloom.

Little pieces of history and culture each with a story to tell, but nothing useful. Nothing that could secure my destiny. Nothing to promise me what I was owed.

I shut the lockbox and draped myself over it with a drawn-out sigh. It was pointless; my collection was too small and too random to have any hope of finding evidence that I was right and they were wrong. Continuing to look at the same artifacts over and over again wasn’t making me feel better, it was just turning what was left of my anger into despair.

I needed to take a walk.

I said goodbye to my cat and started walking. I didn’t have a direction, I just needed fresh air and flowing blood. I needed an escape.

I was wearing a thick cloak, and I pulled the hood up to try and hide from the others. If they started questioning me about the council, about the meeting, I would lose my last shred of composure. I fast-walked through the temple halls and out into the afternoon sunlight, raising a hand to fight the glare.

In the distance, the sea glimmered purple and gold beneath the setting sun. A few fishing boats were coming in carrying meat for trade; verdant valleys and savvy alchemists provided enough food for everyone to eat plentifully, but people always craved variety. At the end of the week, the temple’s traders would travel to market and offer up crafts and jewelry in exchange for meat, iron, and other useful goods.

I didn’t think I’d be going to market that week. I didn’t know what I was going to do ever again if I didn’t solve my problem. I turned from the sea and zeroed in on a mountain trail that would be nice and secluded. I left the temple behind and started hiking.

The island is lush and fertile, possessed of rolling hills and white sand shores. Sloping mountains dot it, and the largest of the mountains, at the western edge of the island, houses the temple on one side and the council’s stronghold on the other side, the side facing away from the sea. The mountain is riddled with caves and passages; some natural, some forged by the Ancients.

The hiking trails are good for thinking, and solitude; there are so many of them that you’ll hardly ever encounter someone else on a hike. The rich mountain air is bracing, and something about the peacefulness of it provides clarity.

I walked, and walked, and tried to sort out my thoughts. Impotent rage wasn’t useful. Pity and self-loathing weren’t useful. My outburst probably helped Vesta convince Capra to vote against me. I needed to be calm and focused to claim my rightful place as the chosen one.

Walking helped. Not much, but it helped. Between my cat, the mountain air, and the passage of time, my well of fury was finally drying up. I could still feel it pulsing in my veins and beating in my heart, but it wasn’t going to explode again. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone I didn’t mean to.

I let out a long sigh and leaned against a stocky tree. I closed my eyes and felt the setting sun warm my skin. With my anger suppressed, my sense of the world returned. Chirping birds, a graceful breezes, and footsteps.

Footsteps?

I pushed away from the tree, opened my eyes, and whirled to face the trail behind me. Morgan was standing there with his arms crossed.

I scowled. “Oh. You. Leave me alone, Morgan. I’m… meditating.”

He ignored what I said. “Finn came back. He refused to talk about how the meeting went, almost like he’s trying to protect you. What does the chosen one need protection from, Gwyn?”

Standing with his spine straighter than a monogamous couple, Morgan was only an inch shorter than me, which was more than most could say. He was easily six feet, swarthy, and built like someone who carried lots of heavy boxes. He had a close shaved head of muddy brown hair, and an even jawline. He had a likable face with plenty of smile lines, and usually carried himself with an earnest, empathetic presence, the spitting image of a benevolent cult leader.

He didn’t try to put on that act with my anymore. The chosen one would not be treated like a fresh novitiate. His expression was stern, and his set was confrontational.

I shrugged. “I think I’m a bit too dangerous to need protection from anything. He’s Finn. Maybe he’s just being finicky.” I grinned at my pun. Morgan didn’t appreciate it. I rolled my eyes and said, “Fine. The meeting didn’t go well.”

He glared at me. “I guessed that much. Details. What did you do, Gwyn?”

I screamed at him, “I didn’t do anything!”

I stood there with teeth bared, breathing heavy, hands clenched into tight fists. I let out an embattled sigh and returned to leaning against a tree. I was tired.

I shook my head and repeated, softer this time, “I didn’t do anything. It was a ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“Vesta. Ancestor, an old one, claimed she was speaking for all of them in denouncing me, and denouncing the prophecy. Said the people don’t need a warrior to protect them. Said I was a narcissist. Said all our preparation was just so we could take over the island.” My voice was drained of its conviction; I was repeating the details as if reading them off a particularly boring grocery list.

His disapproval morphed into calculation and he started pacing in front of me and muttering under his breath. I let him pace.

Finally, he looked up at me and said, “I have to name Duncan the new chosen one.”

It took a bit for that to kick in. First I stared at him, befuddled and confused, convinced I’d misheard him. Then I started looking around for the audience he was clearly making this joke for the benefit of. When that too passed, I met his eyes and said, “Fuck no.”

He sighed, threw up his hands, and turned to look at the island below. “I knew you’d be this way. You always have been. You’re more concerned with your role in the prophecy than seeing it to completion.”

I scowled at him and snapped back, “I just spent the most grueling hour of my life standing in a shitty room talking up at three masked menaces with bloated self-importance and a fascination with arguing the littlest details to the death. I did that for the prophecy. For our people. Maybe you just can’t stand my independence.”

That got his attention. He faced me, narrowed his eyes, and said, “I stood by you when others said you were too brash. I supported you as the chosen one because I respected your strength, and your heart, and thought you were the real deal. But if the council doesn’t want you, then for all our sakes I need to go with a candidate who might have a better shot at convincing them.”

“I’m stronger than Duncan. I’m faster than her, tougher than her, and smarter too. I’m a more powerful sorceress, and I have sharper reflexes. I am the superior warrior.”

“And without the council’s approval you are just one warrior. The chosen one has to be more than that. She has to be a leader, an icon to inspire the people. Duncan has always been more willing to compromise. She is a better face to our faith. This is about doing what’s best for the kindred, Gwyn.”

I laughed in his face. “No. This is about power. You’re afraid of me because you can’t control me, and now you’re taking your golden opportunity to shove me aside and put your little puppet in charge. You just can’t bear the thought of losing your precious cult, can you? Duncan will follow your agenda, and report to you, and with the chosen one in your pocket you’ll get to pretend you’re a real leader, that you have real power.

“I won’t let you, Morgan. I won’t let you destroy what I believe in just so things fit your schematic for our people. I am the chosen one. And I will find a way to prove it. I’ll make the council eat their words, I’ll put that talking corpse in her place, and when I’m done you’ll regret ever siding against me. This is my destiny. Stay out of my way.”

Morgan just shook his head slowly, said, “So be it,” and walked away.

I seethed in solitude and gave up trying to stop being angry.

I was furious. I was bitter. I was terrified, and frantic, and on the verge of despair and tears. Nothing I did worked; I nail-scraped my skin, I breathed in a dozen different ways, and I beat up a shrub that had it coming. I still felt red-hot energy coursing through my veins and scratching my skin from the inside out. I wanted to lightning something, but the birds and rodents stayed away from me and trees didn’t know how to scream.

It was all-consuming. I wanted to think, to act, to make some progress on fixing the problem, but my fury dragged me down and enveloped me.

I needed to channel it. I started running through ideas in my head, letting my anger feed into them. Violence was good at solving problems; how could it solve this one?

Fighting against Morgan would make me feel better, but it wouldn’t solve the council and would probably tear a rift in the temple’s structure. Fighting against the council would make me feel better, but it would alienate me to the whole island and weaken us for when the invaders came.

They needed me. But how could I show them that?

The mountain air wasn’t helping anymore. I took a long route to avoid Morgan and made my way back to the temple. Finn was waiting for me in the courtyard.

The first thing he did was apologize, which should tell you all you ever need to know about Finn.

He wrung his hands and said, “I’m so sorry for tipping off Morgan. I tried to just avoid it, but I think that made it worse. I told him he should give you space but he didn’t listen. Sorry.”

The courtyard was empty except for us, and the last rays of sunlight cast long shadows over clay lanterns and the painted brick ground. Stone tile roof and pine wood support beams framed the courtyard, and above us the temple stretched into the mountain and was subsumed by it. There were a few dummies and weapon racks left out from training, but everyone was off eating, sleeping, or studying.

Morgan hadn’t told them yet. Maybe Duncan, but not the others. For the moment, they were blissfully unaware that our village’s whole purpose was in jeopardy.

I shook my head at Finn and said, “No, I’m sorry. I left you to clean up my mess at the stronghold and that wasn’t fair of me. I lost my temper and forced you to deal with it.” I proffered my hand. “Bygones?”

He clasped my hand and nodded. “Bygones.”

Then we talked. The council hadn’t told him what went down, so I informed him of my extended argument with them, and about Morgan’s decision to make Duncan the chosen one instead.

“Morgan doesn’t believe I’m the chosen one. Vesta doesn’t believe the prophecy is real. The council doesn’t believe there’s a threat on the other side of the Gates. And I don’t know how to prove it to any of them.”

Finn winced. “Yeah, not a great chain of events. You sure you want to try and solve this now? Sleeping on a problem usually helps me get a better feel for it.”

I shook my head firmly. “I don’t have much time. Morgan was going to announce my success tomorrow, at dinner in front of the whole village. He’ll probably keep that time, but use it to make Duncan the chosen. I need to make my move before him.”

“I’m there for you, Gwyn, but I just don’t see what we can do. You can’t change Morgan’s mind. You probably can’t convince the ancestors without evidence you don’t have. And I don’t even know where you’d start with the council and the Gates.”

Inspiration struck like a lightning bolt from the heavens. A bit of good humor returned to me and I said, “That’s it! I know how to fix this; I know how to show everyone they need me.”

“How?” Finn stared at me with a befuddled look on his face. My grin only widened.

“I’m going to open the Gate.”