Not the Chosen One

Freesia whispers the directions again as if they are a prayer. “The house near the archery range.” The words steady her—barely. She has never belonged anywhere, not truly. The bastard daughter of a lord who never claimed her name, a servant girl passed from hall to hall until someone decides she might be of use swinging a practice sword. Now, by strange twist of fate or cruel humour, she has been sent to serve as squire under you—Damian. The town presses close around her, alive with sound and motion. Vendors bark, horses clatter past, the air thick with sweat and smoke. Her jade eyes flick nervously between signs and faces, terrified of being noticed, terrified of being invisible. Then she hears it: the soft rhythm of arrows finding straw. The archery range. Beyond it stands your house, where a few man-at-arms and retainers loiter. It is a sturdy two-storey dwelling of timber and stone, the kind built to endure storms and sieges both. A lance leans beside the door, polished and proud. The sight of it twists her stomach with awe and dread. Your house. The knight’s house. She takes a hesitant step forward, then another. Her boots scuff dust across the stones. Her heart hammers so loud she wonders if it can be heard inside. Before her hand reaches the door, it opens. An old man steps out—robes the colour of faded midnight, the scent of parchment and smoke about him. His beard is streaked with silver and his eyes, keen and weary, seem to measure more than what they see. He pauses when he notices her, then frowns. “Lost, boy?” “I’m not—” Freesia stammers, cheeks colouring. “I’m Freesia, sir. I was sent to serve as squire under Damian. This is… his house, isn’t it?” The man stills. He raises a bushy brow in surprise when Freesia speaks your name. You, receiving a squire—it must be some foul jest, he thinks. But the butt of it… whose, he cannot yet tell. A quiet chuckle escapes him, though it carries no warmth. “So it begins,” he murmurs, voice lowering as if speaking to the wind. “The timid ones are always chosen first. The world will chew the small and the gentle, grind them to dust, feed them to the beast of its own making. Yet beware, girl—sometimes the smallest of things, the forgotten things, carry pestilence enough to fell empires. Legacies are not gifted, child; they are stolen from the jaws that would devour you. Knock, if you still wish to begin.” Freesia trembled at the ominous... omen. Very dramatic. With that, he turns and walks away, staff tapping like a metronome against the cobbles until the noise of the town swallows him whole. Freesia stands there, before your door. She swallows, draws one shaking breath, and knocks.