Riverwood
Sunday, 20th Stonary 1540
Finn sat on the wooden stool. He knew the leg was uneven—he had noticed the slight wobble weeks ago—but tonight he barely felt it. He leaned over the rough table, eyes fixed on Old Thom.
The candle flickered between them. The night air smelled of woodsmoke and crickets chirped in the dark, but Finn tuned it all out.
He waited for the best part.
"And then," Old Thom whispered, a spark in his tired eyes. "The hero Gallan stepped onto the battlefield. Strong as ten men, Finn. His arms looked carved from stone. They say he once lifted a wagon—with the ox still strapped to it."
Finn's mouth dropped open. He had heard this story a hundred times. He knew exactly what came next. But his heart still hammered against his ribs like it was the first time.
"No way. This is the part that is hard for me to believe all these years," Finn breathed, trying to calculate the weight in his head. "A whole wagon?"
The old man chuckled, combing his gray beard. "I have a few stories I keep from you. But tonight, I think I will share as much as possible."
He paused before adding, "I stood in his shadow once, Finn. Years ago, before I came here. In the Old Capital, there's a statue of him. Life-sized. Carved from white marble that never stains."
Finn leaned closer. This part… he had never heard it before. "You saw it? The statue?"
"I did. Even in stone, the man stood tall as a cliff. You could feel the power just looking at him." Old Thom leaned in. "But it wasn't just strength. Gallan could summon fire. Flames curled across his hands, bright enough to blind enemies, hot enough to melt steel."
Finn's eyes widened. "Like magic?"
"Magic. Power. Authority. Call it what you will." Thom's face grew serious. "The great heroes weren't just warriors. Some bent fire. Others called rivers to rise. And some… some could build fortresses in the blink of an eye."
Build fortresses.
The image stuck in Finn's mind. He imagined a wall springing from the earth, solid and unbreakable. Perfect geometry. Absolute defense for Riverwood.
"Where did they go?" Finn asked quietly. "If they were that strong… If we have those powerful empires… Then, why are we living in wooden huts?"
Old Thom sighed. The playful spark died, replaced by the weight of memory.
"They didn't just vanish, lad. They broke."
"Broke?"
"Long ago, there weren't all these squabbling kingdoms. No borders, no constant wars. There was just the Ancient Nerus Empire. It spanned the whole world. They had roads that glowed in the dark and towers of glass that scraped the clouds."
Finn tried to picture it. Glass towers. It sounded impossible.
"But power brings envy," Thom said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And envy invites darkness. The Demons came. The first army of the demon, 'The Greed', we called them. They didn't just want land. They wanted to consume. They ate the magic, they ate the stone, they turned the sky ash-gray."
"The Greed…" Finn shivered.
"The Ancient Nerus Empire shattered," Thom said. "It broke into a dozen pieces—the kingdoms and empires we have now. We are living in the ruins of something greater, Finn. Fighting over the scraps."
Thom looked at the candle flame. "That is the history of our world and the history of what a Hero is. Someone who stands up when the world is breaking apart. Someone who holds the line. But, against the Demons, they fell."
Finn looked at his own hands. Rough, calloused, stained with dirt.
He imagined the 'Greed' eating the stone. He imagined the Demons tearing down the glass towers.
If I had that power, Finn thought, I wouldn't just hold the line. I'd build a wall they couldn't break. I'd make Riverwood safe forever.
"Do you think…" Finn started, his voice small. "Do you think I could ever be a hero?"
Old Thom reached out, his hand warm on Finn's shoulder. "You already are, to me. You're strong, clever, and kind. Maybe you won't throw fire, but there are many kinds of heroes. Who knows what your path holds?"
Warmth filled Finn. Old Thom, his wife, and daughter had taken him in when he was found as a baby at the North Gate. They were his family.
"One day," Finn said, his voice steady. "I'll be strong enough. For you. For the village."
"I believe you will. But for now, the best thing you can do is sleep. You are still growing, and tomorrow waits for no one."
"I take my leave first, then," Finn said as he stood up slowly, reluctant to break the spell of the story. "Goodnight, Old Thom."
"Goodnight, Finn."
Finn stepped out into the night.
The dirt path felt cool under his worn boots. The moon sat low, casting a pale, silver light over the rooftops of Riverwood.
It was a small village. Four hundred people. Farmers, fishermen, craftsmen. Then there were the Warriors—the few who guarded the gates and hunted the wild.
Finn walked toward the center, his gaze shifting to the horizon. Then, to the four walls of his world.
To the north stood Graypeak Mountain. Dark slopes rose into thick mist, swallowing the cliffs high above. No ordinary villager went far up its face. Too steep. Too dangerous. Those who tried never returned. Only Warriors climbed the lower paths to test their limits and go down the other side to explore the world beyond.
To the east stretched the Whispering Forest. Tall trees grew so close their shadows formed a solid wall. Villagers gathered wood only at the edge. Deeper inside, strange sounds drifted out—howls, screeches, whispers no one could explain. Even the Warriors entered with care, always in groups, never too deep. If they wanted to cross it, they would use the longest path around it.
To the west flowed the Silver River. The water was clear and steady here, feeding the fields. But downstream, the current turned violent. There were stories of whirlpools and creatures lurking beneath the surface. Few dared to swim far.
To the south, the Road. A dirt track stretching into the wild. Farmers used it to trade with nearby hamlets, but the road led much farther. Into lands only the Warriors knew. For most, it was a line they would never cross, not without Warriors.
Finn looked at the dark outline of the forest.
"I wonder what's deeper inside," he muttered. "Maybe I should check it in the morning."
At fifteen, he was not as strong as most boys his age who chose to become Warriors. Still, he could haul timber and plow fields without tiring. He could handle the wild animals. But against a beast? He didn't wish to try his luck.
He slowed his steps as he reached the perimeter fence.
"Will this be enough if suddenly the beasts attack?" he wondered out aloud.
He stopped. His eyes narrowed.
Most people saw a fence. Finn saw a structural failure waiting to happen.
It was just logs tied with rope and branches crammed into gaps.
Sloppy, Finn thought.
He looked at the lashing on the nearest post. It was loose. The knot was wrong—it would slip under tension. And the wood itself? It was set directly into the dirt without treating the base. Rot would eat it within a month.
He frowned. This fence might keep goats in, but against a raid? Against the monsters Old Thom talked about? It wouldn't hold for ten seconds.
Old Juran the blacksmith should have known better. Or maybe the Elders didn't want to waste resources on proper defense.
Finn sighed. He couldn't fix the whole village tonight.
He turned toward his small wooden hut near the East Gate. Two young guards, Kalim and Jory, stood watch at the gate. They leaned on their spears, their posture lazy. Finn walked toward his hut.
"Finn," Kalim called out as he noticed Finn. "Where are you from?"
"Old Thom's. Quiet night?"
"Quiet enough," Kalim nodded with a smile. "Let's hope it stays that way."
Finn paused. He pointed at the third log from the gate. "That lashing is slipping, Kalim. And the base is soft. If something hits it, it buckles."
Kalim blinked, then shrugged. "It holds, Finn. Don't worry."
Finn nodded, but the itch in his mind remained. It holds until it doesn't.
He walked on. His eyes drifted back to the forest beyond the walls.
The same thoughts returned. The same hunger.
What was deeper inside? What lay beyond the river, beyond the mountain paths?
Since he was a boy, he had the same dream. Standing on a cliff, wind in his face, staring at lands without end. He wished to find out more about his parents, about his family. Somewhere out there were answers.
But for now, he was just a boy in a wooden village with fences that were built to fail.
"Maybe someday," he whispered, stepping into his small wooden hut. "Maybe I can really see the world and find my parents."
***
Far from Riverwood, deep within the heart of a great empire, an old man sat upon his throne.
The throne itself was carved from dark wood, set high above the chamber, its back decorated with the crest of his line. Though age marked his face with deep lines and silver streaked his beard, the Emperor still looked strong. His arms were thick from years of war, his back straight even under the heavy robes of state.
Around him, the court stood silent. Advisors, generals, and guards lined the edges of the hall, none daring to speak while the Oracle was present. She was older than most could remember, a frail figure wrapped in plain robes. Her voice, though, carried as if the hall itself wanted her words heard.
"It will not be long now," she said, her eyes half-closed as if peering into something unseen. "The power will seek its chosen one. Within days, the first sign will come."
The Emperor's hand tightened around the armrest of his throne until the wood groaned. "You have spoken of this before, Oracle. But now you give me days? Days until my life's work is threatened?"
Her cloudy eyes lifted to him. "Yes. Humanity will rise once more, but that rise will not be gentle. Many empires will fall, crushed beneath the weight of change. Even yours."
A ripple of unease passed through the chamber. One of the younger advisors whispered under his breath but fell silent when the Emperor raised a hand.
"You tell me my empire will fall?" His voice was heavy, but steady. "I forged this land from blood and stone. I broke the tribes. I drove back the beasts. I united men under one banner when no one else could. And now you say a stranger—some child of prophecy—will undo it all?"
The Oracle bowed her head slightly. "I speak only what I see. The chosen one will appear, and his path will shake the world. Kingdoms, armies, empires—they will not stand as they are. You may resist, but prophecy does not bend to will."
The Emperor rose slowly from his throne. The movement was stiff, not from age, but from a rage barely held in check. The weight of his presence was enough to make his generals bow their heads.
"If this chosen one comes to break what I have built," he said, his voice carrying across the chamber, "then I will find him before his shadow reaches my gates."
One of the generals stepped forward, a tall man with scars across his jaw. "Your Majesty, if the Oracle speaks true, then perhaps we should prepare. Double the patrols. Watch the borders. Strengthen the garrisons near the mountains."
Another advisor shook his head nervously. "But how can we prepare for what we do not know? We do not even know where this chosen one will appear."
The Emperor's gaze shifted back to the Oracle. "Tell me, old woman. Where? Who? Give me something I can use."
The Oracle's hands trembled as she gripped her staff. "That, I cannot see. His face is hidden, his name not yet spoken. The threads twist and break. All I know is this: when he rises, the world will follow. And those who stand in his way will be swept aside."
The hall was silent again. No one dared breathe too loud.
The Emperor lowered himself back onto the throne. His eyes were calm, but beneath them lay a storm. He had spent his life holding back chaos. He had crushed enemies, silenced traitors, built cities, and raised banners. Now he was told that everything—everything—might crumble because of one unseen figure.
For the first time in decades, he felt powerless.
But he would not show it.
"Very well," he said finally, his tone even. "If prophecy cannot be stopped, then it must be met. Let the chosen one rise. And when he does… this empire will be ready."
The words echoed in the chamber, heavy as stone. The guards shifted their spears. The generals exchanged looks. The Oracle closed her eyes, as if she had already seen what would come.
And the Emperor sat in silence, restless on his throne, knowing that the days ahead would decide the fate of all he had built. He looked at his hands, the hands that had strangled kings, and realized they were trembling.