Elias Thorne had always believed that death, when it finally arrived, would at least possess the courtesy to come with a degree of dignity, perhaps during a quiet evening spent reading a respectable novel or after achieving something noteworthy like finally organising the kitchen drawers that had tormented him for years. Instead, his life ended on a rain-slicked Tuesday afternoon because he had glanced down at his phone to check whether the office coffee machine had been fixed yet, stepped off the pavement without looking properly, and collided with a delivery scooter whose rider was, at that precise instant, executing an evasive manoeuvre to avoid a pigeon that had decided the middle of the road was an excellent place to contemplate existential questions.
The impact was neither cinematic nor slow-motion. It was simply loud, painful, and final. One moment Elias existed in the ordinary world of spreadsheets, lukewarm tea, and mild seasonal allergies; the next moment he did not exist at all, or at least not in any form recognisable to the National Health Service.
When awareness returned, it arrived wrapped in blinding white light, the kind that usually accompanies either near-death experiences or particularly aggressive fluorescent office lighting. Elias blinked, expecting hospital beeps or perhaps the concerned face of a paramedic. What he received instead was an echoing voice that sounded like several people speaking in perfect unison while suffering from mild laryngitis.
"Arise, chosen one," the voice intoned with grave formality. "The hour of destiny has come. Take up the sacred blade Valtorion and deliver the realms from the encroaching shadow of the Demon Sovereign."
Elias, still lying flat on what felt like cold marble, squinted upwards. A collection of luminous figures hovered above him—tall, robed, faintly glowing, and wearing expressions that suggested they had read from the same script one too many times. One of them, a woman with hair like spun moonlight, extended a hand containing a sword hilt wrapped in silver filigree. The blade itself shimmered with an inner light that promised both holiness and a very sharp edge.
He accepted the sword because refusing seemed impolite under the circumstances, and also because his hands—now noticeably longer, paler, and attached to arms that possessed actual muscle definition—moved of their own accord. The moment his fingers closed around the grip, a warm pulse travelled up his arm, accompanied by a faint musical chime that would have been majestic if it had not reminded him strongly of the notification sound on his old microwave.
"Behold," another voice declared, this one belonging to a bearded man whose beard appeared to have its own personal wind machine, "the blood of ancient heroes flows through you once more. Lord Aric Valtor, last scion of the Silver Line, awakens to fulfil the prophecy."
Elias opened his mouth to explain that his name was Elias, not Aric, that he came from a city where the tallest structure was a multi-storey car park rather than a crystalline spire, and that his most heroic act to date involved once carrying three bags of groceries up four flights of stairs without using the lift. Before a single syllable could emerge, however, a tidal wave of memories that were not his own crashed into his mind.
He saw childhoods spent in marble halls, sword drills at dawn, tutors droning about ley lines and demon incursions, a mother's gentle smile before she vanished in a politically convenient "accident," a father's stern face before he rode off to war and never returned. The memories settled like dust after a long journey, leaving him dizzy, disoriented, and in possession of far too much information about court etiquette for someone who had spent most of his previous life eating instant noodles in pyjamas.
"Thank you," he managed at last, because even in a new body with a new identity, basic manners persisted. "This is… unexpected."
The luminous figures exchanged glances that suggested they had anticipated more enthusiasm.
"The prophecy foretold your return," the bearded one said patiently. "The sacred blade has chosen you. The realms await your leadership."
Elias looked down at himself. The clothing consisted of fitted leather reinforced with silver plates, boots that reached mid-calf, and a cloak that managed to look both regal and impractical. His hair—long, silver, and inexplicably free of knots—fell across his shoulders in a manner that would have required at least forty minutes with a professional stylist in his previous life. He felt stronger, taller, healthier, and yet somehow more vulnerable than he had ever felt while waiting for buses in the rain.
"And the part about being invincible?" he asked carefully. "The bit where arrows bounce off, wounds heal instantly, and I always land on my feet no matter how high I fall?"
Silence descended upon the chamber. The luminous figures shifted uncomfortably, the way people do when someone has asked an awkward question at a family gathering.
"The prophecy speaks of victory through courage and sacrifice," the woman with moonlight hair replied after a long pause. "Divine protection manifests in accordance with the needs of destiny."
Elias nodded slowly. "So that's a no on the plot armour, then."
Another pause, longer this time. "We prefer the term 'narrative favour.' And yes, that particular endowment appears to have been… overlooked in the transference process."
"Overlooked," Elias repeated. He tested the word, tasting its bureaucratic flavour. "Like forgetting to renew car insurance, or misplacing the warranty card for a new toaster."
The bearded figure cleared his throat. "The sacred duties remain unchanged. You must journey to the shattered kingdoms, unite the fractured alliances, gather the lost relics, and stand against the Demon Sovereign before his shadow consumes the light of the world."
Elias looked at the sword in his hand. It felt balanced, perfectly weighted, and undoubtedly magical. He also suspected that when swung incorrectly it would cut him just as efficiently as any ordinary blade.
"Right," he said. "And if I die messily somewhere between gathering the first relic and attempting the second alliance?"
The figures offered no immediate answer. Their glow dimmed slightly, as though embarrassment could manifest as reduced luminosity.
"Then," the woman said at length, "the prophecy will require adjustment. Destiny is flexible when necessary."
Elias exhaled through his nose. "Comforting."
Before further discussion could occur, the marble floor beneath him shimmered. Light flared, the chamber dissolved, and he found himself standing on a windswept hill overlooking a valley dotted with villages, forests, and the distant silhouette of a dark citadel that radiated menace even from several days' travel away.
A horse—black, magnificent, and already saddled—waited patiently nearby, as though it had been expecting him for centuries. A leather satchel hung from the saddle horn, containing maps, coin, dried rations, and a single folded letter sealed with crimson wax.
Elias approached the horse cautiously. It regarded him with intelligent eyes and nickered softly.
"I don't suppose you come with instructions," he murmured.
The horse snorted, flicked an ear, and began walking down the hill without waiting for him to mount.
Elias stared after it for several seconds, then sighed and jogged to catch up. The sword bounced against his hip with every step, the cloak billowed dramatically despite the absence of wind strong enough to justify such theatrics, and somewhere in the back of his mind a small, persistent voice observed that this was all rather ridiculous.
Still, ridiculous or not, the valley stretched before him, filled with dangers that would not politely wait for narrative convenience. Goblins waited in ruins, bandits waited on roads, kings waited in castles with suspiciously long tax ledgers, and somewhere far ahead the Demon Sovereign waited with the patience of someone who knows the hero has arrived without his most important safety feature.
Elias adjusted the sword belt, squared his shoulders, and started walking.
After all, he reasoned, if the universe had forgotten to make him invincible, perhaps it had also forgotten to make the monsters unbeatable.
It seemed a reasonable gamble under the circumstances.