FEATHERS OF FATE

  Part 1: --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  “Arthur…”

  It began like a whisper in the dark. A voice not of this world—but one buried deep in his soul.

  “You must choose, Arthur… There is no time. Soon, you will stand helpless, caught in the battles to come. You must be ready. Spread your wings, for the sky is yours. Claim it… or watch it burn.

  He is coming…

  Hurry… the fate of the world rests in your hands.”

  The voice faded into silence.

  Far away, in another timeline, in the quiet little town of Twileaf, a boy—fourteen, maybe fifteen—tossed and turned in his bed, drenched in sweat. Tall and lean, with messy black hair and a face still on the cusp of boyhood, his name was Arthur.

  He bolted upright and groaned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Same damn dream for years. Something’s seriously wrong with my brain.”

  He rolled out of bed, stretching the sleep from his limbs. “Welp, better get moving. Can’t miss the trial.”

  The trial—a test set by the provincial elders to uncover young talent, and occasionally break a few egos. It was a doorway to the prestigious academies where the worthy could rise above the limits of flesh and bone, and become something… more.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  For Arthur, an orphan who’d scraped his way through life alone, this trial wasn’t just an opportunity—it was everything. If it weren’t for Bertha, the grumpy old lady next door, he wouldn’t have made it this far. She’d fed him, scolded him, and given him more kindness than he liked to admit.

  As for his parents—well, that was still a mystery. Any time he asked, Bertha would go silent.

  “You’re not ready,” she always said. “Too young. Too naive.”

  Maybe she was right. Or maybe he just wasn’t meant to know.

  Arthur glanced in the mirror. “Guess I’m ready.”

  His outfit was simple and worn. Scuffed leather armor, cracked boots, and a battered old sword hung at his side. Not exactly hero material.

  Then there were the daggers.

  Bertha had given them to him on his twelfth birthday, calling them the Divine Blades. Back then, he’d been thrilled—until he actually used them. They couldn’t even cut a twig, let alone a monster. He’d assumed it was a joke. A twisted old lady’s prank. Maybe they were just ornaments. Or maybe she was messing with him.

  He sighed. “Why the hell am I still staring at myself?”

  With a start, he grabbed his things and dashed downstairs, kicking the front door open.

  “Oi! Young man! Don’t break the damn door! Handle it with care!”

  “Sorry, Bertha! I’m late!” he called back, tugging on his boots as he stumbled out the door.

  “Try not to break your bones too!” she shouted after him, smiling.

  “We’ll all be watching. Do your best, boy!”

  “Thanks, Bertha! I’ll make you proud!”

  She stood in the doorway, watching him disappear down the road toward the town hall, her smile slowly fading.

  “I hope he makes it… I really do,” she whispered.

  “So little time. So precious little time…”

  With a sigh, she turned and limped back into the house.