So, funny thing about ancient prophecies: turns out, they tend to come with fine print. Fine print that apparently includes "accidentally attracting the attention of a doomsday cult."
Let me back up.
After the whole "vision from the void" thing, Rowan and I did what any rational people would do: we decided to go to the market. Because obviously the best way to process existential dread is through aggressive snack consumption.
Plus, Rowan owed me a drink after watching me get branded by cosmic forces, so really, this was self-care.
Anyway, we were sitting at a small outdoor stall, me nursing a suspiciously strong cider and Rowan inhaling a meat pie like it owed him money, when the weirdness started.
"Do you feel like we're being watched?" I asked.
Rowan shrugged. "We're always being watched. You did swordfight a duke's son in the town square last month."
"That was one time!"
"And you set his hair on fire."
"That was an accident."
"And you called him a 'privileged potato' in front of his entire guard."
"Technically true."
Rowan smirked. "Point is, people are used to watching you."
"Yeah, but not like this."
Because this wasn't the usual "oh look, it's that disaster of a swordsman" kind of attention. This was different.
Across the square, I saw them.
Three figures, all wearing deep crimson robes, hoods pulled low over their faces. Standing completely still.
Watching me.
"Uh, Rowan?" I nudged him.
"Yeah?"
"Red robes. Ten o'clock."
He looked, frowned. "Okay, that's… probably bad."
"Mm-hmm."
"Should we…?"
"Yep."
We stood up and started walking in the opposite direction because guess what? I've seen how this kind of thing plays out. The idiots who run toward the suspicious robed figures? They don't get sequels.
Unfortunately, the robed figures didn't get the memo about personal space.
They followed us.
We ducked into a narrow side street. They followed.
We turned down another alley. Still there.
"Okay," Rowan said, hand going to the hilt of his dagger. "Plan?"
"I'm thinking we—"
A figure stepped in front of us.
Out of nowhere.
Tall. Robed. The crimson fabric of their hood pulled so low I couldn't see their face. Their hands were gloved, and when they spoke, their voice was low and distorted, like it was coming from underwater.
"Marked one."
"Okay," I said, backing up. "Couple things: One, hi, yes, marked—super fun detail, thanks for noticing. Two, what exactly do you want?"
The figure's hood tilted slightly. "To prepare you."
"Yeah, see, I'm good on preparation, thanks," I said. "Lots of prep happening already. Emotionally, spiritually, physically—"
"The Trial approaches."
"Right, right, the Trial—love that journey for me. Just curious, are there any opt-out clauses for this whole thing?"
The figure lifted a gloved hand—and suddenly, the sigil on my hand burned.
I stumbled back with a shout, clutching my palm. The crimson-robed figure took a step closer.
"You bear the mark of the Forgotten."
"Cool, cool, cool. Super ominous."
"You will face the Trial. You will face Him."
"Him who?" I demanded. "Because if this is about Star, he's a menace, but he's not that bad—"
The figure's head turned toward Star, who was sitting at my feet, licking his paw like he wasn't the catalyst for a looming mystical disaster.
Star stared up at the robed figure. His nose twitched.
"The Familiar knows."
"Knows what?" I demanded.
The figure didn't answer. Because at that moment, Rowan finally decided diplomacy was overrated.
He lunged forward, dagger flashing.
The figure moved.
Faster than human. Rowan's dagger hit empty air—and then suddenly the figure was behind him.
"Rowan!" I shouted.
Too late. The figure grabbed Rowan by the back of his shirt and—
—flung him across the alley.
Rowan crashed into a stack of crates with a very undignified grunt.
"Nope!" I said, drawing my sword. "That's it. You don't throw Rowan. Only I get to make Rowan suffer."
The figure tilted their head. Then they lunged.
I met them head-on.
Sword against gloved hand. My blade should have cut through them—it didn't. They caught the edge of my sword like it was made of paper.
I dug my heels in, forcing the weight of the sword forward. My hand burned where the sigil pulsed.
The figure's hood shifted upward. "You are unready."
"Yeah," I grunted. "That's kind of my whole deal."
And then Star—dear, sweet, chaotic Star—decided it was time to contribute.
With a furious squeak, he launched himself at the figure's leg and bit down.
The figure jerked back.
"Yes!" I shouted. "Bite him!"
Star bit harder.
The figure hissed. And then—
—they vanished.
Just… gone.
I stumbled back, panting. Rowan pulled himself out of the broken crates, looking deeply unimpressed.
"Did the rabbit seriously just save us?" Rowan asked.
"Yeah," I said, looking at Star, who was now sitting calmly at my feet, cleaning his ears. "Let's… not think too hard about that."
Bad News and Worse News
So here's the current situation:
1. Definitely cursed.
2. Being hunted by crimson-robed weirdos who think I'm destined for some kind of Trial.
3. Apparently, Star is involved in this mess on some cosmic level.
4. Rowan has a concussion. (Probably.)
"Okay," I said. "New plan. We find the Seer. Get some answers. And maybe—just maybe—we don't die."
"Love that for us," Rowan said weakly, rubbing his head.
I patted Star on the head. "Alright, buddy. Lead the way."
Star twitched his nose and hopped forward.
"Just so we're clear," Rowan said as we followed the rabbit down the alley, "if the Seer turns out to be another robed weirdo, I'm leaving you behind."
"Fair."
Next stop: Prophecy. Death. Or possibly just more biting.
Stay tuned.