Chapter 1: The Chosen Fool

Finn pushed the enormous oak doors open and stepped into the throne room. The polished marble floor gleamed, reflecting the columns of sunlight that streamed down from the high, arched windows. He had to squint for a moment as he walked forward, his boots making a solid, confident sound against the stone. Six months ago, he would have shuffled in here, afraid to make a sound, afraid to be noticed. Now, he walked down the center of the long, red carpet, and every eye was on him.

Courtiers in silks and velvets lined his path. He saw men who commanded armies and women who owned half the kingdom turn to watch him pass. A guard in polished steel armor, a man who would have once shoved him aside without a second thought, gave him a slow, respectful nod. Finn returned the nod, forcing himself to maintain a humble expression, though a smile wanted to form on his face. He had done it. He, Finn Drollery, former scribe’s assistant, had fulfilled the first part of the prophecy.

He clutched the satchel at his side. Inside, wrapped in simple cloth, was the Serpent’s Fang. The fifth and final relic. He could almost picture his journey back in his mind: the bitter cold of the Frostfang Peaks where he retrieved the Sunstone from the beak of a griffin; the damp, dark Glimmering Caves where he had fought off giant spiders to find the Heart of the Mountain; the treacherous coastal cliffs from which he had plucked the Tear of the Mermaid; and the swamp where he wrestled the Crown of the Lizard King from the mire. Each trial had tested him, pushed him to his limits, and made him into the man who now walked toward the throne. A man worthy of being called the Chosen One.

At the far end of the hall, on a raised dais, King Theron sat upon the Golden Throne. He was a large man with a thick, graying beard and a penchant for roaring with laughter. Beside him, Queen Elara sat more composed, her expression unreadable as she watched his approach. On four velvet cushions arranged before the throne lay the other relics: the Sunstone, a smooth yellow rock that seemed to absorb the light; the Heart of the Mountain, a chunk of raw, uncut crystal; the Tear of the Mermaid, a sphere of blue glass; and the Crown of the Lizard King, a circlet of tarnished bronze. They looked unimpressive on their own, but together, they were the key. The key to defeating the Shadow Lord.

Finn reached the steps of the dais and knelt, bowing his head. He did not have to look to know that every person in the room was holding their breath, waiting. He had practiced this moment in his head a thousand times during the long ride back to the capital.

“Your Majesty,” he said, his voice clear and steady. He was surprised at how calm he sounded. “I have returned. I bring the fifth relic.”

King Theron leaned forward, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Rise, Finn! Rise, boy! Let us see it!”

Finn stood and reached into his satchel. He carefully unwrapped the cloth and held up the Serpent’s Fang. It was a long, curved tooth, yellowed with age and sharpened to a point. He presented it with both hands, offering it to the King.

For a moment, the King just stared at it. Then he let out a great bellow of laughter that made the throne room rumble. He stood, walked down the steps, and clapped Finn on the shoulder with a hand that felt heavy enough to fell an ox.

“Incredible! You’ve done it! By the gods, you’ve actually done it!” the King boomed, turning to face the assembled court. “Behold! The hero of our age! The Chosen One who will deliver us from the darkness!”

The room erupted. Cheers and applause filled the grand space, bouncing off the stone walls and high ceiling. Finn looked out at the sea of faces—happy, relieved, admiring. He saw Baron Falk, his master-at-arms, the man who had taught him how to hold a sword without dropping it. The stern-faced warrior was actually smiling, a rare sight. He saw Lady Isolde, the court sorceress who had taught him to identify magical herbs, and she inclined her head in a gesture of respect. He even saw Master Helman, the old scribe he used to work for, standing near the back of the crowd, his mouth agape in astonishment. Finn had spent years cataloging tax records for that man, and now he stood before the King, hailed as a savior.

He permitted himself a small, genuine smile. All the pain, all the fear, all the lonely nights on the road had been worth it for this. To give these people hope. To be the one who mattered.

“The prophecy is nearly complete!” the King declared, his voice cutting through the applause. “With the five relics gathered, Finn Drollery will be granted the strength to march upon the Shadow Lord’s fortress and end his reign of terror for good!”

More cheers. Finn placed the Serpent’s Fang on the last empty cushion, completing the set. He looked at the five objects, the culmination of his life’s great purpose. They didn't appear powerful, but the prophecy said that once united in the presence of the Chosen One, their true power would be unlocked. He waited for a surge of energy, a flash of light, anything. Nothing happened. He supposed it required a formal ritual.

“And now,” the King continued, gesturing to his side, “for the final benediction before you embark on your last, most glorious quest! Advisor Valerius, if you would do the honors?”

A man stepped forward from beside the throne. Advisor Valerius was a thin, severe-looking man with hair slicked back so tightly it looked painted on. He was the kingdom’s treasurer, a man Finn had only seen in passing, always buried in scrolls and ledgers. Finn had assumed the High Priest would be the one to perform the blessing, but perhaps Valerius had a ceremonial role he was unaware of.

Valerius did not carry a holy symbol or a sacred text. He held a large, leather-bound book—the kind Finn recognized instantly. It was a ledger. Finn frowned slightly. An odd choice for a blessing. Valerius stopped next to the display of relics and opened the book. The room grew quiet, an expectant hush falling over the court.

The advisor cleared his throat, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembled nobles. He did not look at Finn.

“My lords, my ladies, esteemed members of the court,” Valerius began, his voice dry and devoid of any emotion. “We are gathered today to mark the successful conclusion of Project Aegis, more colloquially known as the ‘Prophecy of the Chosen One.’ Before we proceed to the final stage, a full accounting of the associated expenditures is required by royal decree.”

Finn blinked. Expenditures? Project Aegis? He glanced at the King. King Theron was examining his fingernails, suddenly very interested in them. He looked at the Queen. She was staring at her lap, her face pale.

“Item one,” Valerius read, his voice flat. “The procurement and specialist training of one golden eagle for the purpose of a dramatic, long-distance scroll delivery. This includes custom-forged talon-rings to hold the scroll. Total: three hundred and seven gold sovereigns.”

A low murmur went through the crowd. Finn’s confusion deepened. The golden eagle had been the sign, the divine messenger that had started it all. It had dropped the ancient scroll right at his feet as he was leaving the scribe’s office.

“Item two,” the advisor continued, unperturbed. “The crafting of one ‘ancient’ prophetic scroll. Vellum sourced from the Western Isles, ink mixed with crushed sapphire for a shimmering effect, and calligraphy services rendered by the royal cartographer. Total: one hundred and fifty gold sovereigns.”

Finn’s stomach twisted. He remembered how the ink had shimmered in the sunlight. He had thought it was magic.

“Item three: The armament of the Chosen One. One ‘enchanted’ longsword, ‘forged in dragon’s fire.’ In truth, high-grade steel from the Ironwood mines, polished to a high sheen and fitted with a hilt containing several large, albeit flawed, emeralds. Total: six hundred gold sovereigns.”

Finn instinctively touched the hilt of the sword at his side. He had named it ‘Hope’s Edge.’ He had slept with it by his side for months.

“Item four: The fabrication and strategic placement of five ‘sacred relics.’ “Sub-item A: The Sunstone. One large, river-worn stone, painted yellow, and coated in a lacquer to resist fading. Acquired from the royal gardens. Cost of paint and lacquer: two silver pieces. Bonus paid to the guardsman who flew it to the Frostfang Peaks and deposited it in an abandoned griffin’s nest: seventy-five gold sovereigns.”

A few nervous coughs broke the silence in the room. Finn felt the blood drain from his face. He looked at the dull yellow rock on the cushion.

“Sub-item B: The Heart of the Mountain. One sizable quartz crystal, rejected by the royal jewelers for its numerous internal fractures. Planted in the Glimmering Caves by a team of royal miners. Cost of miners’ bonus and rations: ninety gold sovereigns. Cost of purchasing several dozen large, non-venomous spiders to enhance cave ambiance: twelve gold sovereigns.”

This time, a distinct titter came from a corner of the room where a group of young lords stood. Finn’s hands clenched into fists. He had almost been trapped in that cave. He had thought the spiders were minions of the Shadow Lord.

“Sub-item C: The Tear of the Mermaid. One glass bauble, formerly part of a chandelier in the west wing ballroom, which was damaged during last year’s winter gala. Dropped into a tidal pool by a paid fisherman. Cost of fisherman’s silence: twenty gold sovereigns.”

More nobles were openly smiling now, hiding their mouths behind their hands. The master-at-arms, Baron Falk, was no longer smiling. He was staring at the floor, his jaw tight.

“Sub-item D: The Crown of the Lizard King. A bronze stage prop from the Royal Theatre’s production of ‘The Marsh Prince.’ Artificially aged with acid and mud. Planted in the Great Mire by a servant. Cost of servant’s new boots after he ruined his old ones: five gold sovereigns.”

A wave of muffled laughter rippled through the court. It was no longer restrained. People were turning to each other, their shoulders shaking. The entire thing—his quest, his purpose, his destiny—was being read out as a list of expenses.

“Sub-item E: The Serpent’s Fang.” Valerius paused and looked directly at the object Finn had just delivered. “Carved from a bull’s horn by a local artisan, then buried for three weeks to achieve an ‘aged’ appearance. Cost of artisan’s fee and the horn: ten gold sovereigns.”

The room was buzzing now. The pretense of a ceremony was gone. The air was thick with barely suppressed amusement. Finn stood frozen, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and a growing, sickening horror. He looked from the cheap relics to the smiling faces of the nobles. He looked at the King, who finally met his gaze. The King offered a weak, apologetic shrug.

Valerius held up a hand to silence the growing noise. He looked down at his ledger one last time.

“For the grand total,” he announced, his voice carrying with perfect clarity into every corner of the throne room, “of the Kingdom’s investment in the ‘Prophecy of Finn Drollery,’ including all retainers, bribes, props, and associated travel expenses... twelve thousand, four hundred and sixty-two gold sovereigns.”

The advisor closed his book with a soft thud.

For a single, taut moment, the room was completely silent.

Then, from the crowd, Duke Alistair, a man famous for his parties and his cruelty, let out a short, sharp chuckle. It was the sound of a spring breaking.

It was followed by another laugh, then another. The sound grew, swelling from a few scattered snickers into a full-throated, rolling wave of laughter. The nobles, the ladies, the courtiers, the very people who had cheered him minutes before, were now laughing at him. They pointed at him, slapping their knees, wiping tears of mirth from their eyes. The hero of the age was the butt of a very, very expensive joke.

Finn stood motionless on the dais, the laughter washing over him. The Serpent’s Fang, the symbol of his final triumph, lay on its velvet cushion. It looked like a piece of bone. He looked at the King, who was now smiling, sharing a word with a guffawing duchess. He looked at the Queen, who pressed a handkerchief to her lips, though he couldn't tell if it was to hide a smile or her shame. His quest, his identity, his entire world, had just been dismantled, item by item, in a financial report. He was not the Chosen One. He was just the fool they had chosen.