"Am I really going to die like this?"
He thought, as his eyes slowly closed, vision growing blurry. Darkness crept in, wrapping him in the cold embrace of death.
Suddenly, a loud voice cut through the silence.
"Shut up, you lazy brat! All I asked you to do was clean the ice dungeon. Is that so hard? You're making this harder on yourself. If you don't do your job, you're not getting lunch!"
The boy shot up like a soldier jolted awake, eyes wide as if he'd been reborn.
"YES SIR!!!"
He yelled, instantly scrambling to scrape ice off the floor.
As he worked, panting and exhausted, he muttered under his breath,
"Come on, Gramps… what kind of loving grandparent makes their own grandchild clean a dangerous dungeon that even grown-ups struggle with?"
The muscular old man—sporting a beer belly and a scowl—crossed his arms and declared proudly,
"A handsome and hardworking grandparent, that's who. I assure you."
The boy, no older than thirteen, stared at him with a blank expression.
"And where exactly is this handsome and hardworking grandparent you're talking about?"
He looked around dramatically, eyes narrowed.
Without missing a beat, the grandpa grinned arrogantly and pointed to himself.
"Right in front of you, kid."
The boy didn't even blink.
"Really? All I see is an old man with his belly poking out, who's forcing his only living descendant to work like a slave."
Before the old man could argue, the boy added emotionally,
"Do you know how scared I was? I thought I was going to die before I even had the chance to grow up into a handsome stud who makes all the ladies fall he—"
WHACK!
A heavy fist came down on his head like a hammer.
"SHUT UP BEFORE I EAT ALL THE SANDWICHES I MADE FOR US!!"
The grandpa barked, stomping away.
The boy sat in the ice, holding his head and pouting with a tear in one eye.
"Yeah, the sandwiches you made for us… and then ate eight out of ten, you mad oaf—"
WHACK!
Another blow from above.
"TALK LESS, WORK MORE!!"
Now with two visible lumps growing from his head, the boy stood up again, sulking.
"I don't even like the sandwiches..."
The grandpa spun around.
"WHAT WAS THAT??"
The boy flinched and quickly started smashing the ice again.
"NOTHING, GRAMPS! JUST TALKING ABOUT HOW TASTY THE SANDWICH WILL BE!!"
---
Later that day, they returned to their log cabin on the edge of the village, near the forest. After dinner—where the old man still ate most of the sandwiches—they went to sleep.
That night, the boy had a strange dream.
---
He found himself standing in a vast, open grass field. The wind was gentle, the sky so wide and clear it looked like the earth and heavens met at the horizon.
He laughed as he ran across the plain, arms out like wings—until he tripped and tumbled down a slope.
He landed, oddly softly… in someone's lap.
Looking up, he saw a towering man with a thick red beard and a long scar running down his cheek. The man smiled warmly, but the boy screamed in terror and scrambled back like a frightened animal.
The man raised his hands and said kindly,
"What's wrong, my child?"
He stepped forward, arms outstretched in a friendly gesture.
The boy's eyes widened in horror.
"GET AWAY FROM ME!! I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY! AND IF YOU WANT TO EAT ME—I SWEAR I'M NOT TASTY! ALL I EAT IS FISH SANDWICHES, WHICH ARE SUPER GROSS! PLEASE SPARE ME!"
The man blinked, then let out a hearty laugh.
"Fish sandwiches? That does sound awful. Anyway, my child… I am Theos, the mighty god of war."
He spread his arms as if to showcase himself.
"And I have come to deliver a message: you are one of the Lightborn."
The boy froze in place, completely stunned.
His mouth opened to speak… but no words came out.