The first rays of sunlight filtered through the temple banners, casting a solemn golden glow. Krau burst through the main door as if fate itself had kicked him in the back.
"I go in, take the sword, and walk out. Solid plan... right?" he muttered with a nervous smile, advancing toward the altar.
The temple was silent. No sign of Priest Lucius. No guards. Just him and that glorious sword, gleaming as if it were waiting to be stolen by a fool with dreams of heroism.
"That was easier than I thought!" he said aloud, lifting it with both hands.
But no sooner had he turned toward the exit than the great door burst open.
There stood Lucius, his robe still trembling from the sudden movement.
"Ah... hello, Mr. Lucius! I... this isn't what it looks like, is it? Well, goodbye!" Krau shouted before spinning on his heel and darting away like a startled arrow.
"STOP HIM, BY THE GODS! HE HAS THE SWORD!" the priest bellowed, stumbling over his own robe as if even his clothes refused to go with him.
Krau ran, chaos trailing at his heels. Three streets later, two overturned fruit carts, a traumatized dog, and the hysterical scream of a baker were left in his wake. The sword bounced against his back with every stride, like a restless child who couldn't sit still.
"Excuse me, I didn't see that duck!" he shouted as he squeezed between an angry lady and her broom, which whizzed past inches from his ear.
"You just walk in, take the sword, and walk out." Sure, Krau. What could go wrong? Ah yes, a priest with the legs of a gazelle and the lungs of a dragon.
He turned sharply at the corner, dodging a tethered goat that looked at him as if it had known since breakfast that its day was going to go wrong.
Behind him, the voices kept shouting.
"That boy has the temple's sword! Stop the heretic!" a guard yelled, visibly indignant... or just suffocating from the heat.
"Well, technically..." Krau thought. But it wasn't the best time to philosophize about his status as a teenage defiler.
The central market became his improvised battlefield. He dodged baskets, legs, a cake vendor, and a minstrel who wielded his lute like a sword.
"Watch out, crazy boy!" the musician shouted, with more drama than talent.
Krau thought about dropping the sword. Just for a second. The weight, the chaos—it was all too much.
But no. Not after the speech he had given himself that morning in front of the mirror, hands on his hips, hair still tousled.
"Today, my legend begins."
And then, jump out the window.
And then... well, run for your life.
He leaped over some wobbly barrels and turned into a narrow alley. In the distance, he recognized the back wall of the shop where Liora worked.
"If I get there, I'm safe..."
But fate, ever creative, had other plans.
His foot slipped. The ground, treacherous. A lone banana peel, yellow and cursed, sent him tumbling.
"A banana?" he shouted as he rolled in the mud like a shapeless mass.
The sword screeched against the ground and dug in lightly, as if it too were exhausted from all the chasing.
"I've got him!" one of the guards shouted, approaching.
Krau stumbled to his feet. Mud covered him up to his eyelashes, his hands trembled, and his heart pounded in his chest as if it wanted to escape before he did.
He could run. He could try to climb that wall.
But he didn't.
He stood still. Breathing. Listening to the approaching footsteps, like the drumbeat of a sentence.
For the first time all morning, he thought of Darion. Of his stern gaze. Of his sharp voice.
"Duty is not chosen, Krau. Duty is fulfilled."
He looked at the sword. It no longer seemed like a shining promise. Now, it was just a reminder. Of what could never be.
Of what they would never let him try.
"Why does it have to be like this?" he whispered, barely audible.
The guards surrounded him. The priest, panting, raised a trembling finger.
"Thief! Thief! Insolent child!"
Krau lowered his head. Not out of guilt. Not out of fear.
"Adventurer," he said quietly, as if naming it would make it real.
And for a fleeting instant, barely a heartbeat...
The hilt of the sword seemed to pulse with warmth.
As if it had chosen him too.