"Rick! Rick!"
Christie's voice cut through the fog-like stillness of the barn, clear and commanding, with a hint of sharp impatience that somehow sounded motherly. The sound shattered Rick's drifting thoughts, scattering them like startled birds. A snap of her fingers followed, crisp and right before his face, and reality came rushing back.
Rick blinked, once, twice. The mist in his mind peeled away, revealing the dimly lit barn around him – crooked beams, the smell of hay and damp wood, and dust dancing in the lantern's warm, amber glow. The world reassembled itself, piece by piece, until he remembered where he was.
"Miss Christie?" he murmured, blinking up at her, his silver lashes catching the light.
Christie sighed, a sound that conveyed both exasperation and fondness. "You've been staring into space for five minutes, Rick." She leaned closer, her brown eyes narrowing with concern. "What were you thinking about? You looked… far away."
Her tone softened at the end, like a teacher's gentle reprimand.
Rick rubbed his temple and managed a small, crooked smile. "Apart from feeling weak," he said, "I think I'm okay, Miss Christie."
"You think?" she echoed, arching an eyebrow.
He shrugged, feeling sheepish. When it came to magic theory, Rick could out-argue an adult, but under Christie's gaze, he looked every bit his age again. Almost.
Christie studied him for a moment longer, then exhaled through her nose. "If you say so. But promise me something, Rick – if anything changes, you'll tell me. Don't hide it."
Her voice carried equal parts warmth and warning, making it impossible to tell which was heavier.
Before Rick could respond, another voice rolled in – deep, dry, and edged with the gravel of age and irony.
"Good," Kevin said from the doorway, his shadow spilling long across the straw. "Because what we're about to discuss, boy, might just decide your future."
Rick straightened instinctively, something in Kevin's tone pressing against his spine like gravity.
"Yes, Mr. Kevin," he said, trying to sound braver than he felt.
Kevin's laugh was low and brief, more a release of air than amusement. "Hard to believe this old ruin was once called Lepanga," he muttered, glancing past them toward the horizon where twilight bled across the village remains. "The Sanctuary Beyond Sorrow." A pause, then a wry smirk. "Now there's a name that aged like spoiled wine."
Christie's lips curved, just slightly. Her husband had a habit of turning history into theatre.
Kevin stepped forward, the lantern light painting gold across his face. "This place," he began, his voice dropping into that half-serious, half-storyteller rhythm, "used to thrum with life. Streets bursting with laughter, tavern songs spilling into the alleys, the smell of roasted maize, and fiddles crying at midnight. Children chased fireflies until dawn, and lovers swore eternity under these same stars."
He gestured toward the broken world beyond the barn door – the cracked wells, the empty paths, and the wind that carried more dust than dreams.
"Now?" His voice roughened. "It's a husk, a corpse pretending to breathe."
Rick's gaze lifted, wide-eyed. In his mind's eye, the laughter and light Kevin described flickered briefly to life – ghosts of a city that once dared to hope.
Kevin's tone darkened, slow and deliberate. "Lepanga's ruler, Josh Lepanga – a man beloved by his people, compassionate and kind. But kindness, Rick… kindness is a candle, and candles don't last long when the wind of fear begins to blow."
Rick frowned. "Fear of what, Mr. Kevin?"
Before Kevin could answer, Christie spoke softly, her tone threading the space between explanation and warning. "Of prophecy, dear. Of fate."
Kevin's eyes gleamed. "Aye, years ago, a traveller came to these lands – not a merchant, not a bard, but a seer, a prophet of old age." He let the words linger, tasting their weight. "He offered the king a reading, a gesture of goodwill, they said. But fate," he chuckled without humour, "is a cruel beast to bargain with."
The lantern flickered, and Rick felt a shiver run up his arms.
"The seer," Kevin continued, "pushed himself too far. His power broke him. They say his eyes burned white as he tore the veil of time itself – and saw something no mortal should ever see."
He clenched his fist, the sound of his knuckles echoing faintly in the still air.
"Before he died, he left a curse, a parting gift, you could say."
Rick's heart stuttered. "What did he say?"
Kevin's voice dropped, low and resonant, almost reverent. "Beware, he said, for there will come a child – mysterious, fated – who will kill you and bring ruin to this haven."
The words hung in the barn like cold breath, and even the wind outside seemed to hold itself still.
Rick swallowed hard, his fingers curling in his lap. The phrase a child who will bring ruin clawed at his chest. It shouldn't have meant anything, and yet… something in him stirred – faint, burning, ancient.
Christie's eyes lingered on Kevin, admiration flickering through them despite the heavy air. For a moment, she wanted to smile, to clap, but she held it back. There was a sacredness to stories like these, especially when the boy listening might very well be the prophecy's echo.
Kevin straightened, the gravity of his tale pulling the room tighter. "Josh Lepanga," he said, "brooded on those words until they poisoned him. What if the prophecy was true? What if the child already lived among them?"
The weight of history pressed on every syllable. "So the king did what fearful men always do – he struck first."
Christie's face darkened; she knew this part.
Kevin's voice hardened. "He decreed that every child be cast out of Lepanga. One week. That's all they were given. One week to abandon homes, hearths, hope. Those who refused…" He hesitated, eyes dimming. "Those who refused vanished."
Rick could almost hear it – the cries of mothers, the crash of doors, the silence that followed. The image felt too vivid, too familiar, like a half-remembered dream.
"Fear," Kevin said quietly, "makes monsters of the kindest souls."
The silence that followed was heavy and human.
"And so," he murmured, "Lepanga – once a beacon of hope – became a fortress of despair."
The wind rose again, wailing through the gaps in the barn walls, dragging dust and old sorrow in its wake. The lantern flickered weakly, shadows swaying across their faces like ghosts of the past.
Rick stared at his trembling hands. He didn't know why, but the name Lepanga pulsed in his mind like a heartbeat he couldn't forget. It was as if the ruins themselves were whispering to him – welcome home.
Christie reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "It's a sad story, Rick," she said softly. "But stories, no matter how dark, often hide truths worth finding."
Rick nodded slowly, the light catching in his eyes – the reflection of something deeper stirring, something old and waking.
Outside, the wind carried the last sigh of the dying day. Inside, three shadows leaned together beneath the fragile light of a single lantern.
As night thickened, Rick felt it – a pulse within, neither fear nor defiance, but inevitability. Somewhere beyond the ruins, beneath the weight of centuries and ash, destiny waited.
And it had already whispered his name.