His name was a magical nuisance. It was so long, it bored Death to life.
The sun beat down on the village of Oakhaven, a speck on the continent forgotten by more civilized kingdoms. Despite the medieval setting, the scent of strangely modern fried chicken sometimes drifted from the tavern.
For three-year-old Alistair, his first memory was not of his parents, but of a stray dog and a very dead cat. It set the tone for his life.
Now ten, that life was defined by one thing: his name.
"Alistair Cornelius Archibald Fitzgerald Reginald Maximilian Pendragon the Third!" the schoolmaster bellowed, his face red. "Stop doodling!"
The other children snickered. To them, he was just "Pendragon," or more often, "Hey, you."
He was an orphan, his parents and the mysterious grandmother who'd named him all gone. The other kids said his name was a curse. Alistair was starting to believe them.
His only friend was the village baker's daughter, Elara. "It's a noble name," she'd say, trying to cheer him up.
"It's a sentence," Alistair would grumble.
The teasing reached a peak when the village bully, Boric, shoved him during a game. "Try and catch me, Pendragon!" he yelled.
Alistair, furious, gave chase. He didn't see the well's low wall. His shin connected hard, and he tumbled forward, the world spinning into a final, dark crack.
Then, he was somewhere else. A grey, windowless room. A single, flickering fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
Behind a cheap-looking desk sat a skeleton in a slightly-too-big black robe, scratching on a form with a quill.
"Next," the skeleton said, not looking up. "Name?"
Alistair took a deep breath. "Alistair Cornelius Archibald Fitzgerald—"
Death's quill stopped. He slowly raised his skull. "What was that?"
"Reginald Maximilian Pendragon the Third," Alistair finished.
Death stared. He pulled out a massive scroll, his bony finger trailing down the list. He grunted, pulled out another. And another.
"Seriously?" Death finally groaned, slumping in his chair. "This is a twelve-syllable, multi-clause nightmare. I have a quota, you know! The paperwork for this... it's unbelievable."
He glared at Alistair, who stood confused.
"You know what? No. Just... no." Death made a shooing motion with his hand. "Go on, get out of here. It's not worth the ink. Tell your grandmother she wins this round."
A force shoved Alistair backwards. He gasped, shooting upright in the grass beside the well, his head pounding. Boric and the other kids were staring, their faces pale with terror.
The journey of our little hero begins here, marking the start of an adventurous and meaningful path ahead.