“You’re right.” I smiled, spreading my arms as I walked. “There is only one. And I am”—I paused for dramatic effect, then did a single head bang like I was a rock star and the beat dropped—“the Chosen One.”
The villagers gasped, playing their part of background noise/setting/ambiance/etc. beautifully.
“To be sure, whenever we have faced strife and needed saving in days past, there has only ever been one hero,” the old man said. “And yet, even though we only have one ancient sword with a great deal of meaning attached to it that we’re prepared to bestow on the first person who comes by claiming to be the Chosen One, one great bedchamber and fattened calf, limited sword trainers on standby, and only one World’s Greatest Stallion, perhaps we could make accommodations.”
Courtney turned on him and smiled that dangerous smile of hers that made me wish I carried bear spray. “I don’t want your medieval participation trophies.”
The old man chuckled even though he couldn’t have a clue what a participation trophy was. Mid-laugh, he had a moist coughing fit and came alarmingly close to asphyxiating before finally recovering. “Relax, child. All is well. It seems the gods have given us two to save us. One to lead, and one to assist.”
“You mean whichever one of us isn’t the Chosen One is thesidekick?” Courtney’s eyes bulged.
That simply wouldn’t do. Turning, I addressed the crowd like a president about to make a lot of promises I didn’t intend to keep. “In addition to her obvious anger issues, Courtney is, in general, a menace to society. She’s lazy, legitimately doesn’t believe in birds, and regularly uses the wordjellyin place ofjealous. I don’t know about you, but I think a Chosen One should be able to express her emotions without turning a sugary breakfast spread into an adjective. In conclusion, if Courtney is the Chosen One, she’s the poorly Chosen One.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd. There was a lot of nodding and arm-crossing.
“You need to leave,” Courtney snapped, jumping off the cart, nearly stomping my toes. “I don’t know how you followed me, but you’re not needed here. This was alwaysmydream.”
Cute she thought I was inherdream. “This is my dream, actually,” I said because I would not allow her to assert her dominance inmyhead.
She smirked. Come to think of it, her lips spent most of their time smirking at me, and it was annoying. “Stop pretending you want to be the Chosen One,” she said. “We both know you don’t. You use safety scissors. There’s no way you want to arm yourself with sharp objects and go to war.”
It was true. But if I pretended I wanted this, it might make Courtney angry enough that she’d march out of my head. “This is my destiny,” I said. “Need I remind you it’s my birthday? When have you ever heard of a main character getting swept into an adventure onsomeone else’sbirthday?”
“I’ve never heard of a Chosen One having a magical awakening atthirty.”
“I’m not thirty.”
By this time, the prophecy-obsessed old man had slowly worked his way off the cart. Three villagers had to assist him. His joints practically creaked as he clambered to the ground, but he managed. I wasn’t sure what his role in the kingdom was—mentor or mage perhaps—but I didn’t want to ask because Courtney seemed to know. I couldn’t let her know she knew more than I did, even for a second. Especially because it wasmydream.
“We’ve…” The old man paused for a good thirty seconds to catch his breath.
Crickets chirped. Someone in the crowd coughed. Winston let out a bloodcurdling scream from where he was being tortured on the other side of the courtyard, and a few villagers craned their necks to watch.
The old man straightened at last. “Your claims that Bryce secretly does not wish to be the Chosen One do not alarm me, Lady Courtney. We’ve had marvelous luck with reluctant heroes in days past.”
I beamed. Resident Old Man was an absolute unit of a wingman. “Exactly.” I gave him a hearty slap on the back, then winced when I felt something crack. “More evidence that proves I’m the Chosen One, and you’re…” I gave Courtney a look. “A damsel in distress? Or, at best, the wimpy sidekick who dies.”
“Says the guy who’s scared of paper cuts,” she snarled. “Real hero material.”
I only smiled, cooking up my next verbal volley. The game was on, but this was one round she would not win.
CHAPTER 7INWHICHINFORMATIONISDUMPED,ANDWEDON’TCARE
COURTNEY
When Bryce showed up, I’d whipped out a princess wave and a smile and pretended I had it all together. It reminded me of my old life. Wearing a cape. Faking it. I hated that. But I hated the idea of him getting to live out my childhood dream more.
We argued in the street until twilight melted into night, Bryce’s rebuttals growing increasingly pathetic. Though I was clearly decimating him at the Chosen One thing, I was somewhat impressed; Bryce Flannery adapted to a new world quickly for a man who’d once delivered a ten-minute speech on the dangers of flip-flops. (I’d found out that unreliable footwear was a continuous source of annoyance in Bryce’s life when he caught me barefoot in our backyard once and decided the way he was going to torture me that day was by listing all the safety hazards of open-toed shoes.)
At last, the man wearing the crown—who I had decided must be the king—got hungry and suggested we head back to the castle. We piled into some stuffy carriages the king seemed deeply proud of, but my kidneys deeply hated, each bump and jolt rattling them around inside my body.
Bryce and I sat on one side of the carriage with the super-olddude wedged between us. The king lounged on the other side, trying to look luxurious and noble but failing because every time we hit a pothole, his crown slipped over his eyebrows, and he had to adjust it.
The farther into the city we traveled, the grander the houses became. The city was layered, each street higher than the next, leading to a castle on the edge of a cliff—the tallest point in the city. With the whimsical, impractical architecture of some of the buildings, the glowing mushrooms recessed in the shadows, and the way everyone we passed gave us a bright smile and a cheerful greeting, I felt more like I was on a movie set than in an alternate reality.
Meanwhile, Gramps had launched into another prophecy spiel that nobody had asked for. I wasn’t sure why he was so fixated on the prophecy. Everyone knew prophecies were always more misleading than they were helpful, but I guessed that was the benefit of growing up with books, movies, and video games to reference, rather than living in an actual world with magic.
The old guy said the prophecy was written in an ancient language no one could understand, but he was certain he’d finally cracked the code. Apparently, one of us was destined to overthrow either an evil wizard or a dragon or maybe a hedgehog. (Naturally, the translation grew a bit fuzzy when it came to pinpointing the Evil One’s actual identity.) The prophecy stated the wizard/dragon/hedgehog would launch a campaign to destroy the peace the old guy had worked so hard to create. As far as I could gather, the wizard/dragon/hedgehog hadn’t actually done anything evil yet, but still, the old dude was convinced they were “on the rise” despite having little to no evidence that was the case.
