The Child Of The Eclipse

The Chosen One

"Thank you, Ser Ritchard, for receiving me on such short notice,” Arthus replied, bowing his head in respect. Dust clung to his boots from the long road, his bag still hanging heavily on his shoulder.

“How could I refuse you?” Ritchard smiled, his thick brows softening. “Come inside.” But first, eat. You must be hungry after such a journey.

Arthus gave a small nod. “It is a long story, my friend." I came seeking answers.

Ritchard’s expression grew more serious, though he maintained his calm composure. “Then let us not rush.” You will tell me everything, but only after you’ve rested. A man cannot face mysteries on an empty stomach.

The gates creaked open, and together they entered the estate.

Ritchard’s home was more a fortress than a house. The castle stood high, ringed by defensive walls, each lined with guards in dark armor. The walls were built of brownstone, sturdy and weather-worn, yet the structure bore an undeniable grace. To Arthus, who had grown up in a village where houses were made of timber and straw, the sight was still overwhelming even after years of visiting.

Inside, they walked toward the garden where servants had already laid out a morning feast. The table was simple but well-prepared—bowls of eggs and spiced beef, pitchers of wine, loaves of fresh bread. Waiting there was Lady Floria, Ritchard’s wife, and their son, young Erin.

Lady Floria rose with grace when she saw Arthus. “Welcome to our home, Arthus,” she greeted, her smile warm and genuine. “How is Elena? And your newborn son, Marvin?”

Arthus gave her a deep bow. “Thank you, my lady.” They both sent their greetings and gratitude.”

Her smile brightened as she gestured for him to sit. Erin, seated beside her, folded his small hands neatly in his lap. At only eight years old, he had already carried himself with the discipline of a noble child. Arthus admired him quietly, imagining Marvin growing with the same composure.

They sat, and the servants brought food. Ritchard lifted his cup, motioning toward Arthus. “So, my friend, what brings you here today?”

Arthus hesitated. His eyes flickered toward Lady Floria, then back to Ritchard. “It is no small matter,” he admitted. “I came in search of answers, Answers I cannot find in my village.”

Ritchard leaned back in his chair. “Then speak freely.”

So Arthus did. He told them everything—the day the villagers came to marvel at Marvin’s mark, the dream in which the world froze, and the shadow appeared, its prophecy of fifteen years until ruin. He even spoke of the memory from his childhood, when he had seen the same figure on the road with his father, though at the time he had dismissed it as exhaustion.

As he spoke, the light in Ritchard’s eyes changed. The older man listened carefully, his features tightening with concern. Lady Floria’s hand, resting on the table, grew still.

When Arthus finished, silence hung over the table. Finally, Ritchard cleared his throat and turned to his son. “Erin, go now. Your tutor awaits your lessons.

“Yes, Father.” Erin rose, bowing politely toward Arthus. “Excuse me, Arthus, and please give my greetings to your family.”

Arthus managed a smile, returning the bow. “Thank you, young master." Your kindness honors me.

Once Erin had left, the garden seemed quieter, heavier with unspoken weight.

“This is not random,” Ritchard said at last, his voice low. “I have read of something like this before, though only in fragments from centuries past.” He turned to his wife. “What do you think, my dear?”

Lady Floria’s smile had vanished. Her expression was tense, her tone filled with worry. “If your child is truly the chosen one, then the witches of the west will not remain idle.” We must see the library. I am certain I have read something there, something that might help us.

Arthus’s heart thudded at the word chosen. He had heard whispers of such things all his life, stories told in hushed tones by elders. Never had he imagined his own son would be tied to them.

The three of them rose, leaving the garden feast behind. Together they crossed through the castle’s halls. Arthus’s eyes roamed the great ballroom as they passed, its high ceilings adorned with chandeliers, its walls decorated with portraits of Santorian royalty and their victories. The marble floors gleamed, polished to perfection. He had been here before, but the grandeur always left him feeling small, a man of soil and wood in a house of stone and history.

From the ballroom, they passed into a narrow hallway that opened into the eastern wing of the castle—the library.

The room was immense, the shelves stretching higher than any man could reach without ladders. Scrolls and books filled every corner, the scent of old parchment hanging thick in the air. To Arthus, it was overwhelming, a temple of knowledge far beyond the meager books he had seen in Toleem.

Lady Floria led them to a section marked with an inscription: Witches of the West. Her fingers traced the carved letters briefly before she began scanning the shelves. Arthus lingered close, his eyes restless, his stomach tight with unease.

He had heard of this day all his life, but never had he truly believed it. That the old stories might reach out of the past and clutch his child—it was unbearable.

“Ah,” Lady Floria murmured, pulling a worn book from the shelf. “Here it is.”

Ritchard and Arthus hurried to her side as she opened the book, its pages brittle with age. The title reads:" Darkest Nights."

Her voice lowered as she read aloud: “A child will be born holding the sign of the gods. Followed by warning and chaos. The moon will turn red, and humanity shall be no more.

She turned the page, but the text shifted to other accounts—histories of the witch, records of battles long past, fragments of curses and rituals. “That is all it says,” she admitted. “Nothing more. Nothing that explains how or when."

The words hit Arthus like a hammer. His knees weakened, and he fell to the ground, his hands covering his face. “I am cursed,” he sobbed. “All I ever wanted was a child, but I have brought about humanity’s end.”

Ritchard knelt beside him, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. “Arthus, listen to me. Prophecies are words, not chains. Whether this book speaks the truth or is mad, we will face it together. We have prevailed before, and we will again.

Arthus’s chest heaved with ragged breaths. His heart felt torn between terror and a desperate need for hope.

Lady Floria closed the book carefully, her eyes grave. “The witches may stir, but so may courage. If the boy is marked, then it is for a reason. Do not despair, Arthus. A prophecy is not the end—it is only a warning.”

Arthus lifted his gaze, his vision blurred with tears. He looked between them, the strength of their presence anchoring him against the storm inside. The surrounding library seemed to hum with silence, its countless books bearing witness to his anguish.

At last, he swallowed hard, his voice unsteady. “Then I must believe there is more to learn. If the answers are not here, then I will keep searching. For my son. For all of us."

Ritchard gave a small nod, his grip steady on Arthus’s shoulder. “Then we search together.”

The three of them stood in the vast library, shadows pooling between the shelves, the weight of history pressing in. No clear path lay before them, only the knowledge that the shadow’s warning was no longer a dream.

And yet, at that moment, they stood not as a man broken by despair, nor as nobles bound by duty, but as friends bound by a fragile unity—ready, however uncertainly, to face what was to come.