Lucy A. McLaren

It started with a sacred weapon.

Arthur was told from a young age he would inherit his father’s sword—his grandfather’s before him—and take up his rightful place as Hero of the Realm. And yet…

And yet, the idea left him hollow. It wasn’t even fear—well, he had to admit, perhaps a little fear—but rather a resounding certainty within his heart that he wasn’t meant to be the next Hero. The sword didn’t sit right in his palm despite its fine balance and quality, didn’t sing for him as his father once told him it would—a soft metallic hum of ages past, of destiny fulfilled—though he’d been too ashamed to admit it to anyone.

He’d always hoped his father would live past his sixteenth birthday, would keep the sword and title that came with it and Arthur could seek another life for himself.

But the life of the Hero is one filled with risk and it simply wasn’t to be.

After his father’s death, the village elders started his training. He was told to wear the sword daily, a reminder of the duty to which he was bound.

“Hero of the Realm,” he muttered, glaring at the sword on his bed. He leaned down and retrieved it, trying to balance it in his hand. Despite many hours of lessons, he remained clumsy. He wasn’t a natural as his father had been—as with his grandfather and great grandfather and great great grandfather before him, back generations and generations such that the tradition was set in stone, unquestionable.

Arthur stood tall, took the appropriate stance and swung the sword of legend. The weapon was too heavy for him, slipping from his grasp and landing with a thunk. He sighed and sank to the floor, fingers brushing over the carved golden hilt; beautiful, but not his. His hand clenched into a fist and he bit his lip, holding back his cry of dismay.

He took a slow inhale, body trembling, and allowed his heart to speak. He nodded to himself, dashed the tears from his eyes and stood.

It was time to do what he must.

He hurried to retrieve paper and quill: the message would be brief. He couldn’t find the words to truly describe how he felt. He could only hope his mother would understand.

The next morning, as the sun rose on his sixteenth birthday, Arthur was already some distance from his village. He moved his hand to touch the sword he was so used to wearing at his waist and remembered it wasn’t there.

He smiled. It was time to find his own destiny.