Legend of Avalon: Alaric the First Unifier

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: The Chosen One



Chapter 5: The Chosen One

POV: Alaric

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The bells of the Grand Cathedral echoed through the capital city of Arcadia, their melodic chimes carrying over the rooftops and bustling streets. The palace felt oddly still that morning, despite the excited whispers that seemed to linger in the air. Today was another important day—Father said we were going to the church to give thanks for the awakening and to seek the Creator's guidance.

I wasn't sure why I felt nervous. Maybe it was the way Mother had kissed my forehead and whispered a prayer under her breath, or the way the guards stood straighter as we passed. Even Cedric, who was usually grinning and teasing, walked with a quiet seriousness.

The streets were lined with people as our procession made its way to the Grand Cathedral. Some cheered, calling my name. Others bowed, their faces alight with hope. I waved awkwardly, unsure of what to do with all the attention.

The Grand Cathedral was a marvel. Its spires reached toward the heavens, gleaming gold in the morning sun. Inside, the high ceilings and stained-glass windows painted the stone walls with vibrant colors. At the far end of the hall stood the altar, a magnificent sculpture of the Creator holding the world in one hand and a radiant star in the other.

Father led me to the altar, his hand resting firmly on my shoulder. The High Priest, an elderly man with a kind face and robes embroidered with golden runes, greeted us with a deep bow.

"Welcome, Your Majesties," he said, his voice calm but filled with reverence. His eyes flicked to me, lingering for a moment. "And young Prince Alaric. It is an honor to host you today."

The High Priest guided us through the ritual, lighting candles and chanting prayers in the ancient tongue. The air grew heavy with the scent of incense, and the hall fell silent as he raised his hands toward the Creator's statue.

"O' Great Creator, our lord, please hear our prayers, as this poor soul is begging you," he intoned. "We come before you with humble hearts, seeking your guidance and blessings for the chosen child of light."

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The moment he finished, a radiant glow filled the cathedral. The light seemed to emanate from everywhere at once, warm and soothing yet impossibly bright. I felt my heart quicken as the glow intensified, forming a figure before the altar.

It was a woman—no, something more. Her form was both solid and ephemeral, her golden hair flowing like liquid sunlight. Her eyes, deep and endless, seemed to hold the weight of eternity. She was beautiful, but there was a presence about her that made me want to kneel.

The Creator.

Her gaze rested on me, and I felt an overwhelming mix of awe and fear. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came.

She smiled softly, and her voice echoed in my mind, clear and serene. "Alaric… my child. This is not our first meeting."

---

I froze, her words sinking in. "Not our first?" stammered aloud, my voice trembling.

The Creator tilted her head, her expression gentle yet inscrutable. "No, little one. You and I are connected, bound by a thread of fate that stretches across lifetimes. But the time for you to fully understand has not yet come."

Her words were cryptic, but they filled me with a strange sense of calm. She raised her hand, and a soft golden light surrounded me.

"While your ultimate blessing remains sealed for now, you shall not walk this path alone. I bestow upon you the blessings of my brethren—gifts from the other gods who watch over this world. Their strength will guide you, protect you, and prepare you for what lies ahead."

The light grew brighter, and I felt something shift within me. It was as though doors were opening, one after another, each unlocking a new reservoir of power. My vision blurred, and a screen-like panel appeared before my eyes, glowing faintly with golden text:

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[Status Panel]

- Name: Alaric Thorne

- Age: 5

- Affinities: Holy Light, Fire, Water, Wind, Earth

- Blessings:

- Blessing of the Creator (Sealed)

- Blessing of the God of Fire

- Blessing of the Goddess of Water

- Blessing of the God of Wind

- Blessing of the Earth Mother

- Title: Chosen One, Marked by the Creator

---

The panel shimmered for a moment before fading, but I could still feel its presence, as if it had become a part of me.

The Creator placed a hand on my head, her touch warm and comforting. "Go forth, my child. You bear the mark of a saint, and the world shall know your name. But remember, the journey will not be easy. Strengthen your heart and your will, for your time is coming."

With those final words, she vanished, her light fading into the altar.

---

The silence in the cathedral was deafening. I turned to find everyone kneeling—Father, Mother, the high priest, even the guards. Their faces were filled with awe, their eyes fixed on me.

"Alaric," Father said, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "You have been marked by the Creator herself. You are the Chosen One."

---

News of the event spread like wildfire. By the time we left the cathedral, the streets were filled with people. They knelt as our carriage passed, their voices rising in chants and prayers.

"Hail Prince Alaric, the Chosen One!"

I looked out the window, overwhelmed by the sight. Some cried with joy; others reached out as if trying to touch the air I had passed through. It felt strange, seeing so many people celebrating for me.

Back at the palace, Mother held me close, her voice soft but firm. "You carry great responsibility now, my little phoenix," she said. "But know that we are with you, always."

As I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't stop thinking about the Creator's words. I didn't understand everything yet, but one thing was clear: my life was no longer my own.

I was the Chosen One, marked by the gods. And the world would never be the same.

POV: Third Party

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In a chamber lit only by flickering torchlight, a figure sat in the shadows, fingers drumming on a table scarred with age and use. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and aged parchment, and the faint hum of magical wards vibrated at the edge of hearing.

A messenger knelt before the figure, trembling as he recounted the events from the Grand Cathedral.

"The boy..." the figure said, the voice low and smooth, yet carrying an undertone of menace. "Marked by the gods, you say?"

"Yes, my lord," the messenger stammered. "The Creator herself appeared. The cathedral was... illuminated, as if the sun had descended into its halls. The prince is said to carry the mark of a saint."

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a cold, mirthless chuckle echoed through the chamber.

"A saint," the figure said, leaning forward so the torchlight revealed the sharp angles of a face both regal and cruel. "How quaint. The gods meddle again, as if their interference has ever brought peace to this world."

The figure stood, the long, dark cloak billowing slightly with the movement. With a wave of a hand, a scrying orb on the table flared to life, its surface swirling with images. The scene from the cathedral appeared: the golden light, the people kneeling, the boy with a look of bewildered resolve as he emerged from the divine radiance.

"Alaric," the figure whispered, tasting the name as if it were a bitter fruit. "A boy crowned by the heavens. A symbol of hope, a rallying cry for the masses."

The orb shifted, showing the bustling streets of the capital, the joyous faces of commoners and nobles alike. It was a scene of unity, of fervent belief in a brighter future.

"Hope is dangerous," the figure muttered, turning away from the orb. "It blinds people to reality, makes them easy to manipulate. But it also makes them... stubborn."

The figure moved to a large map spread across a nearby table, dotted with markers representing armies, resources, and strongholds. A dagger, its blade black as obsidian, was driven into the heart of the map—the capital city.

"This changes nothing," the figure declared, addressing no one and everyone at once. "The gods may have chosen their pawn, but they have not yet tipped the scales. That boy, blessed or not, will fall like all the others who have dared to stand in my way."

A second figure stepped from the shadows, a tall and imposing figure clad in black armor adorned with crimson runes.

"My lord," the armored figure said, bowing slightly. "Shall we move forward with the plan?"

The first figure's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Yes. But first, let us test the boy. Let us see if the gods' pet can withstand the fire."

The armored figure nodded, his gauntleted hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "And the people?"

"They will despair," the first figure said, their voice like ice. "For every beacon of hope, there is a shadow waiting to snuff it out. And when the boy falters, they will turn on him. They always do."

The first figure turned back to the orb, their piercing eyes fixed on the image of Alaric.

"Enjoy your fleeting glory, little prince," they murmured. "For every saint, there is a sinner. And I will be the one to bring you to your knees."

With a wave of a hand, the scrying orb dimmed, and the chamber was plunged into darkness. Only the faint sound of footsteps echoed as the figure retreated deeper into the shadows, where plans were laid and destinies twisted.

In the silence that followed, the hum of the magical wards seemed to grow louder, as if the very air trembled with the foreboding of what was to come.

(Continue...)


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