"Now that you understand how the simple things in this world work, you must be prepared for the dangers that inhabit the land," the Grey Wizard said, his voice carrying a weight that made the surrounding air feel colder.
Gael slowed his steps. "Dangers? What kind of dangers?" he asked, worry creeping into his voice. His eyes darted to the looming trees whose roots twisted like the fingers of giants beneath the mossy earth.
"Well," the Wizard said, brushing dust from his cloak, "this is the Forest of Caladwen. A place full of rootlurkers."
Gael blinked. "Rootlurkers? What are those?" His voice had gone thin, and he glanced down at the soil as if something might already be watching him from beneath it.
The Grey Wizard adjusted his cloak, as though settling comfortably into the familiar rhythm of storytelling. "Creatures born of the forest's oldest magic," he began. "They burrow among the roots of these ancient trees, carving tunnels so tangled and narrow that only they can move through them. Patient little predators—they'll lie still for hours, waiting for footsteps to stir the ground above."
Gael swallowed. "That sounds… horrible."
"Not horrible," the Wizard corrected gently. "Just clever opportunists. Territorial, yes, but not mindlessly aggressive. If you respect their space, they usually respect yours." He lifted a hand and held his palms apart, measuring roughly the size of a melon. "About the size of a human head, give or take a tuft of moss."
Gael gaped. "The size of a human head!? What kind of creature is that?"
The Wizard chuckled softly. "One that belongs here as much as the trees themselves. Treat the forest kindly, lad, and even its hidden creatures will do the same."
They walked in silence for a moment, the fading sunlight filtering through emerald leaves. The forest hummed with distant birdsong, yet something about the shadows felt watchful.
"But we are not here for that, Gael," the Grey Wizard said suddenly, his tone shifting to one of gravity. "You must use your abilities—and grow stronger."
Gael frowned. "Use my abilities to get stronger? How am I supposed to do that?" He wasn't even sure what counted as an ability anymore. Everything since he'd arrived in this strange world felt like a half-dream.
The Wizard's eyes glimmered beneath his hood. "That," he said quietly, "is for you to discover."
Gael let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "So… I'm supposed to fight one of these things to get stronger? Fine. Alright, old man—help me find one."
"Hahaha, I will, Gael," the Grey Wizard said, amused by the boy's attempt at bravery. "But the sun is gradually losing its light—we'll need torches if we want to see them coming."
Gael swallowed and nodded as the sky overhead dimmed from gold to amber. The shadows between the trees stretched long and thin. "Right… 'they' are coming." Saying it aloud made the situation real in a way it hadn't been moments ago.
He glanced around nervously. "Makes sense—we do need a torch to see them coming," Gael muttered. "Man, if only I'd brought a flashlight or something. Hell… where's my phone? I swear it was in my pocket." He patted down every pouch and seam of his borrowed tunic, but there was nothing. No phone. No backpack. No familiar weight of modern life.
"Collect some wood and let's get started," the Grey Wizard said.
Gael grabbed a nearby log—thick, heavy, and awkward. "Alright… so what now? Make a bonfire?"
"Good," the Wizard replied. "But to make torches, you must first turn that wood into sticks."
Gael blinked. "Sticks?" He lifted the log incredulously, as though waiting for it to transform on its own.
"Yes," the Grey Wizard said, nodding. "The prophecy mentioned that you possess the gift of crafting—so long as you have the materials."
Gael lowered the log, eyebrows raised. "Actually? I can really do that?"
The Wizard's expression softened, and he looked at Gael as if seeing more than just a lost outsider—seeing someone destined for something vast. He lifted his staff and began to recite:
"When the Dragonlord ascends his black throne,
and the heavens tremble beneath his shadowed wings,
hope shall flicker like a dying star.
Yet from the far places of fate,
a Rider shall rise—
not of ancient blood nor royal name,
but chosen by destiny.
He shall bear the Gift of Crafting,
the power to shape blade, tool, and legend
from the raw breath of the world itself.
Upon a dragon bound not by fear,
but by trust and flame,
he shall take to the sky.
For only the Crafter-Rider,
the one who builds what others dare not dream,
can break the Dragonlord's tyrant crown
and restore balance to the heavens."
The Grey Wizard's voice faded into the hush of the approaching night. Even the forest seemed to listen, holding its breath.
Gael blinked. "So… I'm this chosen one? The guy who's supposed to beat the Dragonlord?" He tried to laugh, but the sound came out strained.
The Grey Wizard sighed, adjusting his staff. "Yes," he said plainly, "but that is not your concern. Not yet." His tone suggested that destiny was a distant mountain—not the path beneath Gael's feet.
Gael looked down at the log in his hands and exhaled slowly. He still felt the phantom weight of his missing phone, his missing life. Being chosen didn't make him feel powerful. It made him feel small.
"Then… what is my concern?" Gael asked.
"Tonight?" the Wizard said, turning toward the deepening dark. "Your concern is simply to craft a torch, keep your wits about you… and survive your first encounter."
Gael swallowed hard.
"That," the Wizard added with a faint smile, "will be accomplishment enough."