The candle flame flickered violently, dancing in time with the tremors that shook the dirt walls of the cellar. Above him, the world was ending, the roar of the dragon vibrating through the wooden trapdoor like the bass of a broken speaker. Elian huddled in the corner, clutching his knees, forcing his analytical mind to override the primal urge to scream.
"Breath weapon cooldown," he whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at the ceiling. "High-level dragons have a recharge time. It won't fire again for at least thirty seconds."
He counted the seconds in the dark. One. Two. Three.
Heavy footsteps crushed the charred remains of the tavern above. Dust rained down onto Elian's hair. The beast was hunting, sniffing for survivors, but the overwhelming scent of sulfur and burning flesh likely masked Elian's fear-sweat. After what felt like an eternity, the footsteps grew distant, followed by the terrifying whoosh of massive wings beating against the air. The dragon was leaving, its job done, returning to whatever glitch in the code had spawned it.
Elian didn't move for an hour.
When his heart rate finally dropped below triple digits, he raised the candle and looked around his prison. It was a standard root cellar: shelves of pickled turnips, a barrel of wine, and—sitting conspicuously in the corner—a wooden chest with iron bands.
Elian stared at it and let out a dry, bitter chuckle. "Of course. The Tutorial Chest. Arthur was supposed to fall down here, hide, and find his starting equipment."
He crawled over to the chest. It wasn't locked; tutorial chests never were. He flipped the lid open. Inside lay three items: a vial of red liquid, a rolled parchment, and a letter sealed with the royal crest.
[Item Acquired: Plot Device (Letter from the King).]
[Item Acquired: Minor Health Potion.]
[Item Acquired: World Map.]
Elian picked up the letter. It was addressed to "The Chosen One." This was the hook, the critical item that was supposed to send Arthur on his grand adventure to the capital. Now, it was just a piece of paper in the hands of a glorified spell-checker.
[System Alert: Main Character Deceased.]
[Narrative Stability: Critical.]
[Alternative Route Required.]
"I know, I know," Elian snapped at the blue box, his frustration mounting. "If the story stops, the world deletes itself. And me along with it."
He shoved the items into his pockets and stood up, gripping the handle of Arthur's rusty dagger which he still held. He pushed against the trapdoor. It was heavy, covered in debris, but it gave way with a groan of protest, spilling ash into the cellar.
Elian climbed out into the night.
The village was gone. There were no houses, only glowing embers and silhouettes of charcoal. The smell was horrific. He walked toward the spot where he had last seen Arthur. The mud had turned to glass from the heat. There was nothing left of the boy who wanted to be a hero, not even the bootprints.
Elian stood alone in the smoking crater of the prologue. He wasn't a warrior. He was just a critic who knew how stories were supposed to go, and right now, the story was screaming for direction. He looked at the map in his hand, tracing the line toward the capital city where the Princess was waiting for a savior who would never arrive.
"Fine," Elian spat into the darkness, his grip tightening on the map until his knuckles turned white. "If the hero is dead, I guess the narrator has to do the dirty work."
He turned his back on the ruins and began to walk toward the dark forest that bordered the village, knowing that the real danger wasn't the dragon he survived, but the story that was currently missing its protagonist.