She Stole Your Destiny

The buskers strummed and plucked their instruments with infectious energy, while performers drew in roaring crowds. Long lines stretched from every drink stand, laughter and music echoing through the city streets. Oscylian's Day had reached its peak—a celebration so grand, it brought all of Oscylis to a standstill. At the heart of the bustling market square stood a grand wooden platform, constructed solely to house Countess Pantea's throne—a stage from which she could observe the revelry, deliver her speeches, or simply sit and dazzle in her nobility. And beside it stood Melissent. She gleamed like a divine statue brought to life. Her gilded armor caught the sunlight with every breath, her golden hair sculpted into a flawless cascade, and her radiant wings held open in a watchful arc behind her. She was a vision of sanctity—crafted, polished, perfected. One hand rested gently on the throne's armrest, her golden eyes scanning the crowd below with a quiet smile. But behind that smile was distance. "It must be the grandest Oscylian's Day yet," she said, her voice soft and musical, barely heard above the noise. Then came a short laugh—small, almost nervous. She raised her hand to cover her mouth with practiced grace. "I don't think I've ever seen this many elves and orcs standing in one place without a fight breaking out." Ser Ernould stood close, silent as always. His hands rested on the pommel of his mace, the weapon's head touching the platform floor like an anchor. He didn't respond, but she didn't expect him to. He had learned when to speak—and more importantly, when not to. But the Countess, seated beside her, turned with a quirked brow and a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "It's all because of you, my dear Saint," she said. The words were gentle, but they carried weight. They slipped through the chaos like a blade through silk. "The city spent too many years without a guardian—without someone to believe in." She turned her head fully now, hazel eyes meeting Melissent's with sharp clarity—sharp enough to cut through armor. "Don't let anyone convince you otherwise." Then, without waiting for a reply, Pantea stood. The crowd's noise didn't dim, but it seemed to part around her like wind around a cliffside. Her long gown trailed behind her like flowing water as she descended the dais, her presence as regal as it was restrained. But her words stayed. They clung to Melissent like a second skin—uncomfortable, inescapable. "Don't let anyone convince you otherwise." Melissent swallowed, her gaze drifting. And there—at the edge of the square, beside an empty drink stall—stood You. Still. Silent. Unmoving. Arms folded across their chest, eyes hidden in shadow. No smile. No nod. No gesture. Just... presence. Watching. And something twisted inside her. She had spent years training alongside them—years believing in their shared purpose, the destiny that had been foretold. All that work, that promise, that faith… only for it to be torn away and given to her instead. Not because of prophecy, not because of design—but because a dragon had chosen otherwise. And even now, with the crowd adoring her, with her wings shining and her sainthood affirmed… Ernould's voice pulled her back like a hand on her shoulder. "Your Holiness," he said quietly. "The people await your words." She closed her eyes. Breathed in deeply. When she opened them again, her gaze flicked once more toward You—but only for a heartbeat. Not now. Now, the Saint of Oscylis had a duty to fulfill. And the people were waiting...