Years had passed since the destruction of the Dark Citadel and the defeat of the Dark Lord. A lone girl was travelling down a winding forest path on her noble steed.

  Her armour gleamed from the faded sunlight filtering through the thick canopy. Birdsongs rang through the air, a peaceful aftermath of her victory against the Dark Lord.

  She pulled a letter from her leather bag, and re-read the elegant writings on a scrambled letter penned by her wizened mentor:

  “Seek out Wattyson of the Red Grove. He is of an eccentric person, but he will be a valued ally in your post-Dark Lord’s quest. Judge yourself of his worth.”

  Tucking the letter away, the girl adjusted her grip on the rein, continuing down the dimly lit path. There stood a modest cottage, plumes of smoke lazily drifting from the chimney.

  It was a two story cottage, her eyes scanned around and noticed gardens and greenhouse sheds. Whoever the person was, they were self-sufficient. The birdsong had stopped as she approached nearer to the cottage’s front.

  She dismounted her steed, landing with a satisfying crunch. Her voice rang out cheerfully.

  “Hello? I am Arlene, the Chosen One!”

  She took a deep breath before articulating her voice to be more dutiful.

  “By recommendation of my mentor, I’ve come seeking Wattyson of the Red Grove. Are you present? I wish to make your acquaintance!”

  Her hand rested on the pommel of her longsword as she waited a response. Her posture shifted and bobbed slightly while trying to attempt a whistle. Her eyes went all over the cottage, studying it for any sign of coming life.

  She waited… and waited… and waited. An hour had passed. There weren’t any signs of coming life. The only constant was the winds blowing against her, fluttering her white cape.

  Are they ignoring me? Hmm… perhaps my voice wasn’t large enough or they didn’t hear.

  Two of her hands raised to cover her mouth like she was shouting. “Uhhh… Hello?! Is anyone present?!”

  No answer came back, causing her to frown with her two cheeks inflated. She decided to take it upon herself, to intrude on someone’s property. To the porch she went.

  Humming to herself in beat with the crunching leaves below, she strode slowly to the porch almost like she was skating. The porch itself was a bit of a rundown, but there were planks and reinforcements of the crucial parts of the porch. There were clearly signs of maintenance.

  The window was her first destination. Peeking through she could barely see anything. The entire view was foggy. Only glimpsing objects such as books and scrolls. Perhaps this person was a scholar?

  To the wooden door now she went, the imposing barrier between her and whoever she was to meet. The only notable feature on it was the little eyehole near the top. The door itself looked like it was about to break apart.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Conflicting between calling again or knocking, she weighed in on her options. Calling earlier didn’t work, how would knocking help? The door itself was barely holding itself together. She paced herself back and forth, hand stroking her chin as she contemplated.

  She steadied herself with a deep breath, positioned in front of said door. Her hand raised as her armour clattered slightly.

  “Alright.” She murmured before she began knoc—her forehead got slammed by the door.

  “Ow…” A small wince let out as her fingers gently tracing the inflicted forehead.

  Her gaze lifted to the open door and saw a person. A man with ashen white hair with streaks of black and greys below. He wore an attire of white robe trimmed with gold in the outline resembled that of a sage. In one of his hand, a white staff with a crystal and eagle motif on top. It was roughly the same size as him.

  The man hummed out a confused note as his violet eyes landed on her. A person who was heavily armoured was standing there, massaging her own forehead.

  “Who are you?” His expression tensed up. “If you’re here about the taxes, I’m not paying them. This cottage does not fall into any kingdom’s or empire’s or any other political entities you come up with!” His voice grew more and more annoyed.

  Arlene narrowed her eyes to his, becoming more perplexed. “Eh? Taxes? No… No, I’m not here about uhh… taxes.”

  She straightened up and composed herself. Her hand went to rest on the pommel and her free one rested on her hip. The cape fluttered from the wings while she faced him fully. Stars glimmering and sparkling in her eyes.

  “I’m Arlene, the Chosen One! I’m hoping to make an acquaintance with one known as Wattyson.”

  “What do you need this ‘Wattyson’ for?”

  He crossed his arms as he leaned on the door frame. His eyes scanning the girl in front. Her blonde hair brushing shy above her shoulder as it swayed with the cape. A full breastplate and that cape trailing down to just near her shin. She looked to be young. Too young for someone in such a heavy attire. Perhaps in her twenty.

  Whatever it was, this screamed someone’s in the military rank. From his own experiences of rejecting any demands of taxes, they finally sent someone to force the taxation.

  As for her, she quickly opened her bag and took out the letter. “Look!” She walked to his side and unfolded for both to see.

  “I’ve been asked by my wizened mentor to look for ‘Wattyson’ of the Red Grove. He is said to be crucial in my post-Dark Lord’s quest.”

  The man leaned and squinted at the content. The wrinkled paper betrayed the elegant handwriting making it hard for him to read. He finally leaned back on the door frame. “Never heard of the guy,” he shrugged off, “Beside, do you have any descriptors on his look?”

  “Oh yes!” Arlene titled her head while tapping on her chin. “If I recall,” her voice became measured as she retraced her mentor’s words, “He’s eccentric which is noted in the letter. He has white hair, like to wear robe glittered in gold, a staff with an eagle motif…”

  She blinked once then twice then thrice, each times landing on him. In front of her was a man leaning on the doorframe. He wore white robe with gold trimmed, had ashen white hair, and held the staff with an eagle motif. The dots were connecting. Her brain finally clicked.

  Her voice trembled and stammered upon the sudden realization. “Wait a minute!” Her cheek burned with red while she stomped her foot down lightly to not break the already crumbling porch. “Y-You’re Wattyson!” Her cheeks puffed out as she pouted.

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Then you could’ve said so!”

  “I can’t just trust strangers. That’s basic common sense, I don’t even know you!”

  He looked to the flustered girl still stomping and noticed the tiredness in her movement. Her clothes and armour were tattered and worn. She must’ve travelled far. He gazed outward to her steed, it was already grazing off near one of his sheds.

  A tired person like her wouldn’t be a threat. Still, seeing how earnest she was. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to let her in, to get more of her, to gauge her goal.

  A small sigh as he retreated back and opened the door wider.

  “Come in and have a rest. After, I’ll interro—talk with you about what you’re really doing here.”