The cottage door opened wide as Wattyson invited Arlene in. The enigmatic man clicked his staff like a cane as he walked through, leading her inside. His free hand motioned toward one of the seats— an invitation to sit.

  Arlene bowed awkwardly. A small mutter of gratitude left her breath as she unbuckled her longsword. She sat on the lumpy wide sofa and placed her sword close to her arm’s reach.

  Wattyson didn’t turn. He grunted in acknowledgment as he continued to the back, to the kitchen.

  Waiting for him to return gave her ample time to scan the cottage’s interior. It was dimly lit, but not because of the thick canopy outside warding off the sun. It was because of the amount of papers stacking and lying all over the place. The fogged up windows didn’t help.

  Near the hearth to her left was lit in crackling fire. There were sharp objects—knives that were made for carving thick scales. They hung above the hearth and… all around it. A chaotic and messy living condition she found herself in.

  There were papers on the coffee table in front of her. The writing didn’t make much sense to her since it looked like just random scribbles, but she knew it was the common language and these were bad handwriting. She could only make out part of the writing—something about biology or something that championed humane? The rest was gibberish to her.

  Sounds of clanking alerted her to her right. Wattyson emerged with a tray with two cups and a kettle in both hands. He strode somewhat sluggishly. He was limping.

  Without a word, she rose up and already took a step to him, intending to take the load off of him. It was only natural to help the wea—

  “Sit.” Wattyson commanded. His voice cut through like sharp knives. His eyes weren’t even on her. Without waiting for her to sit, he placed the tray on the coffee table and took a seat on his steel chair. His leg lifted to rest on the cushy ottoman in front.

  “It’s jasmine tea,” he clarified as he took a sip of his cup, “Have some. It’s good for your health.”

  Arlene sat back down, somewhat tense in an unfamiliar situation. She was used to battle, but with someone this grumpy and she was supposed to recruit? It was out of her depth.

  She leaned in and fumbled trying to latch onto the cup handle. She took a sip like nothing had happened. A few stolen glances to him trying to gauge his reaction. There was nothing, he was looking at his own writings on the table.

  Not wanting to let the silence only be broken by the fire cracklings, she finally spoke in a low voice.

  “So uhhh,” she eyed the papers, trying for anything to start a conversation, “what are those scrolls about?”

  “None of your business.” He scoffed as he leaned harder on his cushy chair. “Tell me first, who are you again.”

  “I’m Arlene, the Chosen One.”

  “Are you really though?” His eyes were filled with skepticism. She could feel his gaze eyeing her, trying to size her up.

  “I am!”

  “How do I know if you really are?”

  She shifted to turn her shoulder plate, there was a crest of the sun with ten pointed spikes. In the middle was a glowing praying hand symbol. “Would this suffice?”

  A crest like that would tell anyone that this was the Chosen One, yet Wattyson remained undeterred.

  “What if it’s fabricated? Is it really the crest of the Chosen One?”

  “I-what?” She faced him fully with her two hands gripping on the edge of the sofa. “Are you serious? You don’t know the crest?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Then how can I prove to you?”

  “Hmmm… how about you tell me your mentor’s name? You said they told you to seek me out?”

  Arlene loosen up, but still sitting straight. She put the teacup down and rested her hands on her lap.

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  “His name is Vilvane. He said he knew you since he was young.” Her eyes softened from the mention of his name, filling up with memories. She continued, her voice quiet and solemn. “Before he passed two years ago, he said… I should seek you out.”

  He didn’t answer immediately like earlier. He took the time to study her more; on how she conducted herself when she answered. The name halted him for a moment, but he brushed it off.

  He answered with the same tone of voice as hers. “I don’t know any Vilvane, and… I’m sorry for your loss.”

  A smile creaked up slightly on her face then followed up by a single chuckle. The person in front knew how to show consideration it seemed. “It’s okay. I doubt you do. You look like you’re in your mid-twenties.”

  Her gaze filled with resolve as she locked with his. “However, the fact remained. He asked me to seek you out.” Her hand clutched at her own chest. “My mentor told me there are things I need to discover and do my duty in this post-Dark Lord’s world, something hidden in the mundane. He always spoke of you with reverence before his passing.”

  The gaze remained steady, but the voice was waving a bit. What if he said no? What if her two years search for him had been a waste of time? If he didn’t accept, what would she do?

  She shook her head then rose up slowly. A deep breath steadied herself, and gathered her courage again. “If you can help me in any way, please… join me. Join me in my quest!”

  Quite a puzzled look etched onto his face as he quickly raised both arms up. “Sit! Sit down! Come on now, I don’t like formality.”

  To which she did, and fumbled trying to grab the teacup. She could feel her muscles tense up. She was nervous. Internally she hoped he wouldn’t say no. Praying he would say yes.

  A long drawn sigh brought her attention back to reality. She eyed him scratching his own neck whilst leaning down. She could see something in his face—something in her words tensed him up.

  He exhaled out again before speaking in measured tone. “Alright, tell me something first, Aralynn.”

  “Arlene.”

  “Arlene.” His gaze fixed on the papers. “What do you know of the supernatural?”

  A single eyebrow raised from that. Supernatural? What did he mean by that? She raised her eyebrows, her voice light with curiosity. “What do you mean? Like dragons?”

  “No,” he replied picking up one of the paper and reached out to her. “Whatever you’re thinking of are part of the natural world. I’m talking about something hidden and living among people. Since your mentor spoke of something hidden in the mundane, I assume he meant this.”

  The wrinkled paper in her hand remained unintelligible to her. That handwriting was akin to someone who was learning to write. Not to be rude, she focused on trying to make sense of them. She could read out some words in big text. “Vampires?”

  “Vampires, Werewolves, faeries, ghosts—“

  “Vampires are real?” A being she read of in fairy tale. She had fought on the frontline and won a victory for a world against the Dark Lord, yet in those times she had never seen anything alike. The only thing close to such a characteristic was a demon’s magic to siphon someone’s wellbeing rather than siphoning blood.

  “You’re pulling my legs, right?” A soft chuckle of bewilderment let out by her. “Those are fictional and a fairy tale.”

  “Those fairy tales usually come from real source. They are just watered down for bad, bad children.”

  She attempted to read further. She saw illustration of beings but all had sharp fangs. This paper was about vampire it seemed. She skimmed through till she read something about strength. It was the only actual readable part and it stated how a single vampire would equal to ten elite knight.

  In her experience, an elite knight was a person that went through rigorous training since the tender age of eight. They weren’t to scoff at, as a squad of five could handle a horde of organized goblin horde long enough for reinforcement.

  Flipping the paper over, she pointed to that part. “You’re kidding right?”

  He stood up and leaned forward to read. “Oh that? Nuh uh,” he answered playfully before breaking into a more measured and scholarly voice, “Unlike in a fight or battlefield where strength and strategy can be formed mid battle. Against a supernatural like vampire? You’ll need actual intelligence on whoever you’re facing or hunting.”

  “Of course, I know that. Then what’s so different here? A battle requires planning too.”

  “Planning is imperative here. They are ninety percent of the encounter in fact. If you don’t know what your opponent can do, you’ll be subjected to a steep uphill and tricky battle. Nine times out of ten, you’ll die.”

  He strode back to his seat. “Plan died when the fight starts, but against a supernatural? That plan will always stick. Well… for someone used to battle like you, the Chosen One as you claimed, you’ll probably be fine… probably. Assuming you’re working on correct intel anyway.”

  His word sank in. Everything she knew back in the Dark Lord’s days was turning and shifting. She knew there was always something darker amidst all of that existential war. She had dealt with humans—bandits, enemy soldiers aligned with the Dark Lord, or traitor. However, most of her time was spent on otherworldly enemy.

  It wasn’t coordinating with her party members and fighting in a quest to slay the Dark Lord anymore. It wasn’t black and white anymore. She was walking into the murky grey.

  A voice pierced her mind; “You can always go back and live in blissful ignorance.”

  To live in ignorance bliss? To stand by with the knowledge there was something darker in the world? She tightened her fists on the edge of her skirt. She gazed upward, locking eyes with Wattyson in a fiery gaze.

  “No.” She declared with confidence. “I’m the Chosen One. I cannot turn my back to this.”

  She rose like a flash of lightning. Her fist still clutched tightly. Her eyes were now mixed with something else. Something more personal. Something that was desperate.

  She bowed slightly yet her gaze remained fixed on the enigmatic man. She bit down on her lip.

  “I ask you again, Wattyson of the Red Grove. Please join me in my quest. I would appreciate it immensely if you lend me your aid!”