The townsfolk were probably ecstatic that Ralph had decided to take his own life; they all believed him cursed, and by extension, that his poor luck had affected the town. None were brave enough to actually kill him, but the subject had been debated a number of times in the town hall. Ralph had almost wished those meetings had concluded differently, and that someone would be chosen as his executioner.
Yet the act of execution had fallen upon his shoulders. The orphaned stableboy.
Every day for all of his nineteen years, he’d shoveled dung from the stables without an ounce of gratitude.
But that was all over now. This was it. His last day in this godforsaken world.
He didn’t feel peace; all he felt was anger toward Lilith, the Goddess of Darkness.
Mother had promised Ralph that he would not remain for all his life in Cothslar, this small town on the outskirts of Hag Pines. She had promised that one day his true destiny would be revealed, and he would be taken far away from this little place.
In secret, he watched the militia train and took notes, so he could retreat to the stable and practice the art of swordplay—all in the hopes of one day fighting alongside them against the demonic scourge. Mother had sworn he wouldn’t remain a stablehand but would one day become a savior of his people.
Then Mother had died.
Ralph had continued hauling shit while the rest of the townsfolk treated him as cursed because of his orphaned state. He forsook the sword and shield for a permanent shovel while he considered how bad things had gotten.
Eventually, things all became too much, and Ralph stole a length of rope from the stable and ventured to the boundary between Cothslar and Hag Pines.
“I’ve brought you something.” A voice broke Ralph from his musings.
Ralph looked at a farmer who held a ladder in the crook of his arm.
“Thought you might need this,” the farmer said as he set the ladder beneath the tree.
“Much obliged.” Ralph gave the man a grim smile and before climbing the steps. With each step, a hefty weight was lifted from Ralph’s shoulders. He didn’t know whether the gods spoke truly about an afterlife, but he’d have preferred anything to his current mundane existence.
“I seek the chosen one!” an elderly voice cried out from down the muddy road. A gangly figure sprinted toward the gathered townsfolk, the mud kicking up beneath his feet. He held his robes in a single hand, so the mud wouldn’t slop over them.
The townsfolk stared at the newcomer with wide eyes, and Ralph paused his ascent to watch.
“His name is Ralph,” the robed man said between gasps.
“Ralph?” a shepherd said. “That’s him up there. He’s trying to off himself.”
“Get down from there at once!” the robed man commanded. He slammed the butt of his staff into the mud, and the globe cradled at the top burst with crimson light.
Ralph stared at the bearded man for a few seconds, unsure why this robed man with apparently magical powers knew his name. The man’s robes were filthy and spotted with scorch marks, but the clouds parted to allow the sunlight to touch an emblem on his right breast: a winged demoness with lips the color of blood.
This man was a priest of Lilith.
Mother had been right.
Although the clouds shifted to shroud the sun again, a darkness lifted from Ralph. Hope stirred in his stomach like a warm broth, and his feet padded down the ladder’s steps to the ground. His boots squelched in the mud as he approached the newcomer.
“I am Ralph.” He held out a hand, and the robed man shook it vigorously.
“It seems I came at just the right time. I am Alaxon, priest of Lilith.”
“Nice to meet you.” Ralph wasn’t sure what to say next. He had waited for this moment for years, and now it had finally come.
The townsfolk turned away from the spectacle and filtered back into the town, their entertainment spoiled by the priest’s arrival.
“We should get out of the rain,” Alaxon said. “Perhaps you can show me to your home?”
Ralph took the priest to the stables and offered an apology for the mess.
“No matter,” Alaxon said. “I didn’t expect much. The lads I pick up are often living in disheveled states. I apologize for not coming sooner; I was tied up with another quest for a few years. I thought he was the chosen one, but his head was crushed by an iron golem. Popped just like a watermelon.” The priest looked down at his robes and flicked a bit of dirt away. Ralph’s insides churned when he recognized it as brain matter. “But you are another chosen one, Ralph. I’ve foreseen your ascendancy in the formations of my mutton stew.”
“Mutton stew?”
“Indeed,” the priest laid his staff down and hiked up his robes to sit on a wooden crate. “My premonitions often occur in the bowls of my food.”
Ralph glanced at the noose he’d discarded on the floor and wondered whether he’d made a mistake. But he wasn’t sure; this priest might be crazy, but he’d known Ralph’s name, so maybe he did have magical gifts.
“How did you know my name?”
“Ah, yes, I asked one of the townsfolk where everyone had gotten to. They said the stablehand was finally doing a good deed and removing the curse. I inquired as to the method of this curse removal, and then discovered you were going to hang yourself. I had to ask a dozen different people, but eventually I discovered your name. I wasn’t exactly sure you were the one I sought, but when I saw you up there on top of that ladder, noose in hand, I knew for certain.”
There were stories about old men who adopted robes, grew lengthy white beards, and spouted divine prophecies they’d cooked up inside their heads. These same men took advantage of hopeful youths, much like Ralph, and the end result never boded well.
But
