Carved stone tumbled through still air, its markings alive with light, corners sharp as glass. The rune descended in vibrant twists. Drawing closer to the mosaic floor, the surrounding air warped; subtly at first, barely enough to divert its fall. Energy built and resonated inside the thumb-sized stone, each engraved cut radiating an intense amber flare. With the brightness came a greater pull, one toward a fated resting point within the mosaic. 

Among the many clean-cut recesses of the pattern, other runes lay locked in place, their owners’ fate determined by precise placement, studied by those of High Reason and elders alike. Placed… Runes must be placed with the greatest care, yet this rune fell; and with each tumble downward, a destiny was etched deeper than the stone itself, more profound even than the sacred mosaic it struck. 

While the rune may be of the same stone, carved in similar ways, and by any reckoning entirely mundane as the others, the location it chose was not. For a rune to dictate its own placement was rare, almost unheard of, but to land in the central ring, to be named among The Sixteen, this was both unwritten and unknown. Meisters would try in vain to remove the rune, rejecting destiny, yet all would be powerless against its will. 

Fate had chosen the Fifth Champion of Solnir.

#

That’s how it happened, that’s how the Meisters write it, anyway. Me? I tripped carrying my rune; it fell and tumbled into the circle of champions. Did I mean to drop the rune? Was it some fated event? If it was, then fate owes me for the scar on my chin and broken finger. The rune wasn’t the only one to hit the ground. I think it landed first, which makes my first act as the Fifth Champion of Solnir, kissing dirt. There are probably more graceful introductions. Hey, it’s not my fault I got chosen by fate, or some divine intervention of Vaspeer, or whichever mighty god saw fit to screw with my life.

I should tell you about me I suppose; if I’m to be recorded every time I do anything, someone ought to set the record straight. They’ll write, ‘Champion Polliasette Fendir boldly strode to the Grand Temple for training and future sight!’ I’ll write, ‘Polly needed to poop, and the temple has smoother seats.’ 

Polly is me, by the way; but you’re clever, you knew that already. I was born in Lower Ambleton, way down there from the temple, close to the walls yet not outside them; my parents were poor, not quite that poor.

Dad bakes the best loaves of Shum in all of Lower and Upper Ambleton. Mother carves amazing candle sculptures for the temple, destined to melt into dribbling blobs. She says it’s the cycle of art, to be born and end, I say it’s wasteful. No brothers, no sisters, no pets. I’d love a dog but only wealthy people and hunters have dogs. I’m on my own apprenticing for Mother. Well, I used to apprentice, right until a few months ago when I got this scar on my chin.

At seventeen, everyone has to carve their rune. There is this special rock-face where masons chip off small bits of stone. They’re sent to this crazy old guy in the temple, who picks from all the flakes and decides which ones to shape into runes. I’m not sure how he chooses which pieces to use. People say he’s blessed with the sight of Karow and just knows, but I think he enjoys irritating the masons by rejecting so many. So, Golfir, that’s the old guy, he chips and shapes these flakes into blank runes, and the priests bless them in the temple before handing them to people like me on their birthday. There is a whole thing then for carving the rune; now, I didn’t make this up and I agree it’s entirely disgusting, but the first step I was told was to pee on it. First day of adulthood and I’m peeing on a small rock. No one mentioned it before then, not a soul laughed and said ‘you know what you have to do when…’ Nope, everyone seems to be very casual about it, like peeing on rocks was the most natural thing in the world. Turns out, it softens the surface of the rune for carving and supposedly links it to me. I had to touch a pee-soaked rune, that’s all I know.

After four days of carving and sharing quality time with my pee stone, it was time to take it back to the temple and have it placed by those of High Reason. That’s when the floor broke my finger and smacked me on the chin, yes it’s also when I tripped on the last step and that smelly stone sealed my future, fate, and destiny, whatever you want to call it. There were so many gasps, like a surprised choir. Then came the huffs from those of High Reason. I broke the rules. I circumvented their blessed role. It was during this time of heavy breathing that not one person asked if I was ok. As a group, they collectively managed someone shouting to make sure my blood didn’t touch the mosaic. 

Not one of them said ‘Hey Polly, are you ok?’ 

They only cared about the damn rune and that stupid mosaic.

Well, I guess I have to admit it’s strange that my rune glows, and I also have to admit it was almost impossible for me to slap that rune in the hole exactly like I did. This doesn’t mean I’m accepting the whole fated champion thing. I don’t feel any different, I still struggle to lift a flour sack for Dad, but I do have a bunch of people acting weird around me now, plus the Meisters are “training” me. How can they train me if they’ve never met a Champion of Solnir? No idea. I don’t think they truly know either. They do however require me to oil my armpits for the armour they make me wear. Who even does that! It’s all a bit invasive, really; I have no personal space. Feels like my body isn’t mine half the time. They measure me and get me to do odd things, like bending way more than I’d like each morning and night. I can touch my toes now though, that’s cool.

Mother keeps saying I was always special, even when I was a baby. She said I was constantly getting sick but always pulled through. Everyone gets sick though, especially as a baby, that’s what babies do: puke and stuff. She took me to a Sight Reader when I was ten, the old lady stared into my eyes and I wasn’t allowed to blink for a long time. My eyes were streaming as she got closer and closer. She gasped, and that was it. She refused to say anything else. Mother can be a bit into those things and went on about it for months.

That’s me really, I’m no one special, just a boring Polly Fendir doing a pie delivery for my Dad. It’s a lot easier to do deliveries for him now, I don’t need to worry about anyone messing with it since they are all scared of me cutting them down where they stand with ancestral magic. I hand the pie over, get them to authorise the mayor accounts to pay for it, head to the bank, get Dad’s money.

And then, right as I’m thinking it’s been a decent delivery for once, I get pulled into the spirit realm by a huge being made from mist.

#

That’s where I am now, just arrived. Absolutely not terrified, I swear. This guy is massive, and we’re face to face since I’m up really, really high on a platform.

“Hello,” I say meekly.

“You,” the voice booms so hard my chest feels like it’s going to burst. “You are the chosen.”

I know I should answer. But I’m too scared and confused. Acid touches my throat as motion sickness churns me. I’m not even standing on the platform, I’m floating above it. I kick my feet wildly trying to get to the ground but I don’t move.

“Be still, young one,” the voice is calmer this time. I don’t feel like my eyes are going to pop out from each word anymore. “I will put you down. But be still.” I realise that the mist is all around me; it unravels to reveal a huge swirling hand that was holding me. My feet touch the floor, but they don’t hold my weight. I’m dropping, my legs wobbling uselessly in fear. The hand slows me into a graceful thump onto my bum.

“Champion of Solnir, I am Vaspeer, being of life.” The noble face of Vaspeer lowers to my level, meeting my gaze. The eyes are kind; hard to see as the mist twisted itself into the shape of a face, but I somehow know they mean well.

“Hello,” I manage.

“Hello Polliasette Fendir.” I can see his brow raise even though his smile is below my platform.

“You know me?” I ask quietly.

“Indeed, Polliasette, we know you. We chose you, and you are to receive a gift.”

“What kind of gift?”

“Breathe deeply,” the voice booms, a command I cannot refuse. I sense myself sitting up straight as I draw in the deepest breath I ever have, larger than I know is possible. My chest straining as I inhale huge amounts of the mist. “Breathe,” Vaspeer booms, controlling my very being. I close my eyes as tears trickle down my face, something feels wrong with me, different, I hurt everywhere, my bones ache, my head throbs, I want to scream but I can’t stop inhaling the vapours.

#

And then I’m back in the alley outside the bank. 

I can feel the alley before I see it. My eyes are still crushed closed, tears blurring any vision I might have. I smell dirt, damp walls, and manure. The air is warm. The street outside is noisy. I cough hard and, doubled over on my knees, vomit water onto the ground. 

I gasp for air. But there’s something strange; the air tastes odd, almost like cold water, which I know doesn’t have a taste but it’s the best I can compare the experience. I exhale slowly with my lips pursed. I can’t explain why, but it feels natural to me. As I blow, a small wispy line of vapour flows forward from my lips. The fog flows strangely, not caught by any air currents. It meanders forward for a time before dissipating ahead of me. I reach up into the stream where I find a sharp pain; the cold bites into my finger as I snap it back. Looking down I see frost on my hand melting quickly in the warm air. 

Without thinking, I get up and run. I’m running home, kicking off any wall or cart I pass. No one has a chance to see it’s me, so I get the old familiar shouts of disgust I used to enjoy. I arrive at our home, throw myself through the door and into the tiny room I share with baking and candle tools. With the door shut and my parents working, I feel a sense of ease and calm, familiarity of my living space relaxing my nerves. Slowly, I sigh, and with it, the room wraps itself in the crystal white of winter.