Three dragon kings. One Fae woman. A fate she never wanted.
My grandmother used to tell me stories of the Chosen One, the one who would save us and bind us back to our magic. When I was younger, I believed that what she said was true—that eventually someone would be born, just as the Oracle predicted.
Once I grew up and saw the world unfolding around me, I no longer believed in salvation. The chosen one seemed to be more of a prayer than a reality—something for which we all prayed and needed to find hope when there wasn’t any left.
When our ancestors turned their backs on us, how were we expected to believe in this so-called salvation? Especially when all we witnessed was death and carnage since the great war. Nothing except pain and poverty. I used to believe the stories and used to pray for the mysterious fae that would rid our world of its evil. Now, though, I see it for what it really is, just a dream of hope. Some out of reach fairy-tale. Hope is dangerous; it makes you believe things will get better. I stopped hanging on to hope when I witnessed firsthand that it caused nothing but heartache.
