The Chosen One

“He’s the one destined to become the true Gypsy King!”

Inside a wildly over-decorated tent that looked like a flea market exploded inside a velvet curtain, an old Romani woman with a massive wart balanced on her bulbous nose dramatically squinted her eyes and hovered her hands over a crystal ball.

“Your son is fated to become the greatest Romani in history, Mrs. Mirga!”

Her voice rose theatrically, as if trying to add credibility through sheer volume. Not that it was needed.

Madona Mirga’s eyes were already glittering with joy from the so-called prophecy.

“Tell us more, Madam of Maybes!” she squealed, half-skipping in place like a girl at her first fortune-telling. She clutched her son’s wrist. “Šunes, Fifty?! The Gypsy King!”

The fortune-teller cracked one eye open to see if her performance was landing, then snapped it shut and slammed the table with both hands.

“No!!” she howled.

“What? What’s happening?!” Madona gasped, hand to chest like she’d been shot.

“Let’s go, mom. This is pure nonsense. The woman’s a fraud. Can’t you see that?” Fifty tugged her elbow, already looking for the nearest exit.

“Don’t anger her, idiot! Or she’ll curse us!”

He rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him.

“Your son…! No! It can’t be! Aaaaargh!” the Madam shrieked, twisting in her chair like she was being electrocuted. With a dramatic sweep of her arm, she ‘accidentally’ knocked the crystal ball off the table.

It shattered.

And so did she—collapsing onto a fainting couch that had clearly been waiting for just this moment.

Madona sprinted to her side. “Madam of Maybes! Džives?!” she cried, trying to lift the woman upright.

In the process, the fortune-teller’s nose pressed into Madona’s belly—hard enough to dislodge the wart. It bounced to the floor with a soft plop, revealing the wart was as fake as her profession.

“Oh! Heh,” The Madam perked up immediately, scooping up the wart and stuffing it into her sleeve like a stage magician.

“Well, uhm… that’s all! Prophecy concluded!” She patted her knees and stood up. “Now, about my payment—since your son’s chaotic aura broke my special magical crystal ball—that’ll be 5,000 crowns. Cash only, please.”

“Five thousand?! That’s ridiculous!” Fifty barked. “Let’s go, mom, don’t fall for it, this was clearly staged.”

“Shhh! We need to pay her now or she’ll curse us!” Madona hissed, already digging through her purse. “Good thing I had this much lóve on me.”

She dropped the cash onto the table while Madam of Maybes cradled the broken sphere like a sacred relic.

“I’m pretty sure I saw those same ‘crystal balls’ on AllyDepress for like… 40 crowns,” Fifty muttered as they stepped out.

Once they were gone, Madam of Maybes exhaled, tossed the broken orb into the trash, and walked over to a creaky wardrobe. She opened it to reveal at least twenty identical “magical” crystal balls stacked inside like salad bowls from a flea market clearance bin.

Outside, the fair buzzed with music, smoke, and at least three children crying over the wrong flavor of cotton candy.

Madona Mirga walked like a woman reborn, clutching her purse as if it held the future of the entire Romani nation—if they ever had one, that is.

Fifty trudged beside her, shoulders hunched, eyes on the ground. Every few steps, he kicked a pebble like it owed him money—only to watch it vanish beneath the stampede of fairgoers' feet.

“Did you see the way she screamed?” Madona gushed. “That wasn’t acting. That was exhaustion from her spiritual energy!”

“That was blood sugar and two semesters of theatre school,” Fifty muttered.

“Why are you always like this? She said you were destined to become the next Gypsy King! Do you know what that means?” Her voice cracked, halfway between pleading and dramatic overstatement.

“Yeah. That I’m now 5,000 crowns more expensive to raise.”

She gave him a swat on the arm—playful, but with just enough heat to register.

“You think it’s a joke, but I believe it. I always knew you were meant for something. And now it’s confirmed by… destiny!”

“Destiny should’ve charged less,” he grumbled. “Dad’s going to be furious.”

“Which is why we’re not telling him,” Madona replied, pressing a finger to her lips with a conspiratorial grin.

“Can we just go back to the booth already? My feet feel like they’re one scream away from calling it quits.”

As they argued, a blonde girl wearing a black face mask brushed past them, moving fast. Only her cold blue eyes were visible—wide, alert, scanning.

Two men in dark suits followed, trying to cut through the chaos of the Shintawa fair. “Ms. Stella, wait!” But they were already losing her.

The Shintawa fair was, by tradition, the largest in all of Velgravia—thousands of visitors packed into narrow cobbled streets like sardines in a can.

The crowd turned the girl’s path into a shifting labyrinth of elbows, carts, laughter, and fried dough.

“Where? Where can I hide?” she muttered under her breath, spinning as she darted between booths.

Then her eyes locked onto something. “There!”

As Stella darted toward the red-striped booth piled high with all types of toys, a young man in an elegant blazer watched her from a distance, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“She’s the one!” Victor Kovach thought, heart thudding.

Of course, he had no idea who she was. But she looked out of place, mysterious and panicked.

He hadn’t planned to be here—at the largest fair in Velgravia, of all places—but as he remembered the words the producer Fate screamed at him earlier that week, it made sense why he was now hunting people like it was sports.

“It’s been months, and not a single one of them applied!” the producer had bellowed across his office desk.

Victor had stood in front of him, frozen.

“This reality show already cost us a fortune. If we don’t air, it’s your ass on the contract, and we will sue you into the cobblestones of this country. Are you hearing me, Victor?!”

Loud and clear, Victor had thought, cold sweat crawling down his back. Find a contestant or find a good lawyer.

Now, as Stella approached the booth—one of the typical Romani-run setups at fairs—he moved quickly.

To his surprise, behind the table was a familiar face.

“Fifty?!”

“Victor?” The boy blinked. “What are you doing here?”

“Damn, I haven’t seen you since elementary school!” Victor laughed. “So you’re still doing the toy booth hustle with your parents?”

“Yeah, unfortunately... It’s exhausting. I’m not even allowed to sit. Apparently crouching kills sales. Or dignity.”

“Is he a friend of yours, Fifty?” a tall, lean man asked, raising his voice.

“Yeah. It’s Victor Kovach. We used to be classmates.”

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Mirga. You probably don’t remember me—I used to come over and play with Fifty at your house a lot.”

“See?” Mr. Mirga grinned. “I told you if you came with us to the fair, you’d run into old friends!”

“No, you didn’t, Dad…”

“Anyway,” Victor turned back, scanning the crowd, “did you see a blonde girl in a face mask run through here? I swear she came this way but—”

Before he could finish, the girl in question erupted from beneath the toy-laden table like a cursed puppet who’d just remembered her own backstory.

“There she is!” shouted one of the suited men, pointing from across the way.

Without hesitation, Stella grabbed Victor’s wrist and yanked him toward the opposite direction.

“Huh?!” Victor squeaked as he stumbled forward.

The Mirga family stood frozen, trying to process what had just happened. Then Madona’s eyes narrowed.

“Fifty!” she shouted. “That gádži must’ve stolen something from the bags! After her!”

“What? You want me to chase her?!”

“No, sweetie,” she said dryly. “I’ll do the running. At forty-seven. With sciatica. While you stay here and sit like a good little boy.”

“Okay, okay!” Fifty sighed, groaning as he took off after them. “Damn!” he cursed under his breath, pushing through the fair’s packed bodies.

He spotted Victor and the girl squeezing into the loading platform of the rusted Ferris wheel at the center of the square. By the time Fifty got there, they were already rising in one of the cabins. So he waited below, arms crossed.

Inside the cabin, Victor was sweating.

“Here she is!” he said proudly. “A Romani girl I found! Hidden in plain sight!”

Across from him, Marshall, the exasperated producer, removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose like he wanted to collapse through the floor.

“Are you stupid?” he asked.

“What? What do you mean, Marshall?”

Stella chuckled softly under her mask.

“This girl isn’t Romani, you idiot!” Marshall pointed at her like she’d insulted his ancestors.

“Whaaat? But I found her at a Romani booth! With the Mirgas!”

Stella pulled her mask down and inhaled deeply.

“Phew… I don’t know what this is about, but it’s nice to finally breathe again.” She smiled.

Marshall’s face turned red at the sight of her princess-like face.

“Can’t you see? Blond hair, blue eyes, skin pale as printer paper—she’s not Romani!”

“B-but not all Roma look the same!” Victor stammered. “Some have lighter skin, there’s diversity, right?”

“Victor, I’m so close to firing you I can feel it in my spine.”

They were interrupted by a muffled shout from below.

“Hey! Victor! Did she steal anything from our booth?!”

Marshall leaned out the window of the Ferris wheel cabin.

A teenage boy with jet-black hair stood at the entrance.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s my friend—Fifty Mirga. The booth is his family’s. That’s where I found her.”

Marshall froze.

“Did you say Mirga? That’s a Romani surname. Is he Romani?”

“Yeah, but…”

Marshall turned back into the cabin, eyes alight.

“New plan. Get him up here.”

As the ride slowed to let them off, Marshall gestured at the bored teen operating the wheel.

“Keep it moving. We’re taking another round.” The producer pulled the confused boy into the cabin.

Without even knowing what was going on, Fifty launched into action—by immediately patting down Stella’s coat like a confused mall cop.

“Hey—hey!” she yelped, jerking away. “What the hell are you doing, idiot?!”

She blushed beneath the tips of her ears, clutching her jacket closed.

“Don’t touch me like I’m some meat at the market!”

“Oh! Sorry!” Fifty recoiled instantly, face burning as he scrambled to the opposite side of the cabin and slammed himself down onto the bench beside the irritated man in the blazer.

There was an awkward pause.

Then the man cleared his throat, smiled like a used car salesman, and extended a hand.

“So you’re Fifty Mirga,” he said. “My name’s Marshall Fate—and I’m the producer of a brand-new, nationally broadcast reality show.”

Fifty blinked at the hand. He didn’t shake it.

“Okay…”

“And congratulations!” Marshall continued, undeterred. “You’ve just been chosen as an official contestant that will be chasing the Gypsy King title!”

“...Huh?”


Chapter 1: END