Prologue: The Storyteller

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The old storyteller loved entertaining requests.

Even from the most demanding of patrons.

“Again, mister! Again!”

A clamor of young children sat and knelt beneath the clock tower in the center of Aberdeen’s cobblestone square, gathered around a wooden park bench.

“Don’t you lot ever get tired of hearing the same old tales?” The old man chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m old, you see, so I’ve got plenty more where those came—“

“—Nope!”

“It’s the best one! Isn’t it?”

“Tell us about Felix again!”

The children all seemed to agree. The eccentric fellow sighed, as if resigning himself to their whims. However, a small smile flashed across his face—a smile befitting a huckster with a heart for weaving tales.

“Very well, then. But if I’m telling it again, I’m counting on you lot to remember and keep the story alive when you’re my age, savvy?”

The children cheered, exchanging triumphant grins.

The old man brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat, the movement jingling the bells on his cap. Like a jester preparing a feast of entertainment for his king, he began his epic tale.

“One year ago, Hero Felix saved the world.”

The square went quiet, the rowdy peasant children wasting no time before locking their attention on the old man. Even passersby slowed, pretending that they weren’t listening.

Because everyone knew the story. The Hero’s Party, the Hundred-Year-War…

The Mad God.

A whole decade spent chasing a victory nobody truly believed was possible, filled with toil and sacrifice beyond comprehension. Many brave souls challenged the Mad God over the years. Brave souls tended to die quickly, but the Hero’s Party was different.

“And at the end of that long journey,” the storyteller continued, “the Hero crossed beyond the Forgotten Kingdom and entered the Seat of Sanity.”

The children leaned forward.

“There, amidst laughter, madness, and unspeakable oddities, he faced the Mad God in his own palace.” The old man’s smile widened slightly. “And after a battle that shook the heavens themselves…”

He clapped his hands, and a burst of confetti appeared.

“…the Hero won!”

The children erupted into excited cheers. The storyteller gave them ample time to settle down, knowing how rowdy they could get. After a moment, he continued on with the story.

“The Mad God was defeated, and everyone lived happily ever after…” he twirled his finger. “That’s how I’ve heard it told, at least. Their foe sure did love his tricks, however.”

One of the younger children raised a hand, and the storyteller pointed.

“Yes, you, in the front with the pigtails! You would ask me a question?”

“What happened to the Hero after that?”

The excited atmosphere dulled to a murmur. In contrast with the strange quiet that had settled, an amused cackle escaped the throat of the old man—echoing beyond the courtyard.

“Now, that’s the difficult thing, young one.”

“What do you mean?” The child who asked the question frowned.

“Well,” the storyteller said, stroking his chin, “nobody seems to agree.”

He began counting on his fingers.

“Some say the Hero finally succumbed to his wounds, or that he retired to a quiet life in the countryside. Some say he wanders the world in secret, and some say he ascended to the heavens themselves.” He looked up, pausing for a beat. “But others… Well, they say he went completely mad.”

The children exchanged uncertain looks.

“So which one is true?”

The storyteller crossed his arms, looking to the distant horizon. At first, his eyes were unreadable, but then a whimsical light returned to them, and a trademark smile to his face.

“If I told you that…”

The man leaned forward secretively, his hand cupped against his cheek. He whispered.

“…the story would be over.”

The children groaned.

“That’s not fair!”

“No tale worth hearing is.” The old man stood from the bench and dusted off his motley waistcoat. “Remember, young ones, a story is only as good as its ending. If you look for all the answers upfront, you’ll go and spoil the whole thing for yourselves, now, won’t you?”

The storyteller, with a suitcase in hand, bid them all adieu. The children who had listened with focused enthusiasm, and the adults with the faint light of hope in their own eyes as well. It seemed it wasn’t just the youngest who longed for a savior.

As the storyteller prepared to travel to the next city in search of new tales to tell, he muttered to himself.

“The Mad God is defeated, but the Hero has vanished,” he said. “And the age of peace everyone hoped for turned out to be something else entirely.”

A fond look settled over his features, which only left one question.

“If the Hero is gone…”

A question that still troubled village chiefs, soldiers, merchants, and children alike.

“…who will save us now?”

The storyteller waited as though expecting an answer, but none came. With a jovial laugh, he turned and disappeared into the crowd like a boat beneath the waves.

Far away, meanwhile, thunder rumbled.

And in the darkness of a prison cell…

The Hero sat in chains.