Captain Itsuki Hiroto stepped into the Prophecy Council Chamber with all the enthusiasm of a man entering a dentist's office. The circular room's walls were lined with towering shelves of ancient tomes, scrolls sealed in pewter cases, and dozens of crystal orbs—each humming softly like impatient bees. At the center, a wide onyx table gleamed under flickering lantern light, around which sat a dozen stern-faced elders draped in embroidered vestments.
At the head of the table presided Cardinal Elgar, his mitre casting long shadows on the polished floor. Near him stood Magister Lisette Falnore—her scholar's robes streaked with ink and arcane residue—and High Scribe Marcellus, a man whose quill trembled so much it might soon write its own testament. On either side, various nobles and clergy eyed Hiroto as though he were a particularly large misfiled dossier.
"Captain Hiroto," Cardinal Elgar began, voice grave yet edged with impatience, "we convene to discern your true nature. The Omens speak through the relic, the Orb, and your very bloodline. Are you willing to speak plainly?"
Hiroto cleared his throat. "Plainly, I'm a warehouse clerk who—by accident—trips into destiny. I am definitely not a prophet, seer, or divine messenger. I just… fall into things."
A hushed murmur rippled around the table. Magister Lisette adjusted her glasses. "The Orb of True Sight disagrees. It has shown visions of the World's End, Celestial Convergence, and a Silent Hand that Unseals Fate—all tied to you."
Hiroto winced. "Surely it's incorrect. Maybe the orb got static in its vision—like a broken scrying mirror."
High Scribe Marcellus tapped his quill on the table. "Prophecies are not mere superstition. The Scriptures of Flame state:
> 'When the silent hand disturbs the slumber of ancients, the world shall quiver at the tremor of one soul.'
Your hand disturbs relics. You unseal ancient powers. Do you deny the text?"
Hiroto rubbed his temples. "I deny I planned it. I deny I wanted it. I deny I understand half of what you're quoting."
Cardinal Elgar leaned forward, eyes blazing with solemn intensity. "Then answer this riddle, Captain:
> 'I am born in silence, yet my voice shakes the pillars of heaven.
I wear no crown, yet kings bow before my hand.
I shatter the unbreakable, thought never to be moved.
What am I?'"
Hiroto blinked. A riddle? Seriously? He glanced at Sera, who shrugged behind Marcellus's quill. "Um…" he began. "Is it… prophecy?"
Magister Lisette shook her head. "Incorrect."
"Fate?" venture another elder.
Hiroto grimaced. "No offense, but fate's too on-the-nose."
Cardinal Elgar's lips curled. "Your flippancy will not save you. The answer is 'a thought.' Yet you, whose thoughts awaken relics, bear power beyond mere cognition. You are the catalyst, the spark that ignites the ancient flame."
Another murmur followed. Virelya, standing at the back, gave Hiroto a sympathetic look. Ignore them, her eyes seemed to say. Just say anything.
Cardinal Elgar turned to Marcellus. "High Scribe, read from the second prophecy scroll."
Marcellus unfolded a yellowed parchment, clearing his throat. "It reads:
> 'When a stranger of silent heart holds the gauntlet of destiny,
the tides of magic will converge, and the gates between worlds will crack.'"
Sera coughed politely. "Gates cracking sounds like bad real estate planning."
Magister Lisette drummed her fingers. "That scroll also mentions a hidden chamber beneath the Empire's foundation, where the original seal of the First Divinity lies sleeping."
Hiroto felt his spine stiffen. "You have all this… written down?"
"The scribes have centuries to prepare," the cardinal replied. "Now, tell us plainly: do you accept your role as the Harbinger of Unsealing or do you refuse destiny's call?"
Hiroto sighed deeply, the weight of a thousand accidental world‑shaking acts pressing on him. "I accept… that I want none of it," he said, meeting Cardinal Elgar's gaze with quiet determination. "If fate keeps dragging me into this, I will try to manage it responsibly. But I don't want your prophecies to come true. I want to keep the gates shut."
The council fell silent at the paradox of his answer. Cardinal Elgar studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Your humility is… rare. Very well. We shall bind your oath. But know this: the seals weaken with each act, and time grows short."
At that, Lisette produced a small crystal chalice filled with silver‑tinted liquid. "Swear upon this draught," she instructed. "Speak the vow, and the magic will bind your will to the old seals—if you waver, the chalice's enchantment will reveal your truth."
Hiroto's gaze flicked to Sera, who mouthed, You can do it. He drew a breath, picked up the chalice, and raised it with a solemn mock‑toast. "I vow to strive against unsealing ancient powers. I vow to protect the seals, even if it kills me—or at least causes significant bruising."
He drank. The liquid tasted like cold iron and regret. A ripple of light coursed through the chalice and into his veins. The room darkened for a heartbeat, then brightened with the glow of relieved elders.
Cardinal Elgar exhaled. "So be it. You are bound."
---
With the formalities concluded, the council began dispersing. Hiroto staggered out into the hallway, feeling as if he'd just been force‑married to a secret the world would rather forget. Virelya guided him to a side chamber furnished with low benches and a single door marked "Rest and Recuperation."
Sera leaned in, offering him a steaming cup of tea. "Still lucid?" she asked.
"Barely," he replied, cradling the cup. "I feel like a walking bargain bin prophecy."
Virelya perched beside him. "You acquitted yourself well. They believe you can hold back the unsealing—for now."
Hiroto glanced at the door, then back at them. "Can we close that door and pretend none of this happened?"
Sera laughed. "Let me check for bolt enchantments."
---
Later, Hiroto retreated to his private chambers, where he collapsed onto the edge of his plush bed. He stared at the Glove of Destiny on his desk, its runes faintly glowing in the lamplight. He flexed his fingers, feeling the hum of ancient power pulsing beneath his skin.
Bound by oath, he thought. Sworn to hold the seals… but how?
The enchanted scroll on his bedside table pinged with a new message:
> URGENT: Disturbance reported in the Ruins of Varn. Magical tremors detected at coordinates 43.5°N, 17.2°E.
Hiroto groaned. "Of course." He rubbed his eyes. "I really need a break."
He rose, shrugged into his cloak, and strapped the glove onto his wrist. Summoning what remained of his resolve—and a quiet plea for mercy—he headed for the door.
If destiny insists on testing me, he mused, I'll meet it. But I swear, I'll do it on my own terms… and with a lot less panicking, if possible.
And with that, Captain Itsuki Hiroto—reluctant prophet, accidental hero, and sworn guardian of ancient seals—stepped into the night, ready to face the tremors that threatened to break the world's fragile balance.