like an elephant standing on his chest. Thor felt his ribcage being crushed.
The beast threw back its head, opened wide its jaws to reveal its fangs, and began to lower them for Thor’s throat.
As it did, Thor reached up and grabbed its neck; it was like gripping solid muscle. Thor could barely hang on. His arms started to shake as the fangs descended lower. He felt its hot breath all over his face, felt the saliva drip down onto his neck. A rumble came from deep within the animal’s chest, burning Thor’s ears. He knew he would die.
Thor closed his eyes.
Please God. Give me strength. Allow me to fight this creature. Please. I beg you. I will do anything you ask. I will owe you a great debt.
And then, something happened. Thor felt a tremendous heat rise up within his body, coursing through his veins, like an energy field racing through him. He opened his eyes and saw something that surprised him: from his palms emanated a yellow light, and as he pushed back into the beast’s throat, amazingly, he was able to match its strength and hold it at bay.
Thor continued to push until he was actually pushing the beast back. His strength grew and he felt a cannonball of energy—an instant later, the beast went flying backwards, Thor sending it a good ten feet. It landed on its back.
Thor sat up, not understanding what had happened.
The beast regained its feet. Then, in a rage, it charged again—but this time Thor felt different. The energy coursed through him; he felt more powerful than he had ever been.
As the beast leapt into the air, Thor crouched down, grabbed it by its stomach and hurled it, letting its momentum carry it.
The beast flew through the wood, smashed into a tree, and collapsed to the floor.
Thor turned, amazed. Had he just thrown a Sybold?
The beast blinked twice, then looked at Thor. It charged again.
This time, as the beast pounced, Thor grabbed it by its throat. They both went to the ground, the beast on top of Thor. But Thor rolled over, on top of it. Thor held it, choking it with both hands, as the beast kept trying to raise its head, snap its fangs at him. It just missed. Thor, feeling a new strength, dug his hands in and did not let go. He let the energy course through him. And soon, amazingly, he felt himself stronger than the beast.
He was choking the Sybold to death. Finally, the beast went limp.
Thor did not let go for another full minute.
He stood slowly, out of breath, staring down, wide-eyed, as he held his wounded arm. He could not believe what had just happened. Had he, Thor, just killed a Sybold?
He felt it was a sign, on this day of all days. He felt as if something momentous had happened. He had just killed the most famed and feared beast of his kingdom. Single-handedly. Without a weapon. It did not seem real. No one would believe him.
He stood there, reeling, wondering what power had overcome him, what it meant, who he really was. The only people known to have power like that were druids. But his father and mother were not druids, so he couldn’t be one.
Or could he be?
Thor suddenly sensed someone behind him, and spun to see Argon standing there, staring down at the animal.
“How did you get here?” Thor asked, amazed.
Argon ignored him.
“Did you witness what happened?” Thor asked, still unbelieving. “I don’t know how I did it.”
“But you do know,” Argon answered. “Deep inside, you know. You are different than the others.”
“It was like…a surge of power,” Thor said. “Like a strength I didn’t know I had.”
“The energy field,” Argon said. “One day you will come to know it quite well. You may even learn to control it.”
Thor clutched his shoulder, the pain excruciating. He looked down and saw his hand covered in blood. He felt lightheaded, worried what would happen if he didn’t get help.
Argon took three steps forward, reached out, grabbed Thor’s free hand, and placed it firmly on the wound. He held it there, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
Thor felt a warm sensation course through his arm. Within seconds, the sticky blood on his hand dried up, and he felt his pain begin to fade.
He looked down and could not comprehend it: he was healed. All that remained were three scars where the claws had cut—but they looked to be several days old. They were sealed. There was no more blood.
Thor looked at Argon in astonishment.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
Argon smiled.
“I didn’t. You did. I just directed your power.”
“But I don’t have the power to heal,” Thor answered, baffled.
“Don’t you?” Argon replied.
“I don’t understand. None of this is making any sense,” Thor said, increasingly impatient. “Please, tell me.”
Argon looked away.
“Some things you must learn over time.”
Thor thought of something.
“Does this mean I can join the King’s Legion?” he asked, excitedly. “Surely, if I can kill a Sybold, then I can hold my own with other boys.”
“Surely you can,” he answered.
“But they chose my brothers—they didn’t choose me.”
“Your brothers couldn’t have killed this beast.”
Thor stared back, thinking.
“But they have already rejected me. How can I join them?”
“Since when does a warrior need an invitation?” Argon asked.
His words sunk in deep. Thor felt his body warming over.
“Are you saying I should just show up? Uninvited?”
Argon smiled.
“You create your destiny. Others do not.”
Thor blinked—and a moment later, Argon was gone.
Thor couldn’t believe it. He spun around the wood in every direction, but there was no trace of him.
“Over here!” came a voice.
Thor turned and saw a huge boulder before him. He sensed the voice came from up top, and he immediately climbed it.
He reached the top, and was puzzled to see no sign of Argon.
From this vantage point, though, he was able to see above the treetops of Darkwood. He saw where Darkwood ended, saw the second sun setting in a dark green, and beyond that, the road leading to King’s Court.
“The road is yours to take,” came the voice. “If you dare.”
Thor spun but saw nothing. It was just a voice, echoing. But he knew Argon was there, somewhere, egging him on. And he felt, deep down, that he was right.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Thor scrambled down the rock and set off, through the wood, for the distant road.
Sprinting for his destiny.
CHAPTER THREE
King MacGil—stout, barrel-chested, with a beard too thick with gray, long hair to match, and a broad forehead lined with too many battles—stood on the upper ramparts of his castle, his queen beside him, and overlooked the day’s burgeoning festivities. His royal grounds sprawled out beneath him in all their glory, stretching as far as the eye could see, a thriving city walled in by ancient stone fortifications. King’s Court. Interconnected by