The Enchanted Mishaps of Elric Thorne

Chapter 1: The Goat, the Spellbook, and the Drunken Prophecy

Elric Thorne had three core beliefs:He was destined for greatness.

Magic was mostly about confidence and hand gestures.

Talking to goats in taverns was a perfectly valid way to interpret prophecy.

He wasn't exactly the most promising wizard in the village of Thistlewhip. In fact, he wasn't even technically a wizard. He'd flunked out of the Royal Academy of Arcane Arts after setting the Dean's wig on fire during a demonstration on "controlled combustion." Since then, his magical resume included: summoning frogs into people's ale mugs, enchanting a pair of boots to sprint off mid-walk, and accidentally marrying a broom.

So when the goat-smelling vaguely of ale and existential dread-leaned across the tavern table and bleated, "You are the One, Elric Thorne," he believed it. Partly because the goat had glowing red eyes. Mostly because he really wanted it to be true.

"Did anyone else see that?" Elric asked the room, which mostly responded with disinterest, grumbling, and one peasant throwing up in a bucket.

Thus began the greatest adventure of his life. And possibly the dumbest.

The next morning, Elric stood outside his cottage with his sword, his boots (now legally single), and a spellbook titled "Practical Prophecy: How to Save the World Before Breakfast." The book was written in Ancient Vernacular, which Elric could only kind of understand. He assumed that "Ignitium Arcanum!" meant "Summon Breakfast." It did not. It summoned a very angry fire sprite that immediately lit his front door on fire.

By the time he reached the edge of the village, smoke curling behind him like a dramatic exit plume, Elric was ready.

"Where are we going?" asked his sword, who introduced himself earlier that morning with: "Put me down, you idiot!"

"I'm not sure yet," Elric admitted. "But the goat said the world needed saving."

"Oh, well if a goat said it," the sword replied dryly. "Do you often take orders from livestock?"

Elric narrowed his eyes. "Only if they speak with gravitas."

Their first stop was the capital: Ivory Hollow, seat of the High Court, home to at least seventeen kinds of soup, and the place where everything went downhill.

Elric entered the city looking like a confused scarecrow, his cloak billowing, his boots squeaking, and his sword muttering profanity at passersby. He had barely made it two steps into the marketplace when a delicate hand tugged his sleeve.

"You dropped this," said a girl with wide, innocent eyes and a voice like bells. She held out a small, shiny coin.

"I don't-" he began.

She leaned in and whispered, "Play along. You're about to be robbed."

That's when he noticed three burly men surrounding him, eyes locked on his satchel.

"Oh," he said.

"Run?" she suggested.

"Run."

They sprinted through winding alleys, over cabbage carts, and through a chicken coop. Eventually, they dove behind a pile of discarded cloaks in the alley. Elric caught his breath, heart pounding, feathers in his hair.

"I'm Mira," the girl said, grinning. "You owe me a drink."

"Only if you explain how you knew I was being robbed."

"I was robbing you first," she said sweetly.

Elric blinked. His sword sighed. Somewhere in the distance, a goat laughed.