Chosen By The Dragon Kings

When I was a child, my grandma used to tell me stories. At the time, I never gave them much thought. Thinking they were just that. Growing up I soon realized that they weren’t lofty fantasies and fairy tales, but memories of her past. Memories of our ancestors before our world turned to shit. You see, what comes from legend, no matter how exaggerated the story becomes, there is always a sliver of truth. You just need to weed out the fiction from fact. She would tell me stories of the Chosen One—the one who would save us all. I used to believe that what she said was true. That eventually, someone would be born, just as the Oracle predicted. Someone who'd save our souls and bind us back to our magic. Once I grew up and saw the world, I no longer believed in salvation. The chosen one seemed to be more of a prayer than reality. Some dream we wanted desperately to come true. Something for which we all prayed and prayed. Something in which we needed to find hope when there wasn’t any left. When our ancestors turned their backs on us, how were we expected to believe in this so-called salvation? Especially when all we witnessed was death and carnage ever since the great war. Nothing except pain and poverty. I used to believe the stories, and used to pray for the mysterious chosen one that would rid our world of its evil. Now, I see it for what it really is: just a dream of hope. Some out of reach fairy-tale. A story to create hope. Hope is dangerous; it makes you believe things will get better. I stopped hanging on to hope when I witnessed firsthand that it caused nothing but heartache.