Destiny is a strange thing. Some see it as an invisible force guiding our lives, while others believe we forge it with every choice we make. If you confess your love to someone you know won't return it, your fate is rejection. But sometimes, destiny plays tricks on us—bringing public humiliation or consequences we never could have imagined.
As you grow older, your control over fate seems to shrink, though it never vanishes entirely.
And when you least expect it, your life might veer into a direction you would never have chosen.
"Alejandro, in all my years as a seer… I've never witnessed anything like this."
The fortune teller's voice was low, almost trembling, as she stared into the bottom of her teacup. On her visible elven ears, faint sparks of magic shimmered—the lingering residue of her vision. Her barely visible face held a mixture of astonishment and fear.
This was likely what Alejandro feared most. He hadn't been able to sleep for weeks, haunted by the same scene playing over and over in his dreams.
"You have only one destiny," she continued, slowly lifting her gaze to meet Alejandro's. "No matter what you do, your fate is to meet Elsa Santillan III."
The air in the small room grew heavy, as though even the molecules understood the weight of what had just been spoken. A chill crawled down Alejandro's spine. To have a single, unchangeable fate… was almost a sentence. And worse still—with Elsa, the heir to the throne, rumored to have orchestrated the murder of her own siblings in that tragic event where only she had survived.
"What does that mean?" he murmured, though the answer was already dawning on him.
The seer hesitated.
"What does it mean?!" he snapped, slamming his hand on the table.
"It means," she said at last, "that even if you try to stay as far away from Elsa as possible… sooner or later, your paths will cross. It's inevitable."
The silence that followed was unbearable. Alejandro searched the elf's eyes for a flicker of doubt, something that might challenge the terrible truth. But there was nothing.
"This is incredible," she muttered—more to herself than to him.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
"You don't understand. This isn't just bumping into her and becoming friends," she said. After a pause, she stood to pour another cup of tea. "Whatever happens—if she dies, so will you. If you suffer, she will find joy."
The old woman, older than she looked, remained quiet, letting the words settle like dust in the room. Alejandro was gripped by dread. If I suffer, she'll be happy? And if she dies… I die too?
This can't be real. It's too cruel.
He drew in a slow breath, trying to calm the storm inside him. But no matter how he tried to reason it away, the fortune teller's words etched themselves deeper into his mind.
Destiny was not something you could run from.
"Do you wish to know more about your future?" the seer asked, her voice cutting through the silence with cold indifference, as if she hadn't just shattered his world.
Alejandro looked up. For a moment, hope flickered in his eyes. Maybe not all was lost. Maybe, in some corner of this cursed fate, there was something good waiting. Maybe—even if it sounded insane—he would end up married to Elsa.
"Can you see more?" he whispered, afraid to lose that last glimmer of hope.
The elf didn't answer immediately. She simply nodded, leaning forward as if to peer into his soul, searching for any sign of despair.
Poor boy… she thought. Your destiny truly is cruel.
A single tea leaf floated before Alejandro's eyes. As the seconds passed, his eyelids grew heavy. Fatigue overtook him slowly. Darkness wrapped around him, and like waking into a dream, he was there again—just a spectator inside a body with no control.
"That dream again…"
Once more, he was falling.
Footsteps.
Rain poured over the cobbled streets, drumming alongside the steady rhythm of a growing crowd in the central plaza. Droplets splashed onto the stones, forming small puddles that mirrored the shadowy figures awaiting the day's event.
Today, everything would end.
The sound of footsteps mingled with the relentless rain, filling the air with a tense anticipation. Faces in the crowd were lit with satisfaction, hatred, and eagerness. Each person longed for the conclusion of a story they'd waited far too long to see.
At the center of the plaza stood the scaffold—tall, imposing—a grim reminder of a past ruled by fear. Everyone knew what was coming.
"The day has come."
A commanding voice rang out over the masses. "After all this time, we stand victorious. And here is our reward."
"Long live the hero!" someone shouted, followed by cheers that shook the square.
"The tyrant has fallen—thanks to our champion. Now it is time for her judgment."
Cheers erupted again as the crowd surged forward, pressing into every inch of the plaza.
Atop the scaffold, the woman who had once ruled with an iron fist stood tall. Her silhouette was barely visible through the rain. Her hair, soaked and clinging to her skin, had lost all its luster. The once-beautiful face, immortalized in portraits, was now just another criminal's.
Elsa Santillan III—feared and hated by so many—was about to face her fate.
Above her loomed the National Blade, crafted for this very day. A symbol of justice and release for those who had suffered under her rule.
Every eye in the crowd was locked on her. The tension grew. The end was near.
Elsa raised her face to the gray sky, unbothered by the rain. Her expression held no fear. No regret. Only calm acceptance.
At the front of the crowd stood the hero who had brought her down. His sword still hung at his hip, though he no longer needed it.
"It's over," someone whispered—and that whisper echoed in every heart present.
The executioner stepped onto the scaffold, draped in a black cloak that shielded him from the rain. He approached slowly. Elsa never once lowered her gaze.
"Will this be the end of my eternal boredom?" she asked, a faint smile on her lips—as though, at last, she'd found her answer.
And then, with no more ceremony, the blade fell.
Not long after, far from the plaza, in a place that overlooked the scene as if by cosmic coincidence, a rock descended from the sky—its path unerring.
It struck precisely where Alejandro stood.
His death was not coincidence.
It was destiny—cold, cruel, inescapable.