They say Parzifal came too late. That if the river hadn't flooded, or his horse hadn't thrown a shoe, or if the stars had aligned differently, the king would still be alive.
But that's not how fate works. Fate doesn't ask questions. It writes them.
And on that bitter morning, as dawn unfurled over the spires of Avaledrin, Sir Parzifal arrived with the Cup of the Savior clutched in his gauntlet—and found the King cold and crowned with frost.
The grail pulsed gently in his hands, still warm, still alive with miracle. But the breath in the King's lungs had already fled. The body remained, but the soul had slipped past the veil.
Parzifal fell to his knees.
He had journeyed to the world's ragged edges, fought beasts that whispered curses into sleep, solved riddles that could unmake minds. He had crossed the Desert of Voices where dead kings begged for memory, swum the obsidian tides of the Starless Sea, bartered with witches who wore their hearts outside their ribs. And he had done it all to bring salvation home.
Too late.
The court blamed him.
In whispers at first—then in shouts.
"You let him die," they cried. "You wandered too long chasing stories."
No one remembered the giants he'd slain or the fires he'd walked through. Only that he had failed. And in the shadows of the throne room, as the new regent was crowned, Parzifal saw a flicker of something cruel and familiar watching him from behind the silken veils.
Death.
He came to believe she had cursed the King. That her hand had stirred the illness in the monarch's blood. That she had waited for him, smiling through a thousand masks, patient and cruel.
He cast aside his titles. His sword. His name.
And went hunting.
He wandered for years, following rumors that smelled of rot and endings. He saw kingdoms crumble, watched emperors drink poison from crystal goblets, heard the weeping of mothers who had outlived their children.
But Death never came for him.
He fought in wars that weren't his. Slew beasts that weren't wicked. He lived through wounds that should have ended him, carried scars like holy relics. And still, Death eluded him.
He no longer sought to kill her.
He only wanted her to look him in the eye.
In the Forest of Ages, the trees breathed mist and time bent like reeds in wind. With every step, his shoulders slumped heavier. Every footfall aged him. His knees cracked. His hair silvered. When he reached the cabin at the forest's heart, his armor hung loose around a body he barely recognized.
He entered.
Inside, three women sat before a fire that did not burn, only glowed.
One was young, wild-eyed and barefoot, her voice still wrapped in wonder.
One was radiant, the beauty of dusk and danger coiled like smoke around her.
The third was old. Older than the stones, older than the stars. Her skin was cracked parchment. Her gaze, steady as judgment.
They said nothing as he staggered in.
He collapsed to one knee.
"I came to find Death," he rasped. "To ask her why. To know what debt the King owed. What debt I owe."
The young one tilted her head. "You think Death owes you answers?"
"I think I was written to fail," he whispered.
The middle woman rose. She walked to a low table. Upon it sat a book, its cover plain, its pages fluttering though there was no breeze. Beside it, a quill made from something that might once have flown.
"Read," she said.
Parzifal reached out with shaking hands. The book opened at the center.
He read.
Not words, not lines—but moments. Scenes from a life not yet lived. His life. The storm-wracked night his squire died. The moment he turned from a dying child to pursue the grail. The arguments. The loneliness. The glory. All of it, inked in graceful strokes.
And then—the arrival at the King's deathbed.
He looked up, stricken.
"You wrote this," he said. "All of it."
The elder nodded once. "We write what must be remembered."
"You made me fail."
"No," said the younger. "We only wrote the seed. You grew the tree."
The middle woman placed the quill in his palm.
"You have a choice," she said. "Write. Or walk away. But know this: you are not the first. You will not be the last."
Parzifal stared down at the ink-black tip.
"Does what I write become truth?"
"We do not know," the elder said. "Or we have forgotten. There is a difference."
He looked again at the pages. The final lines were unwritten. His story waiting.
He hesitated. "And if I write a lie?"
"Then let it be a beautiful one," the middle woman said.
He dipped the quill in ink.
And wrote:
"In the southern reaches of Iravel, where the rivers whisper through the jungle's teeth, a child knelt beside her dying brother. Her hands were small. Her hope was smaller. But when she whispered his name, something ancient stirred in the canopy above."
Miles away, beneath the tangled boughs of Iravel, a girl looked up.
The wind shifted. The trees bent, listening. And the boy in her arms took a breath he had not taken in hours.
Birds scattered. Light broke through the leaves like golden rain.
A miracle.
Was it the writer's will?
Or the book's?
No one knew.
Parzifal just kept writing.
They say he died in that forest. Others say he still writes, his hand never tiring.
But stories—real stories—don't end.
They echo.
And somewhere, a child is saved.
Because someone, somewhere, believed they could be.
Because someone wrote it down.