Fortune favors the prepared

Anton couldn't dismiss the vision of his death as mere fantasy. The searing agony of magical flames consuming his flesh lingered in his nerves, too visceral to be imagination alone. Throughout his life, he'd experienced dreams that bled into reality—falling from the northern cliffs of Kirkvalor only to jolt awake as his body hit the bedroom floor, or the childhood embarrassment of dreaming about relief only to wake in soaked bedding. But this was different. This held the weight of prophecy.

As a boy, he'd sat cross-legged before the Priestesses of Marala's temple, entranced by their tales of divine dreams that guided ordinary people toward extraordinary destinies. Heroes who dreamed of ancient weapons buried beneath forgotten ruins, or who received visions teaching them to channel mana in ways no living master could demonstrate. His vision offered no path to greatness—just a warning of brutal mortality—but perhaps it served the same purpose: a chance to change what would otherwise be inevitable.

Anton brought his fingers to his lips and released a sharp whistle. Meeks lifted his head instantly, alert and waiting. With a gesture of his weathered staff toward home, the border collie understood they were concluding their day early. The dog circled the flock with practiced efficiency, nudging the stragglers into formation.

As they traversed the rolling pasture toward home, Anton's mind raced through possibilities. Direct confrontation was futile—his crossbow bolt had bounced harmlessly off the robed woman, and his father's hunting sword might as well have been a stick against their power. Gathering neighbors would only increase the casualties. The Adventurers had dispatched him and his father with casual indifference, as if swatting an insect. They would do the same to any poor farmer who stood in their path.

"Hey Anton, you're coming back early today!" The voice cut through his train of thought.

Rathan stood at the junction where the shepherd's path met the wider road, his guardsman's uniform immaculate despite the afternoon heat. His helmet rested against his hip, and his short-cropped hair caught the sunlight like burnished copper. He'd been assigned to patrol the outlying farms for the past two seasons which he performed with uncommon diligence.

"Oh, hey Rathan," Anton replied, forcing his features into something resembling normalcy. "Yeah, I'm not feeling well today. Thought I'd better take a rest early than risk getting sick for a week."

Rathan's eyes narrowed slightly, his guardsman's instinct for half-truths evident. "You do look a bit pale. Anything serious?"

"Just a headache," Anton lied, guiding his flock past him. "Probably from the sun."

"Well, take care of yourself. I heard there's something going around. Three people came down with fever in the east quarter last week." He adjusted his sword belt, the metal scales of his light armor clinking softly. "By the way, has your father finished that special brew of his? My captain won't stop talking about it since you gave him a sample to try last month."

If even the city guards were discussing Thonar's whiskey, how many others knew of it? How far has the word spread? "He's still tinkering with it," Anton replied carefully. "You know how he is—never satisfied."

Rathan laughed. "Perfectionists make the best brewers. Tell him Captain Tomwell's willing to pay for a cask when he's ready."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Rathan continued his patrol. As Anton watched his retreating figure, a realization struck him with the force of revelation. The alert rune papers—they were the key. Unlike his father in the vision, he wouldn't waste time with warnings or threats. At the first sign of intruders, he would activate an alert rune immediately, summoning the city guards without confrontation.

The fortress guards might not match an Adventurer in single combat, but they would come in force, with mages and warriors trained to work in coordinated units. More importantly, the Adventurers themselves had mentioned bounties and penalties—they clearly wished to avoid entanglements with official authorities. The threat of punishment might be enough to deter them, or at least buy time for his family to reach safety.

The plan wasn't perfect, but it offered hope where moments ago he'd seen none. As Anton approached the farmstead, the familiar scene of his home—smoke curling from the chimney, Muri's colorful flowers bordering the walkway, the comfortable disarray of tools and buckets that marked a working farm—struck him with unexpected poignancy. How fragile it all was, how easily destroyed by visitors who would regard its destruction as insignificant.

After guiding the sheep into their pens, Anton made his way to the cow barn where his mother and sister would be concluding their afternoon tasks. He steeled himself for Orla's inevitable questioning about his early return, rehearsing excuses that wouldn't arouse suspicion. How could he explain a prophetic vision of death without sounding mad?

Yet as he approached the barn doors, he hesitated. The weight of foreknowledge pressed upon him like a physical burden. Should he warn them outright? Would they believe him? Or should he implement subtle precautions, guiding them away from danger without revealing the terrifying truth?

Either way, one certainty remained: the peaceful routine of their lives had ended. Whatever idyllic simplicity Anton had found so stifling just hours ago now seemed precious beyond measure—and he would do anything to preserve it.

The barn door creaked open, letting in the late afternoon sunlight. Orla looked up from her chore of sorting wool, surprise etching lines across her weathered face. She brushed a strand of gray-streaked hair from her eyes.

"Anton? Why are you coming back so early today?" she asked, setting down her basket. "Some of the sheep might still be hungry, you know. Did you even go to the edge of the forest today?"

Anton avoided his mother's searching gaze, hanging his shepherd's crook on the wall peg with deliberate care. The memory of his vision—of fire and death—still burned behind his eyes.

"The flock grazed well today," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "They found a patch of sweet clover near the eastern ridge." He moved to her side and began separating the wool. "Besides, I thought you might need help. Your hands have been troubling you again, haven't they?"

Orla's expression softened. "Nothing gets past you, does it?" She flexed her fingers, the joints swollen with years of hard work. "But don't change the subject. You've been acting strange since midday. Pale as milk I say"

Anton managed a thin smile. "Just a feeling. Nothing to worry about."

They worked side by side as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the farmyard. The familiar rhythm of the work should have been comforting, but Anton's mind kept returning to the vision—the adventurers breaking in, his father's prized whiskey, the searing agony of magical fire consuming him.

When the dinner bell rang, Anton quickly washed his hands in the basin by the door. Before following his mother to the house, he slipped into his family weapon storage and palmed a sheet of alert rune paper from the chest where his father kept their weapons and rune papers.

The family gathered around the worn oak table as they did every evening. Steam rose from the stew pot as Orla ladled portions into wooden bowls. Anton's younger sisters chattered about their day, but Anton barely heard them. His attention was fixed on his father, who sat at the head of the table, pride evident in his weathered face.

When there was a brief lull in conversation, Anton cleared his throat. "How is it going with the whiskey, Father?"

Thonar's face lit up, just as it had in Anton's vision. "Ah! It's coming along beautifully. The golden color is just right, and the aroma..." He closed his eyes, savoring the memory. "Well, timing is fortuitous. I believe I've finally perfected it."

"What's your secret?" Anton asked, leaning forward. "There must be something special about how you make it."

Halden chuckled, wagging a finger. "Trying to weasel family secrets out of your old man, eh? Next you'll be wanting my lucky fishing spot."

"I'm serious," Anton pressed. "What makes this batch different?"

His father's eyes twinkled with mischief. "A wizard never reveals his secrets" He tapped the side of his nose. "But I'll tell you when it's the right time, my boy."

After dinner, instead of putting on his coat to head to the village tavern, Anton positioned himself by the window at the back of the house, alert rune paper clutched in his hand.

Orla approached, drying her hands on her apron. "Well, you really are not feeling well today. You're not even going to the tavern." She sat beside him for a while and reached out to touch his forehead. "No fever, at least."

"I'm fine, Mother. Just... not in the mood for ale and gossip tonight."

She eventually retired to bed, leaving Anton alone with his vigil. The house settled into nighttime creaks and sighs. Outside, an owl hooted. The tension in Anton's body wound tighter with each passing hour.

He could still feel the phantom pain of burning to a crisp by a fire spell. He tried to control his shaking knees and hands, but couldn't seem to stop them from trembling. The anticipation in his heart made time seem to pass at a snail's pace.

The moon climbed to its zenith, bathing the farmyard in silver light. Midnight had come, and still there was no sign of intruding adventurers. Anton was baffled. He was certain they had invaded his house just before he'd gone to the tavern, which would have been early in the evening. But now it was midnight with no sign of the adventurers from his vision.

He began to wonder if they were coming tonight at all. Perhaps his vision had been of another night? Or maybe his actions had already changed the future?

The hours continued to crawl by. His eyelids grew heavy despite his determination to remain alert. The alert rune paper slipped from his loosening fingers...

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"

The rooster's crow jerked Anton awake. Pale dawn light streamed through the window. He blinked, disoriented, then reality rushed in. There had been no invading adventurers, no threat to his life or family.

He slumped against the windowsill, relief washing over him in a dizzying wave. "I'm safe," he whispered, the tension of the night finally draining from his body. But even as he said it, a new worry formed: Had he changed the future, or merely postponed it?