From the kitchen, Ethan's mother screamed. "What was that?! John check on Ethan!"
Ethan's father, who had been crouched beside the family car in the driveway, immediately dropped his tools and sprinted inside.
"Ethan!"
He bounded up the stairs, heart pounding. The screaming was loud desperate. He threw the bedroom door open.
A blinding light burst outward from within.
James staggered back, shielding his eyes. "Ethan!!"
And just like that
Silence.
The light vanished. The screaming stopped.
James rushed inside.
The bed was empty. The room, untouched. No signs of struggle. No windows broken. No Ethan.
Only the faintest shimmer of light fading from the floor.
He stood there, breath caught in his throat, hands trembling.
"Ethan...?" he whispered.
But his son was gone.
Ethan gasped for breath.
The pain was gone but his skin still tingled. His body trembled from the shock. He was no longer in his room. No longer in his world.
He stood in the center of what looked like a ruined garden stone paths cracked by time, ivy crawling up shattered marble columns, and wild roses blooming in overgrown beds. Moonlight pierced through a broken canopy overhead, mixing with the soft glow of enchanted lanterns hung around the perimeter.
Carved into the stone beneath Ethan's feet was an intricate ritual circle woven with runes and spiraling lines that pulsed faintly with lingering magic. Some of the glyphs looked ancient, others newer added hastily by a nervous hand. Candles flickered along the edges, their flames unaffected by the wind.
Six armored figures stood at the circle's border, hands on the hilts of their weapons. Their armor bore the crest of a long-forgotten house a downward sword beneath a crescent moon. Ethan could feel their eyes on him, cautious but awed, like they had just witnessed something sacred and terrifying.
Then he heard it.
A voice closer this time. Real. Grounded.
Firm, yet elegant.
"Kingmaker," the voice said, smooth and authoritative. "I welcome you and hope for your service."
Ethan turned toward the speaker, still catching his breath.
A girl stood there.
She had sharp, piercing eyes and long silver hair braided tightly down her back. Her frame was fit and firm lean muscle beneath a finely tailored dress with noble detail. She carried herself with practiced discipline, but there was beauty in her subtle movements, unforced. She wore a long crimson-red dress with a cape draped across her shoulders, flowing lightly behind her. On the back of her right hand, a soft glow pulsed an echo of the magic that had summoned Ethan here.
"I am Ceris Valen Duskmere," she said, her posture straight, her tone calm but commanding. "And I have summoned you."
Her eyes swept over him taking in his clothes, his posture, his stunned expression. There was a flicker of something behind her gaze.
A slight tilt of her head. A faint crease in her brow.
Disappointment.
She had clearly expected something else. Something more.
She raised an eyebrow slightly, her voice cool. "You are a Kingmaker, are you not?"
Ethan blinked, still disoriented. He looked around in disbelief at the ruined garden, the armored figures, and then back to Ceris.
"What the hell happened? Where in the hell am I?" he asked, his voice hoarse as he scanned his surroundings, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Then, acting on impulse, he stepped toward Ceris and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Take me back home!" he demanded, panic sharpening his voice.
Immediately, the guards tensed.
Steel rasped as hands moved toward sword hilts. One stepped forward, ready to intercept.
"Unhand Lady Ceris!" the lead guard barked, his voice thunderous with authority.
Ethan quickly backed off, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I I'm sorry! I didn't mean "
Ceris raised a hand calmly, halting the guard. "It's fine. Stand down."
She turned her gaze back to Ethan, eyes narrowing slightly.
"If you truly are a Kingmaker," she said, "bring out your Ego Weapon."
Ethan furrowed his brows, frustration in his tone. "Kingmaker this, Kingmaker that, what the hell is a Kingmaker even supposed to be?"
Ceris sighed, stepping a little closer. "Just imagine a weapon. Focus on it. Call to it. If the bond is real, it will answer."
Though Ethan was still baffled and confused, he reluctantly did as asked. He imagined a cool sword engulfed in flames. Then a set of sleek dual daggers with glowing engravings.
He focused.
Then he felt it.
A sudden weight slammed into his hands.
He looked down.
A dagger.
But not the one he imagined.
It was small. Rusted. The blade is dull, barely capable of cutting paper. The handle was wrapped in tattered leather, the end trailed a length of broken, rusted chain like it had once been bound to something.
The weapon pulsed faintly, a quiet echo of old power long faded.
It was far from being usable let alone impressive.
And Ceris... was watching.
She stared at the weapon, her expression still calm and neutral but Ethan could feel it. She was on the edge of her patience. That mask of noble composure was starting to crack.
The disappointment in her was loud, even if unspoken.
From the side, one of the guards let out a faint giggle quickly masked by a forced cough.
Ceris didn't react, but the air around them grew just a bit colder.
She turned and addressed Ethan directly, her voice low and restrained. "Come with me. Inside. I'm sure you have a lot of questions and we will talk."
Without waiting for his answer, she turned and began walking toward the manor behind the garden, her cape trailing behind her like a red shadow.
The guards flanked Ethan on either side as they entered the mansion.
Inside, the architecture was nothing short of breathtaking. Tall arched ceilings, gilded chandeliers, and finely crafted wooden walls lined with decorative trim. Portraits hung along the hallway generations of silver-haired nobility, each painted with regal detail.
Ethan scanned everything with wide eyes. Servants moved through the halls maids whispering among themselves, stealing glances at him, while butlers eyed him with stoic curiosity. Whispers trailed in his wake.
They led him to a grand dining area, where a long table stretched beneath an ornate ceiling mural. The table was already prepared with silver platters and dishes of steaming food.
Ceris turned to him. "Take a seat," she said.
Ethan, still confused, hesitated then sat down.
"I'll return shortly. There are matters I must attend to," she added before stepping out.
A few minutes passed.
Then, the doors opened again.
Ceris re-entered this time accompanied by two older figures.
A dignified old man with sharp features, wearing a decorated militaristic uniform of deep navy and gold. Though aged, he radiated charisma and presence.
Beside him, an elegant older woman in a flowing red gown walked with practiced grace. She carried herself with the air of nobility, the kind passed down through blood.
The guards stationed inside immediately bowed their heads.
Ethan, startled, scrambled to mimic them. His bow, however, was clumsy and awkward, not quite disrespectful, but clearly untrained.
Ceris then introduced them as her grandfather and grandmother. She apologized, explaining that her parents were not currently at the manor and could not be introduced at the moment.
Ethan shrugged slightly and replied, "It's fine."
They proceeded to sit down and eat. Though the meal looked delicious, Ethan was noticeably uncomfortable. He ate slowly, self-conscious of his every move. Compared to the graceful and refined manner in which everyone else at the table ate, his own habits made him feel like a commoner or worse, a barbarian.
Arthur, the grandfather, eventually turned toward Ethan with a kind but steady gaze. "I'm sure you have questions."
Ethan looked up from his plate, setting his fork down. "Yeah. Why was I summoned here? Where even is here? And what exactly are you planning to do with me?"
Arthur nodded calmly. "I understand your confusion and I assure you, we mean you no harm. But we needed you."
Ethan narrowed his eyes. "Needed me? What does that even mean?"
"You are a Kingmaker," Arthur said plainly. "And your King Candidate is my granddaughter Ceris."
Ethan groaned and threw his hands up. "Okay, hold on now enough of this 'Kingmaker' nonsense! I'm not a Kingmaker, I'm just a normal guy, and I want you to return me home now!"
His voice rose, sharp with frustration and disbelief.
Arthur remained composed. "Stay calm, young man. Anger will not bring you home. And though I understand your distress, I ask that you listen."
He folded his hands atop the table and began to explain. "Kingmakers are summoned from beyond our world to assist those chosen by the Eternal Cycle. Every three hundred years, twelve thrones are left vacant, and each region must produce thirty Candidates between the ages of sixteen and twenty. From these, twelve will rise to rule."
Arthur's voice held the weight of history. "The Kingmaker system was born from an age of chaos when warlords, tyrants, and dynasties bathed our world in endless conflict. It was not power we lacked, but wisdom. And so, the last true King sacrificed his power, along with his Kingmaker, to establish a sacred law one that ensures only those who can grow into true rulers may ascend."
Ethan absorbed the words slowly, mouth slightly agape.
Before he could speak, Ceris abruptly stood.
She had remained quiet until now but the tension in her expression was clear.
"I've had enough," she said coldly. "I summoned a Kingmaker, not a boy who throws tantrums at the dinner table."
Her silver eyes locked onto Ethan, sharp and disappointed. "I don't need someone who's no better than a soldier in training."
She stepped back from the table slightly. "I, Ceris Valen Duskmere, will push through the Candidacy on my own. I will claim the throne Kingmaker or not."
She stormed out of the dining room.
"Ceris!" her grandmother called, rising quickly to follow her.
Arthur sighed, then turned to Ethan. "My apologies. She has high expectations perhaps too high."
He gestured to a nearby maid. "Please escort our guest to his quarters."
Arthur stood, brushing down his coat. "You must be tired. A room has been prepared for you, complete with running water and your own bath. If you're hungry later, simply ring the bell beside the bed, and a maid will attend to you."
He offered Ethan a nod. "Cool your head. We'll talk again once things have settled. For now, stay within the manor, and make yourself comfortable."
Ethan finished the rest of his meal, now feeling stuffed. Without much else to say, he stood up and followed the maid out.
He was escorted to his room a spacious chamber with polished floors, a massive bed, and tall windows that let moonlight pour in. At the center of it all was a balcony overlooking a quiet courtyard, where the night breeze carried the scent of flowers.
To his surprise, the room also featured a personal bathroom with actual running water.
He blinked at the sink and faucets in disbelief. "Wait… they have plumbing?"
It was nothing like the medieval fantasy he expected. Despite the world's old-fashioned aesthetics, it was clear that people here lived cleanly with proper sewage, ventilation, and even hot water.
Still confused and overwhelmed, Ethan opted to take a quick bath. The water soothed him more than he expected.
Now in only his underwear, he heard a knock on the door. A maid stood outside, offering a folded change of clothes.
"These are for you," she said politely. "Also, please hand over your used garments. We'll have them cleaned."
Ethan hesitated, then shook his head. "I'll wash my own clothes, thanks."
The maid bowed slightly. "Very well. Have a good night, sir."
She turned and left, closing the door gently behind her.
Now alone, Ethan sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the floor.
Why him?
He wasn't a warrior. Not a strategist. Just a high schooler who liked video games and hanging out with his siblings. Nothing about him screamed "kingmaker." He couldn't even use a proper weapon.
He leaned back onto the bed and let his thoughts swirl.
That dream no, that nightmare he had when he arrived still haunted him. The screams, the fire, the flashes of war. Was it just a hallucination? Or was it connected to this place?
Would he really be expected to fight? To kill? To die... for some stranger?
He just wanted to go home.
But instead he was here.
And no one was giving him a choice.
Sleep crept in before he could think too long. Heavy, unwelcome.
- - -
He dreamed.
Not of this world.
But of home.
His little brother and sister laughing in the yard, waving sticks like swords.
His dad at the kitchen table, sipping coffee while scrolling through a news tablet.
His mom was talking with him about groceries again, frustrated by rising prices.
And in all of it there was warmth.
Happiness.
Peace.
His mother looked up and smiled. "Ethan? What's wrong, honey?"
He opened his mouth but before he could answer, his siblings tugged on his sleeves.
"Come play with us!"
"Dragon time!"
His dad laughed. "We're heading out soon, champ. Get dressed, alright? We've got a long drive ahead. Let's not waste the sunshine."
A perfect Sunday.
He felt the words form in his mouth.
He was about to speak
But the floor vanished beneath him.
He fell.
Down.
Darkness swallowed everything.
He gasped and woke.
The moonlight was still there.
But the warmth was gone.
And so was home.
Tears streaked down his cheeks before he realized he was crying.
Meanwhile
Ceris was in the manor's upper training yard, a walled courtyard without a roof. The sun had already begun its slow rise, casting golden light across the polished stone tiles. Sweat clung to her skin as she swung her blade, engaging in a sparring match with one of the senior maids an mature woman with a tight bun and sharp eyes, who wielded a practice spear with impressive skill.
The sound of steel clashing echoed through the yard.
But Ceris' movements were off.
Her strikes, while strong, lacked the usual precision. Her footing, though disciplined, faltered here and there. Her mind was clearly elsewhere.
The maid parried and stepped back, lowering her spear slightly.
"Milady," she said with a slight bow, "you seem... distracted."
Ceris huffed, lowering her sword. "I'm fine."
The maid gave her a knowing glance. "Perhaps a short break, then? It's nearly nine. Your lessons will begin soon."
Ceris scoffed and rolled her eyes, walking over to a nearby bench and grabbing a towel. "Politics and etiquette," she muttered. "I'd rather train until my arms fall off. I can win the throne through strength alone."
The maid chuckled softly. "Strength may win battles, Lady Ceris. But a king rules with more than a sword. Leadership, wisdom, charisma, these, too, are weapons."
Ceris said nothing for a moment, gripping the towel a little tighter.
But she didn't argue.
A butler stepped into the training yard, bowing respectfully. "Milady, your breakfast has been prepared."
Ceris turned to the maid, lifting her practice blade again. "Let's go one more round."
The maid gave a low chuckle, narrowing her eyes with a sly, teasing smile almost sinister, but in a playful, non-threatening way. "One more round and you'll be late, milady," she said, voice laced with mock warning, "and I won't be the one explaining to your etiquette tutor why your hair's still damp with sweat."
Ceris frowned slightly but after a beat, she sighed and lowered her sword. "Fine. But tomorrow we go twice as hard."
The maid offered a small smile. "Of course, milady."
They exited the training yard, the sun climbing higher in the sky, casting long shadows behind them.