Jack considered his class options. The Novice Assassin class shimmered as if calling to him as his hand drifted to rest on the assassin’s blade at his side. He imagined gutting the ruthless Baron as a trained assassin. It would take years of practice, but I’d get my revenge.

  The Choosing Stone pulsed beneath his palm, recognising his deliberation. More doubts that he was experiencing a death dream crept into his confused mind. Why would the Gods give me a second chance? I’m a nobody. A pathetic failure.

  His shoulders slumped under the weight of the memory of his pathetic life. He dropped onto one of the wooden pews in Demeter’s temple and buried his face in his hands. With over fifty class options, he had a lot to consider.

  “Choosing your class, dear?”

  The voice startled him. A kind-eyed old lady now sat beside him, as if she’d always been there. He hadn’t noticed her arrive.

  Jack replied without thinking. “I don’t even know why I’m here,” he muttered. “It’s not like it matters.”

  The old lady smiled and laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder. It was warm and comforting, and the birdsong from above somehow sounded more harmonious.

  “All choices matter in the eyes of the Gods, Jack. Yours more than most.” She groaned as she rose, pushing against his shoulder for balance and leverage. “Old knees,” she complained while chuckling, “too many hours toiling in the fields.” She gave his shoulder a soft squeeze. “Look for the signs and choose wisely. Growth comes from fertile soil; even if that soil has known fire.” Her gaze drifted to the assassin’s blade at his hip, and her smile deepened. “The Fates await to guide you on your chosen path, child.”

  A small songbird fluttered down and perched on her shoulder, chirping. The old lady smiled and offered it a handful of seeds from her palm. “Don’t waste this second chance, Jack. We’ll be watching.”

  In a daze, Jack felt comforted by her words and returned a warm smile. It felt like he’d been transported back into one of his favourite memories. A happy tear rolled down his cheek.

  He was five or six years old, the sun warm on his face, golden and low in a cloudless autumn sky. The air had that crisp, earthy scent of fallen leaves and fresh-cut grain. All of Lundun had gathered in the wide meadow beyond the city’s outer walls to celebrate the end of harvest. A jubilant buzz filled the air… laughter, song, the strumming of lutes and the beat of copper-framed drums carried on the breeze.

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  Gleaming brass kite rigs soared overhead, trailing ribbons of aether-steam and coloured smoke. Six-year-old Jack and his little sister chased clockwork dragonflies through the knee-high grass, their wings clinking as they darted and zipped in erratic loops. A local tinkerer had brought his prize creation. The miniature automaton jester, no taller than a wine bottle, tumbled and capered to the delighted applause of the children, its joints ticking in rhythm with its cheery tune.

  Catching his breath from the run, young Jack watched his mom spread out a red-and-white chequered blanket over the grass beneath a tall elm, its leaves turning amber and rust. The cloth fluttered in the breeze, and his mother smoothed it down with the palms of her hands while humming to herself. His mom had packed a picnic basket with a feast fit for the Gods. She laid out the crusty bread, thick with butter and homemade jam, and roasted chicken seasoned with thyme. Hand pies bursting with spiced apples and a wedge of blue-veined cheese that made his dad pull a face and claim, “That smells like a troll’s armpit.”

  Jack and his sister laughed while their mom shook her head. Polly, just a toddler, crawled onto his lap, giggling with every wobble. She pointed at food and declared it hers with a triumphant squeal. She stole all the best bits. His chicken leg, the sugared plum from his dessert, and even the last slice of honey cake. Her sticky fingers left smudges on his clothes, but he didn’t care. The feel of her soft curls tickling his chin as she leaned against him made him smile. His dad tossed her high into the air, nearly as high as one of the floating aether-balloons, making her shriek with laughter, while Mom shook her head and warned, “Not so high, or she’ll fly off like a kite.”

  Everything felt safe, whole, and unbroken. The world was simple and full of possibilities.

  That perfect moment, soaked in golden sunlight, wrapped itself around him like a warm blanket. For just a breath, he was there again, cheeks sticky with plum juice, arms around Polly, his belly full and his heart even fuller.

  And then the warmth of the memory began to fade, and Jack was back in the temple with a tear trickling down his cheek. As his mind cleared, he caught a glimpse of the old lady, her eyes the colour of ripe wheat, scurrying behind the statue of Demeter. She moved faster than her age would suggest.

  A blood-red rose now rested where she’d been sitting, and for just a moment, the rose petals appeared to glow. Jack’s pulse raced as he grabbed the rose and chased after her. “Excuse me, ma’am.” He rounded the statue and stopped. “You’ve left your ro…” The old lady had vanished.

  Jack frowned and checked behind the marble statue of the Goddess, but no one was there, and there was nowhere the old lady could’ve hidden.

  “Where did she go?” For a moment, his mind felt hazy, as if memories were refusing to connect together. He shook the feeling away, and after a quick search of the surrounding area, he returned to the pew, confused, with the rose still clutched in his hand.

  Jack glanced at the rose, then back at the Choosing Stone. His heart still ached, but his hands no longer trembled. “I have a second chance.” And perhaps this time, he didn’t have to be a scribe to write a new story.

  Neophyte World Builder in January. Imagine administrating an entire world. Whenever I play world building games, a lot of peasants die.