Chapter one

“I’m sorry, it’s just not really what we’re looking for.” The words fell from her lips and hung in the air. I felt their heavy presence in the pit of my stomach, deep and aching. The crushing weight was familiar but no less debilitating due to that fact. 

Sympathetic eyes met mine, full of regret and helplessly awaiting my reaction. Cathy Price, editor and longtime friend of my father’s, formed her lips into a simple sad smile in front of me. 

“Oh,” I managed. “You- you don’t even want to send it to the board? See if they’ll give it a chance?” 

“I’m very sorry Remi, it’s just that they’re looking for something a little different than this. This plot, well, we’ve heard it before.” 

“What do you mean?” I knew what she meant; I’d heard it from every publisher before her. But the question escaped anyway, begging to be answered. 

“Well, not the exact plot of course,” Cathy explained. “But the overall idea. It’s a bit overused. We face this problem with a lot of fantasy novels that authors send in. You know, the whole chosen one with a prophecy plot.” She made air quotes with her fingers to emphasize her point. 

“But that’s exactly why I’m using it!” I interjected and instantly regretted the outburst. “I understand that the plot’s overused,” I continued in a subdued voice. “But I think I can give it a fresh spin. Please, Cathy, I’m sure if you gave it a chance you wouldn’t be disappointed. It’s more than it looks like it is from the outside.” 

“I really am sorry about this Remi, it just isn’t right for us right now. Maybe another publisher will want it. Don’t lose hope, it’s not a bad story.” 

“Ok, I understand.” I didn’t. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today, Cathy.” I gathered my purse and got up to leave her office.

“It was my pleasure. I really wish I could have done more for you. And I’m serious, don’t give up. Publishing is a difficult business, but if you keep trying I’m sure things will work out.” 

Her final comment lingered in my mind as I left the building and boarded the city bus. It served no purpose but to remind me of every failed attempt at getting my story published. At every turn, I’d repeated that ridiculous mantra.

Just keep trying. Don’t give up.

But it didn’t make anybody want the story. It only emphasized my failure. 

This story was my life, my everything. Ever since the first spark long before I could really remember, it’s flame had been steadily growing. 

The story of Prince Dagan, World Jumper and Chosen One, had been brewing in my mind ever since I had realized how painfully overused the “chosen one” plot was. I’d read countless stories with the same basic ideas, differences only noticeable in the details. And I was sure I could do better than that. 

I’d spent precious hours crafting a magnificent and complex story of an arrogant prince who completely ruined any chance he’d ever had at really being “the chosen one.” It was my escape from the torrential downpour of life around me, and I was endlessly, infinitely proud of it. 

So far, I was the only one to truly see how creative the plot was. 

I shouldn’t have been so sure of myself at the beginning. I knew the publishing process was challenging. I knew the odds were not in my favor as a young fantasy author. I knew most authors ended up struggling and unable to get their book published.

But somewhere along the way, I had convinced myself that wouldn’t be me. 

Now I was twenty-four with a completed manuscript that was gathering dust in my computer files. And it wasn’t that I was too old, it was that the story was too old. 

In exchange for my dad setting up the appointment with Cathy Price, I’d agreed to have dinner with my parents. As I walked through their front door, the smell of lasagna wafting through the air. I closed my eyes and inhaled, feeling a small smile tug at my lips.

I followed the scent into the kitchen where I found my mother. She looked up from the salad she was mixing and her face lit up.

“Remi! How was your meeting?” The answer was in my expression and her understanding was apparent in the lines of pity etched into her face. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I lied. “I’m not surprised.”

“That doesn’t make the rejection any easier.” We stood like that for a moment, simply meeting each other’s eyes. It was enough. The moment passed and my mother lept back into action, leaving the sorrow behind. “Take this salad out to the table,” she said, handing it to me. “Your dad will be home any minute.”

We settled down for dinner, a routine I’d missed greatly after moving out. I let my mind wander as my parents caught each other up on their days, but I was pulled out of a daydream by my dad’s voice, asking the question I dreaded. 

“How’d your meeting go, Remi?” 

“Well, not great. They don’t want the story.” 

“Why not?” He raised a single eyebrow in inquisition.

“They think it’s too cliche. They don’t see it for what I see it.”

“Well, Remi… I know you don’t want to hear this, but maybe you should take that into consideration. You’ve explored almost every avenue and you’re not getting anywhere.”

“I know, Dad.” I fought to keep tired exasperation out of my voice. It was the same conversation every time. “But this story means a lot to me and giving up isn’t an option.”

“Just because you’ve been working on it since you were in high school? You’re twenty-four. It’s time to take your life a little more seriously.”

“Dad, please—” 

“Remi, listen. I don’t mean you have to stop writing, but maybe you could try writing something a little more adult. Something more intelligent. Something you can make a career out of. This fantasy stuff is a little childish. I thought you would have outgrown it at this point. I’m sure publishers would be interested in something more down-to-earth if you would just write it.”

“I’ll think about it Dad,” I said, barely looking up from my plate. But it was a lie and he knew it as well as I did. I wasn’t just about to give up on something I’d been working on for nearly half my life. 

His stare was disapproving and he shook his head in disagreement, but he left the topic alone. I quietly finished my dinner and after washing the dishes, headed upstairs to my childhood bedroom. 

I sat cross-legged on the bed and surveyed the room where this story had been born. The hours spent dreaming of the characters and cities and adventures I’d created were all here, in this very room. The thought alone of giving my story up caused a hole to open in my chest. Maybe my dad was right. Maybe it was time for me to try something new. But something else, something deeper told me that I couldn’t. Sensibility aside, this story was a crucial part of who I was. 

I opened up my purse and retrieved the copy of my manuscript. I flipped through the pages and read the final line. It was the perfect conclusion—tying the most critical loose ends, yet leaving the possibility for a sequel or even a series. But those were big dreams for somebody who couldn’t even get her first book published. 

With an immature and defeated grown, I flopped back onto the bed. An odd noise caused me to quickly bolt upright again. Something had tapped against my window. I cautiously padded over to the window and peered through the curtains, but I flinched away when what I was pretty sure was a rock hit my window. I quickly slid the window open and yelled out, “Hey, stop it!”

I ducked quickly to avoid being hit but the open space remained undisturbed. I stood up and leaned out the window.

“Hello?” In the evening light, a figure could be seen standing below. As they moved closer, a man’s familiar face became clearer. I was confident I had never seen him before, but there was something about him. “Excuse me, what are you doing?” I yelled down at him. The part of me that deemed talking to strangers throwing rocks at my window dangerous didn’t seem to be taking much of a stand right now. 

“Throwing rocks at your window, my fair lady.” 

I squinted my eyes quizzically. “Clearly. But why? And who are you? I could call the police, you know.”

“Because I needed to get your attention. Are you the lady Remington Weaver?” 

My heart thudded against my ribcage. “Who are you?” There was an odd familiarity in everything about him, and it was prickling in the back of my mind. 

“You really don’t know who I am? I was told you created me. And I’m not easy to forget.” He winked. “Maybe this will help trigger your memory. I’m Prince Dagan, World Jumper and Chosen One. Does that ring a bell?”