The swordmaster was white of hair, but his fiery spirit still burned behind his eyes. He looked on the slender youth, and his mouth twisted. "Train you? Pah! I run no orphanage for lost children here."
The boy shrugged. "All right, then."
He returned home and became a baker. His uncle had long wanted an apprentice. He married a plump girl from the next town over and raised three happy children. The swordmaster died some years later, largely unmourned. The baker slept well, untroubled by dreams of swords or destiny.
Somewhere, a kingdom languished, but that was a different story.
The Paradox Of Tarleton’s Pebble
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