Fan Fiction – Fable 3
Prologue
Fait. Destiny. Good versus evil. Heroism.
None of that had been particularly important to me before. I had to worry about whether I would wear elegant or practical dresses, how I would address my dear brother Logan as he sat on the thrown, or what words I would use in a speech to inspire the servants. I was in fact a princess. Practicing my swordsmanship once a day, learning the curves of politics, and understanding how my people felt.
But that world was gone to me all in one day. Before I knew it, I was the only person who could save Albion. The only person who could defend my home.
My father, known for being a great hero, had died when I was young. But he left two dear friends, his treasures, and a history of hero's behind him for someone to find. I will never know if he intended them for me, or if he expected a strapping young man to take his place. But it was my fait that day to steal away from the castle with Jasper and Sir Walter. Albion wanted a revolution. And they needed a leader.
But was I up to that?
Sure. . . . . I would someday rule all of Albion anyway. But the job description of a hero is much more in depth with expectations than of a Queen. And other hero's didn't have to fight against their own brothers. But it wasn't my choice to make, even though I would have said yes and I would have fought to make the kingdom better anyway. These people put their lives in my hands. I could only but increase their trust and try to restore good in the world.
It was, and still is, the age of industry. People were starving, barley keeping money, as industry strived. My brother remained in the thrown since after our father died. He had sat on the thrown with the crown on his head for the first time when he was seventeen, looking over the kingdom with innocent eyes. It seemed a few years too young, but Albion needed a king. I looked up to him, being my older and only sibling.
Until one day . . . . . . . I grew up. It was as if the day I turned fifteen I also grew a mind of my own.
But fifteen was not the age I became a hero. After years of training, though I always thought I would use it only for self-defense in special occasions, I turned seventeen and later that year nothing was the same. Goodbye fancy dresses, familiar things, servants. Now it all depends on loyalty and courage.
That is what a hero has to live by. But a true hero knows exactly which kind of loyalty and which kind of courage to follow by. My brother could have been a magnificent king, but he was blinded by the wrong paths.
And so my legacy began.