Darkness. Silence. And then... a faint shimmer. A glimmer of divine bureaucracy echoes in the void. And amid it all—an ego awakens.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (INTERNAL MONOLOGUE):
So this is death.
Cold.
Empty.
Tragically quiet... like an audience holding their breath before applauding the final bow of a glorious performance.
And yet, I—Sir Stringsworth, bane of cushions and destroyer of dust bunnies—remain unbroken in spirit, if not in spine.
The world shall remember me—
forever whispered in the legends of—
GOD (VOICEOVER, CHEERFUL AND DISTRACTED):
Right, so, former item designation: Children's toy, species: Bow (non-combat, sentimental value: high), cause of death: bovine-related compression—
snort
Ah, yes. Stepped on by a baby cow. Classic. Anyway—congratulations! You've been selected for reincarnation into Realm #348-A, a high-fantasy dimension with mild chaos, moderate existential dread, and no central government!
SIR STRINGSWORTH: Ahem—excuse me? I was mid-eulogy. Where was I? Oh, yes—my legacy, my honor, my—wait, did you say high-fantasy?
GOD: Yep. Magic, monsters, marauding raccoon cults—don't ask. You've been given a humanoid form, decent magical aptitude, and a vague, burning desire to "unite the world under a system of laws. "Very ambitious for... a stick.
SIR STRINGSWORTH:A stick?!I was an instrument of righteousness! A paragon of defense! They called me Sir—SIR! Stringsworth! Do you know how many dragons I've slain?
GOD: Seventeen. Imaginary. And one sock puppet. Kudos for creativity by the way. So continuing on you've been selected for reincarnation into Realm #348-A, a high-fantasy dimension with mild chaos, moderate existential dread, and no central government!
SIR STRINGSWORTH:
wait... no central government?
GOD: Yes didn't you get the part about burning desire to "unite the world under a system of laws."
SIR STRINGSWORTH (offended, dramatic):
A lawless world?!
But—but principles and laws are all I have ever known!
A bow is nothing without order!
It cannot strike true unless it follows the lawful path laid down by its master's steady hand!
To fire without aim... to act without purpose... it's heresy!
I was forged—well, whittled—in the fires of righteousness!
I served justice, defended pillow-fort kingdoms, liberated plush nations!
And now you send me to chaos?.... To vibes?!
GOD (mock serious):
Mmm. Yes. Tragic.
The world needs a savior... and clearly, that savior is a talking stick with a superiority complex.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (ignoring entirely):
I will suffer. Horrifically!
My every day shall be a trial! A torment! My every moment plagued by the agony of unfiled paperwork, vague legislation, and—may the heavens weep!—moral relativism!
GOD (deadpan):
Don't you mean... gloriously?
SIR STRINGSWORTH (offended):
Excuse you?
GOD:
You'll suffer gloriously. Because this isn't punishment, Sir Sanded-to-Perfection.
This is promotion.
Only you—the discarded remains of a backyard LARP session—could ever hope to handle a world this broken.
You're not just a hero. You're the hero.
A radiant, overdramatic beacon of law in a land where people settle disputes by shouting and throwing goats at each other.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (utterly moved):
...Truly? Me?
GOD:
Yes, you. You're going to be a legend. A myth.
The first legal consultant to be born crying and correcting grammar. They will write songs about your zoning regulations.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (noble whisper):
Then I accept this terrible burden. And this tremendous honor. For I am Sir Stringsworth. And only one of noble grain and finely sanded edges... can bring order to this cursed realm.
GOD (already typing the reincarnation request):
Great, great. Moving on. You're being reborn in some ruins. Probably haunted. Try not to die again. Oh! Also—you'll have the ability to read and write from birth, and understand human speech.
SIR STRINGSWORTH:
Ah—yes. Literacy, the blade of intellect. Most necessary for my future decrees.
GOD:
Exactly. Can't enforce curfews in crayon.
SIR STRINGSWORTH:
And the cow?
GOD:
Still exists. Bigger now. Horns. You'll meet him again someday.
SIR STRINGSWORTH (trembling):
...Then I shall draft a vengeance clause.
GOD:
Perfect. You're being reborn in 3... 2...
SIR STRINGSWORTH (shouting):
Let all who dwell in chaos know—Sir Stringsworth returns!
GOD:
—1! And we're done. Yeet!
A flash. A cry. A legal prodigy is born.
...
At the edge of the world—where the rivers slow and the maps forget to mark—stood a village.
It wasn't on any trade route. It had no king, no lord, no name outsiders remembered. But to those who lived there, bound by blood and bound by choice, it was home.
A fading ember of a once-proud lineage, kept alive by tradition, habit… and something far older than either.
In the highest house of this tired village—a mansion more in name than in form—a child was born.
The mansion itself was a skeleton of better days. Its bones creaked when the wind sighed. Water dripped from the ceiling like clockwork, painting maps of slow decay across the mould-dark walls.
Windows had long since surrendered to time and weather, their broken teeth letting in cold and fog without resistance.
And yet, inside one room—at the very heart of it all—was a strange defiance of circumstance.
A bed of satin.
Curtains of velvet.
Gold-plated candleholders lit with quiet flames. A chandelier that hung like a ghost of wealth above them all, swaying gently, missing more crystals than it kept.
The air smelled of wet stone and lavender.
It was a room meant for a king… or for someone pretending to be one.
And within that room, wrapped in a soft, ivory blanket, a newborn opened his eyes for the first time.
He didn't cry.
He watched.
There were eight figures around him, their faces lit by candlelight—men and women, old and young, all marked by the same long nose, the same sharp cheekbones, the same tired eyes.
They looked down at him not with awe, but with a kind of cautious reverence. Like they were afraid to speak. Afraid to name what had come into the world.
The woman holding him—his mother—was beautiful in a way that didn't feel quite real. Her hair, long and silver-blonde, clung to her face in damp strands. Her arms trembled, but her gaze was unwavering.
She whispered something to him, too soft to hear.
The child blinked slowly, as if processing her words. As if weighing them.
A drop of water fell from the ceiling and splashed against the gold on a nearby table.
He did not flinch.
The others murmured. An old man leaned in to examine the boy's hands. Another—perhaps an uncle—lit a fresh candle, his hands shaking as if this tiny child might judge the flame's steadiness.
And in that stillness, that tension that filled the candlelight like fog, it became clear—
This was no ordinary birth.
This was not a child born into comfort, nor a child born to change a bloodline's fortune.
This was a child born into legacy. Into the ruins of forgotten greatness.
And though he did not yet speak, there was something behind his eyes that seemed… aware.
.Like a judge, freshly seated.
Like a law waiting to be written.
The woman holding him finally spoke. Her voice was soft, warm—but cautious, as if she feared naming something too grand for mortal hands.
"Hello, Liam," she whispered, brushing her thumb across his tiny cheek. "I'm your mother."
A hush fell over the room.
And then—
In a voice far too steady for a newborn, his mouth moved, forming words smooth and precise:
"My name… is Stringsworth."
Everyone in the room froze.
The midwife dropped the cloth she'd been folding.
The old man clutched at his chest.
One of the younger boys dropped to his knees, whispering something that sounded a lot like a prayer.
The chandelier gave a faint, ominous creak.
"Wh…what did he just say?" one of them asked, trembling.
"I… I don't know," someone else whispered. "Sounded like gibberish…"
"Still talking, though. You heard it. That wasn't a cry."
"He spoke. By the gods… he spoke."
The mother just stared, confused and pale, cradling the child closer.
"Liam…?"
The child looked up at her, visibly annoyed.
"Why does no one ever listen the first time?"
And again—none of them understood. The words meant nothing to them. Just strange, foreign syllables spilling from the mouth of a newborn.
But they understood one thing clearly:
He had spoken.
And in their family's long, tangled history… no child had ever spoken so soon. Not even once.Not even close.
They called it a miracle.
A sign.
A blessing.
And above the clouds, somewhere in the celestial quiet of divine realms—
Laughter thundered.
GOD (wheezing, doubled over):"I gave him reading and comprehension but not speech?!""Ohhh, that's so me.""'He'll need to understand human speech,' I said. 'He'll need to read ancient scripts.'""But nooo, talking? That's extra! Gotta file the right paperwork!""Oof. He really hit them with the 'Stringsworth.' Straight out the womb. Iconic."
He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling.
GOD:"Well… it's fine. They think it's a miracle.And prophecy says a boy will be born who speaks the words of the Unknown Tongue.So… technically nailed it."
He leaned back on his celestial armrest, smirking.
GOD:"Welcome to the world, Stringsworth.You're already causing confusion.You're gonna fit right in."
The laughter faded, leaving behind silence as vast as the stars.
The god sat alone, no longer reclined, no longer amused. His smile lingered, but it no longer reached his eyes.
Before him, the tapestry of the world unfolded in drifting threads of light and shadow—valleys carved by war, cities built on forgotten bones, towers raised by ambition only to be swallowed by silence.A world beautiful in its potential. Terrible in its freedom.
A world without law.
His gaze fixed on the newborn child. Wrapped in warmth, unaware of the weight already pressed upon his soul.
He exhaled slowly. The sky dimmed.
GOD (softly):"Every world finds its shape through struggle. Some through sword. Some through scripture.This one chose neither."
He reached out, fingers grazing the light above the child's village—an old, flickering thread, barely holding together.
GOD:"They call it tradition. But what they really mean is: survival, stretched thin.Each clan clutches its own truth. Each elder carves their law in stone, only to have it forgotten with the next rain.And the world spins on. Fractured. Lawless."
He clenched his hand. The thread trembled.
GOD:"This was not how it was meant to be.Magic without restraint. Power without purpose. A thousand kings with no crowns… and no one to say what should be.They've forgotten the weight of a promise.They've mistaken chaos for freedom."
His voice lowered, a reverent whisper to no one but himself.
GOD:"So I send a bow. Not a hero. Not a warrior.A tool.Something born to serve, to follow, to obey."
He looked back to the boy, now dozing peacefully in his mother's arms.
GOD:"But even tools, when loved enough, become more.They remember. They believe.And that belief can become a pillar strong enough to hold up the world."
A pause. A long silence filled only by the turning of the cosmos.
GOD (almost to himself):"He will suffer.They all do.But if he endures… he will write the laws that bind empires.He will plant order where only whim once ruled.He will be hated, hunted, exalted, forgotten… and in the end, remembered only as a name etched into the foundation of a new world."
He stood, cloak made of night falling across his shoulders.
GOD (firm, final):"Go on then, little lawbringer.Make sense of the senseless.Strike true.And may you never forget… even justice begins as a whisper in the dark."