The entire village gathered at the center of the plaza, where the ceremonial stones marked the sacred ground of the Choosing. It is a tradition older than anyone could remember, passed down from generation to generation.

Every child, upon reaching the age of fifteen, would stand before the ancient weapons altar, and a weapon would choose them. The deadlier the weapon, the greater the honor and prestige for the family.

For centuries, this ceremony had been the mark of one's place in the village, a rite of passage that determined their role in the world.

I stood among my peers, my hands trembling slightly as the heavy weight of expectation settled over me. My family, the Leffens, had always been renowned for their skill in battle.

My brother had been chosen by a double-headed axe, an enormous weapon that no one else could wield with the same ease.

My father had been chosen by a spear forged in the fires of the mountains, its tip always gleaming with a deadly edge.

And now, it is my turn.

The sky above was a dull gray, the air thick with anticipation. The entire village, hundreds of people, watched from the sidelines as the ceremony began. The village elder, an old woman draped in flowing robes adorned with the symbols of our ancestors, stood at the front, her hands clasped tightly around a staff of wood and bone.

"Today," she began, her voice resonant with the weight of history, "we honor the sacred Choosing. Each child will stand before the altar, and a weapon will choose them. This is the way of our people, the way of the warrior. Strength and honor come from the bond between weapon and wielder. May the ancestors guide the choices today."

My heart pounded in my chest as the first child stepped forward. Ebran, tall and proud, his family known for producing some of the greatest warriors in our village. He approached the altar confidently, his head held high.

The moment he stood before it, a sword, sleek and sharp, rose from the stone slab and hovered before him. The crowd erupted into cheers. Ebran had been chosen by a blade. A deadly weapon, one that could lead him into battle and bring honor to his family.

One by one, the other children approached the altar. Swords, axes, spears---all manner of weapons lifted from the altar to greet their new wielders.

Each time a weapon rose, the crowd cheered louder. The village elder watched each Choosing with a knowing smile, nodding her approval.

Then, it was my turn.

I swallowed hard and stepped forward, feeling every eye in the village on me. My palms were sweaty, my legs unsteady. The pressure weighed on me.

I am the youngest in my family, the one expected to live up to the great legacy of the Leffens.

I had to be chosen by something worthy, something that would bring even more prestige to my family.

I stood before the altar, waiting. The stone was cold beneath my feet, the air around me still and expectant. The seconds seemed to stretch into hours as I waited for something to rise. But nothing happened.

The altar remained silent.

No sword, no axe, no spear.

Nothing.

I felt my chest tighten with panic. I could hear the whispers of the villagers behind me, the confusion in their voices.

Why hadn't a weapon chosen me?

What is happening?

Just as I was about to turn away, a small object floated up from the far corner of the altar. It was thin and slender, and as it drew closer, I realized with growing horror that it was a pen.

Not a sword, not an axe.

A pen.

The pen hovered in the air for a moment before gently landing in my hand. The crowd went dead silent.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

I stared down at the pen, disbelief washing over me. This couldn’t be happening. This was some kind of mistake. I was supposed to be chosen by a weapon---a real weapon, something that could defend and protect.

But this?

A pen?

What use is a pen in a world where strength was measured by the sharpness of your blade and the blood you spilled in battle?

The village elder stepped forward, her face a mask of calm neutrality. "The pen has chosen you, Kian of the Leffen family," she said, her voice steady. "And so it shall be."

I looked up at her, my heart sinking in my chest. "But … why? What does this mean?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she gestured for me to step aside, signaling the next child to approach the altar. As I walked back to my place in the crowd, the whispers began to rise again, louder this time. I could hear the confusion, the derision in their voices.

"A pen? What kind of Choosing is that?"

"How embarrassing for the Leffen family."

"He's doomed. What can a pen do?"

I wanted to sink into the ground, to disappear. My brother stood off to the side, his arms crossed, his face set in a grim expression. He didn't say anything, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. More children were chosen by weapons of varying deadliness, each one celebrated and cheered for.

But not me.

No one cheered for the boy chosen by a pen.

As the crowd dispersed and the villagers began to head back to their homes, my father approached me. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark with frustration.

"A pen?" he hissed under his breath. "How could you be chosen by something so … useless?"

"I don't know," I whispered, my voice shaking. "I don't understand either."

He stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head in disappointment. "This is a disgrace to our family. We are warriors, Kian. This … this is unacceptable."

I wanted to tell him that it wasn't my fault, that I hadn't asked to be chosen by a pen. But the words stuck in my throat. I couldn't argue with him, not when I felt the same shame he did. I had failed.

That night, I sat alone in my room, staring at the pen in my hand. It looked ordinary enough--&a simple black pen, smooth and unadorned. But as I held it, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to it. Something I couldn't quite understand.

Why had the pen chosen me?

What is its purpose?

Over the next few days, I tried to go about my normal routine, but things had changed. The other children avoided me, their eyes filled with a mixture of pity and scorn.

The adults whispered behind my back, their voices dripping with disapproval. Even my family barely spoke to me. I was the boy who had been chosen by a pen in a world where weapons were everything.

I spent hours in my room, staring at the pen, trying to make sense of it all. I tried writing with it, but nothing happened. The ink flowed smoothly across the page, but there was no magic, no hidden power.

It was just a pen.

Useless.

But then, one night, something changed.

I was sitting at my desk, the pen in my hand, when I felt a strange warmth emanating from it. The warmth spread up my arm, and before I knew it, my hand was moving on its own, scribbling furiously across the page. Words flowed from the pen, words I didn't recognize but felt oddly familiar.

The more I wrote, the more the world around me seemed to shift and blur. I could hear the sounds of battle---the clash of swords, the roar of beasts, the cries of warriors. I could see vivid images in my mind---a battlefield, soldiers locked in combat, a kingdom on the brink of destruction. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the writing stopped.

I stared down at the page, my heart racing. The words I had written were in a language I didn't understand, but I could feel their power. The air around me crackled with energy, and for the first time since the Choosing, I felt something other than shame.

The pen wasn't just a pen. It was a weapon---just not in the way I had expected.

Over the next few days, I experimented with the pen, learning its secrets. The more I wrote, the more I realized that the words I created could shape reality.

I could summon storms, create illusions, even heal wounds with a few strokes of the pen. It was a different kind of power, one that didn't rely on brute strength or violence. It was a power of creation, of influence.

But with that power came responsibility. The more I used the pen, the more I began to see the weight of my choices. I could write destruction or peace. I could shape the future of our village, our world, with a single word.

One evening, as I sat in the village square, watching the sunset, my brother approached me. He stood silently beside me for a long time before finally speaking.

"I was wrong," he said quietly. "The pen isn't useless."

I glanced up at him, surprised. He looked down at me, his expression serious. "You've been given a gift, Kian. A different kind of weapon. One that can do things no sword or spear could ever do."

I didn’t know what to say. For so long, I had felt like a failure, like I didn’t belong. But now, hearing those words from my brother, I felt a spark of hope.

"I don't know why the pen chose me," I said softly. "But I think … I think there's a reason."

He nodded. "There is. And maybe one day, you'll understand it."

As he walked away, I watched his figure disappear into the dimming light of the village. His words echoed in my mind, leaving a strange sense of purpose that I hadn't felt since the Choosing.

For the first time, I began to believe that there was more to this than I had understood. The pen, my family's disappointment, the strange power it seemed to hold---it all felt like pieces of a puzzle I had yet to figure out.

I returned to my room that evening, staring at the pen once more. It was still warm to the touch, a constant reminder that it wasn't just any ordinary object.

With newfound determination, I picked it up and started writing again, but this time with intention. I closed my eyes, letting my hand guide the words. Scenes unfolded in my mind, vivid and full of life, like memories of a world just out of reach.

The moment I lifted the pen from the page, the air around me shifted. I heard footsteps, soft but purposeful, coming from the hallway outside my room.

My heart pounded.

Had my writing caused this?

I didn't have time to think as the door creaked open, and my brother, Caelin, stepped inside.

"Kian," he whispered, his eyes wide with wonder. "Did you … summon me?"

I blinked at him in confusion. "What do you mean?"

He looked down at the page, where I had unknowingly written his name. "I was downstairs, but I felt this strange pull---like something was guiding me here. I don’t know how to explain it."

I glanced between him and the pen, realizing that the power within it was far greater than I had imagined. I hadn't just written about scenes of battle or visions of the future; I had somehow influenced reality itself. Caelin, the strong, battle-hardened warrior, had been drawn to me by a few strokes of ink.

"Caelin," I said slowly, "I think … I think I can control more than I realized."

He stepped closer, looking down at the words scrawled across the page. "You mean, the pen doesn't just write stories---it can shape them? Change what happens?"

I nodded, swallowing the knot of fear that was beginning to form in my throat. "I don't know the limits, but … it seems like I can bring things to life. Or bend them to my will."

Caelin fell silent for a moment, his gaze fixed on the pen. "This could be dangerous, Kian. If anyone finds out, they could use you."

I hadn't thought of that. My mind was racing with the possibilities, but now, the darker side of this power loomed over me. If someone with more ambition, or more malice, took hold of the pen, they could write anything into existence---good or evil.

"What do I do?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Caelin looked at me, his expression softening for the first time since the Choosing. "You have to be careful. This isn't a weapon of war, Kian, but a weapon of the mind. It's more powerful than anything the rest of us could ever wield."

For days, I kept the pen hidden, using it sparingly and only when I needed to. The village continued as it always had, the warriors training, the elders guiding the youth, and the rest of us fulfilling our roles. But I no longer felt like I belonged to that world of physical combat. My path was different now, more uncertain but infinitely more important.

One evening, as I sat near the edge of the village, watching the stars twinkle in the dark sky, the village elder approached me. Her wise eyes lingered on the pen that I clutched tightly in my hand.

"You've discovered its true nature, haven't you?" she asked softly, sitting beside me.

I hesitated before nodding. "It's not like the others. It's … different."

She smiled, her wrinkled face illuminated by the moonlight. "The pen is not just a tool of the mind, Kian. It's a gift from the ancestors, a way to ensure that balance remains in our world. The pen chooses only those who have the strength to wield it with wisdom, not brute force."

I looked at her in surprise. "But why me?"

She rested her hand gently on my shoulder. "Because the world needs more than warriors. It needs creators, thinkers, and those who can see beyond the battlefield. You are one of those people. The pen saw that in you, even if you didn't see it in yourself."

Her words brought a sense of peace I hadn't expected. All my life, I had been taught that power came from strength and weapons, from physical prowess. But now, I was learning that true power came from something much deeper---something that could change the course of history, not through violence, but through knowledge and creation.

As the days turned into weeks, I grew more comfortable with the pen’s abilities. I used it to help the village in small ways, writing words that brought good harvests, healed minor injuries, and strengthened the bonds between families. I never let anyone know the full extent of what I could do, not even Caelin. I knew that such power, if misused, could bring disaster.

But despite the peace I had found, I couldn't shake the feeling that something darker was on the horizon.

One night, as I wrote by candlelight, the pen began to grow warm again, hotter than it ever had before. The ink spilled onto the page, faster and faster, as if the pen had taken control of my hand. I tried to stop it, but the words kept flowing, creating a story I hadn’t intended.

The images that formed were not of peace or healing, but of fire and destruction. I saw our village, burning. I saw warriors from distant lands, storming through the gates with weapons drawn. And then, I saw myself, standing at the center of it all, holding the pen.

I jerked my hand away, the pen clattering to the floor. My heart raced as I stared at the words on the page. This wasn't a vision of something I wanted---it was a warning.

The door to my room burst open, and Caelin rushed inside, his face pale. "Kian! There's an army approaching from the east. We don't have much time."

I stood frozen, the words on the page seared into my mind. It was happening, just as the pen had shown me.

"What do we do?" I asked, my voice trembling.

Caelin grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the door. "We fight. That's all we can do."

But as I followed him outside, the pen still clutched in my hand, I knew that fighting wouldn't be enough. Not this time. This is the moment the pen had been preparing me for.

I had to do something more.

The villagers were already gathering, armed and ready for battle. But I could see the fear in their eyes. They knew they were outnumbered, that this battle would cost them everything. I couldn't let that happen.

I ran to the edge of the village, away from the others, and sat down on the ground, the pen in my hand. My mind raced as I tried to think of the right words, the right story to change what was about to happen.

I began to write, my hand steady despite the chaos around me. I wrote of peace, of understanding, of a future where we didn't have to fight. I wrote of negotiations, of alliances, of a world where weapons weren't the only solution. And as I wrote, I felt the pen's power surge through me, stronger than ever before.

When I finished, I looked up at the horizon. The army was still approaching, but something had changed. Their pace slowed, their weapons lowered. The tension in the air began to dissipate.

Caelin appeared beside me, breathing heavily. "What did you do?"

I looked down at the pen, its ink still gleaming on the page. "I wrote a different story."

The battle never came. The army, instead of attacking, sent emissaries to negotiate. Our village, once defined by its weapons, became known for its diplomacy, its wisdom, and its ability to resolve conflicts without bloodshed.

And I, the boy chosen by a pen, finally understood my purpose.

The world didn't need more warriors. It needed storytellers. And I am ready to write a new chapter.

***

3.070 words.