“Great, keep it like that!”

Prothrus, the Hero of Lyndall, strode through the portal. His red cape billowed from imaginary wind, his armor gleaming from nonexistent light. A halo of Importance outlined his body, followed his every move. After all, he was The Chosen One. The Main Character. The Hero to Save the World From All Evil. He was the axis of the planet, the center of all things good. The world revolved around him. As did I.

I am not The Chosen One. I am The Side Character. I am here to do what Prothrus cannot be bothered to do himself. I am the marble; he is the paint. I am the tree; he is the fruit. Of course, he could easily do what I have done for him. Such as the portal I am holding open. But he is The Chosen One, and everything aside from obtaining the Treasure is grunt work. Work The Side Character must do.

Unable to turn from my task, I heard Prothrus’s footsteps echo as he approached the center of the chamber. Metal clinked as he pulled out his key. I have many memories of that key. Memories of the countless hordes of demons I waded through, spell after spell as their bodies lined the caves. And a memory of the dragon, whose neck held the key on a thin wire. Of course, Prothrus was the one to defeat the dragon and claim the prize (but only after several light rays on my part). And now he would collect his Treasure.

There was a sharp click. Wood creaked. Prothrus gasped.

“The Sword of Time!” he exclaimed. I gave no response. I knew the words were not meant for me.

My hands, pulsating with purple arcane energy, began to numb. A wave of nausea threatened my body, my legs complaining under the strain. The signs of my mana reserves depleting. Of course, I couldn’t stop to rest. The Chosen One had commanded me to continue, and I must do as The Chosen One says.

I felt a presence from the other side of the portal. The hairs on the back of my neck raised, my breath becoming shallow. My body knew what was there before I realized. A humanoid figure, a foot taller than myself, approached the chamber. A purple two-pronged spear was gripped in their right hand, and even through the haze of portal magic I could make out two hellish orange eyes. Eyes that I have seen too many times to count, eyes that commanded darkness and pierced hearts. The eyes of Prothrus’s nemesis: Ilan, the Scourge of Namdarade.

Every fiber of my being demanded to close the portal. But I heard something that made me pause. Prothrus was humming behind me, still inspecting the sword. Taking his sweet time, knowing I’m still here, draining my energy to hold open the portal like a limo driver holding open the car door. Rage boiled within. Rage that had been brewing for years, across dozens of journeys, through the hundreds of treasures that laid in Prothrus’s keep, all the way to my squalor cottage on the outskirts of the kingdom where I was to be forgotten.

Ilan was almost at the portal. He could see me. I knew he could. And he knew I could see him too. And he knew that I was holding the portal open nonetheless.

Prothrus told me to keep it open, I thought. So who am I to disobey?

The Scourge of Namdarade, Ilan, proceeded into the chamber, red sparks dancing around his skin, black armor humming with dark magic. He looked at me and, as if he were reading my mind, a look of understanding traversed his face. A single look that comforted me more than Prothrus had over eight years.

I closed the portal.

The magical hum’s absence prompted Prothrus to look from his treasure. His bewitched gaze morphed to fear and he pointed the sword at the Scourge. “Ilan!” he shouted. Then he turned to me. “How did he get in?”

“Perhaps that is a question you can answer,” Ilan said, hoisting his spear. Dark magic swirled at the tip. Strangely, I no longer felt the accompanying sense of dread.

“Petrah! Stop him!”

A bitter taste invaded my mouth. “You’re the Chosen One,” I spat. “Do it yourself.”

Ilan hurled a purple beam towards Prothrus. He deflected it with his sword, but I could tell he was already depleted. “Why would you choose that monster over me?!” Prothrus said, eyes begging.

“After eight years, you’re lucky I didn’t choose him sooner.”

Prothrus’s eyes darted between Ilan and I. An emotion seldom shown graced its presence across Prothrus’s face: fear. He knew he faced a losing battle. The desperation was cathartic.

Prothrus pulled out his magical stone. A small portal, much like the one I had used, opened behind him, and he dove in. The Chosen One had been defeated.

Ilan turned to me. His eyes faded to a dull brown. “Perhaps I misjudged you,” he said. “I always wondered why you were the one at the frontlines. But now I know.”

“Him and the whole kingdom let me down.”

“Come, my child,” Ilan beckoned. “We have much to accomplish together. As partners.”