Max woke up early, excited for what he hoped would be a day of fun at the Renfaire. He’d been looking forward to this for a month, carefully preparing his costume as a Scottish Highlander. Now, as he folded his great-kilt, brushed the fur on his rabbit skin pouch, and oiled his leather shoes, everything had to be just right.

In both his hobbies and his work, Max had always been the same—meticulous. Whether it was folding his great-kilt or tuning up a car, every task deserved the same precision. A job done right, no matter how small, was its own kind of reward.

After the accident that took his parents, it had just been him and his grandfather. Max was only eleven and hadn’t fully understood the loss, but his grandfather had been there—teaching him how to fix things, how to keep them running long after they should’ve broken down. ‘You take care of what you’ve got, Max,’ he’d say, his voice heavy with the weight of it. ‘Because sometimes, it’s all you’ve got left.’

The old lessons stuck with him, even now, years after his grandfather passed. Max folded the last corner of his kilt, feeling the weight of those lessons in every careful motion. He lived alone now—had for years—and it suited him. The silence of his apartment was comforting, like the hum of a well-tuned engine. No one to disturb the order he kept, no one to challenge the routines he’d built.

As he folded the last corner of his kilt, a flicker of unease swept over him—like the calm before a storm. For a moment, the room felt too still, too quiet, and the air seemed heavier somehow. Max paused, his hand hovering over his sporran. The feeling faded just as quickly as it came, but a trace of it lingered, gnawing at the back of his mind. He shook it off with a deep breath. Today was supposed to be fun, nothing more.

Max climbed into his beaten-up pickup truck, the familiar scent of worn leather and engine oil filling the cabin. The body needed work, but the engine purred beneath him, a well-maintained workhorse just like his late grandfather, Maximilian, had intended when he passed it down. As Max turned the key, the truck rumbled to life, steady as ever. He could still hear his grandfather’s voice, clear as day: 'You take care of it, and it’ll take care of you.' He’d take care of it for as long as he could.

As Max drove, heavy metal blared from his stereo, the pounding drums and screaming guitars keeping pace with the hum of the engine. He went over his plans for the day: get to the Faire, meet up with Chris and Shane—friends from high school who never passed up a chance for meat, beer, and a good time. If they didn’t get too drunk, maybe there’d be some fun afterward.

He glanced at the sky. Clear blue with a few fluffy clouds drifting lazily along, like sheep grazing in the breeze. Perfect weather for being outdoors, exactly what he’d hoped for. Today was going to be great.

The open road stretched out ahead of him, free of traffic, and Max covered the twenty miles in no time. He pulled into the fairgrounds, pleased to see he was early—early enough to snag a primo parking spot. Perfect.

Getting out of the truck, Max grabbed the oak staff he’d made for this year’s Faire. The wood was smooth and polished, a leather wrap snugly around the middle for grip, and a few carefully carved runes stained deep red at the top. It had taken weeks to get it just right, but now it felt perfect in his hands. With his thick linen shirt and kilt, he looked every bit the part of a Highland Scot.

His grandfather used to tell him stories of Irish heroes, Scottish warriors, and the legendary tales of King Arthur and his knights. Those stories sparked a lifelong love of fantasy and mythology, a connection to a world full of magic and wonder.

Max made his way into the Faire, exchanging friendly nods and greetings with familiar faces—other regulars and vendors he’d come to know from past visits. The air buzzed with excitement, a blend of laughter, clinking armor, and the scents of roasted meats and wood smoke. It was like stepping back in time, and Max loved every moment of it.

As he strolled through the bustling pathways, his attention was drawn to a jewelry seller’s booth, one he always stopped at during these visits.

The table was covered in a dazzling array of pins—each piece carefully crafted, each one unique. Polished silver and hammered steel gleamed in the sunlight, their intricate designs reflecting a rugged elegance. A few bronze pins, with their warm, aged patina, caught his eye, their Celtic knots and Norse motifs giving them an ancient, mystical quality. Max ran his fingers over the cool metal, appreciating the weight and detail of the craftsmanship.

The vendor, a middle-aged woman with a welcoming smile, caught his eye. "Back for more, I see," she said, her voice warm with familiarity. "You always seem to be drawn to the Celtic ones. Thinking about adding to your collection?"

Max’s eyes lingered on a steel kilt pin, simple yet striking, adorned with the head of a bear. The craftsmanship was impeccable—each line of the bear’s face was rendered with care, giving it a fierce, stoic expression. Beside it, a delicate silver pin caught his eye, the head of a stag with antlers branching out in polished curves. Both were beautiful, but it was the bear that called to him.

He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair and sighed softly. “I sure am, Macy,” he said with a grin. “But I’ll stick to window shopping for now. The truck needs new bearings soon.” His tone was light, but there was a hint of reluctance, as though torn between practicality and wanting something he couldn’t quite justify.

Macy chuckled warmly. “You’ve been eyeing that bear pin for weeks. One of these days, Max, you’re going to leave here wearing it.”

Max smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, maybe next time. It’s a beauty, though.” He admired the pin one last time before stepping back, already making a mental note to check on it during his next visit. But as he hesitated, his hand drifted back to the bear pin. It felt solid, like it carried a strength beyond its size. The bear’s fierce expression seemed to resonate with something in him—resilience, quiet power.

With a newfound resolve, Max smiled and looked up. “You know what? I’m getting it.”

Macy’s eyes gleamed with a knowing smile. “I knew it. The bear suits you.” She reached for a cloth pouch and wrapped the pin carefully before handing it over.

Max pulled out his wallet, feeling a sense of satisfaction as he handed over the cash. The pin wasn’t just a purchase; it was a piece of the Faire, something tangible to remind him of the belonging he felt here.

Macy winked as she gave him his change. “You’ll wear it well, Max.”

With a satisfied grin, Max fastened the pin to the long sash of cloth draped diagonally across his chest. Beneath the loose shirt and kilt, his body was lean and strong. He hadn’t played sports in years, but the gym had become his second home—just like the Renfaire, it was a place where he felt comfortable. Plus, there was some decent eye candy there too.

Moving deeper into the Faire, Max spotted his friends Chris and Shane and waved as he made his way over. Chris was the last person you’d expect at a Renfaire—tall, muscled, with sandy blond hair cropped close like he was fresh out of boot camp. His broad smile was as disarming as ever, though today he’d gone all out, dressed as a fantasy barbarian with a fur loincloth, leather harness, and bracers. It was ridiculous, but somehow, Chris made it work.

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Max caught himself staring at Chris’s broad chest for a moment longer than necessary before quickly looking away. He valued their friendship too much to let his attraction complicate things. Besides, Chris was straight and dressed like that, he was bound to draw stares from everyone. Chris, of course, was completely oblivious.

Shane, by contrast, was shorter and leaner, though anyone would look small standing next to the ex-Marine. Dressed like a woodsman from a medieval reenactor’s playbook, Shane wore a green tunic, a belt stuffed with fake tools, and a felt hat that seemed a size too big. “Dude,” Shane said, adjusting the hat as it slipped down his forehead, “you’d think they could’ve found a better fit. This thing’s got a mind of its own.” He shrugged, clearly unfazed by the minor wardrobe malfunction.

“Interesting choice of wardrobe there, Chris,” Max said with a chuckle, glancing at the fur-covered barbarian.

“Hunted these furs myself,” Chris replied, puffing out his chest. “They call me Chris, Man of the Land—hunter extraordinaire!”

Max snorted. “Yeah, hunted them at the thrift store, right? How many old coats had to die for that outfit?”

“Only the finest secondhand pelts,” Chris said, grinning wide. “I’m practically a legend.”

Fidgeting with his belt Shane adjusted the outfit, before letting it settle. He had made the clothes himself, and more than likely had made the outfit for Chris.

“Wait a minute—new pin alert! You actually bought it?” Shane asked, eyes narrowing as he leaned in closer. “I thought you were saving for the truck’s bearings?”

Max rolled his eyes, adjusting the pin on his sash. “Yeah, well, the truck can wait. A man’s gotta treat himself now and then, right? Besides, the Faire’s over in a day, so it was now or never.” He gave the steel pin a quick tap, letting it catch the morning light. “And come on, look at it—this thing’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

Shane raised an eyebrow, nodding in approval. “Alright, fair point. That’s some solid craftsmanship.”

“Just like these guns,” Chris interjected, flexing his massive arms with a cocky grin before giving Max a sly wink. Maybe Chris wasn’t as blind to Max’s looks as he let on.

Max felt his stomach do a little flip, but he quickly hid it behind a smirk. “Yeah, yeah, keep dreaming, Hercules,” he shot back, trying to keep his tone casual. Inside, though, he couldn’t help but wonder if that wink meant more than just friendly teasing.

“Hey, I’m clearly Conan. I do read, you know,” Chris said, his cocky smile not budging. “I’m not just a handsome face, perfect body, and charming smile.”

Max snorted, shaking his head. “Right, Conan with a PhD in humblebragging.”

Their laughter was easy and free, the kind that only comes from years of friendship. Max, Chris, and Shane had been inseparable since Max moved to Paradise Falls at 11. Even though life had pulled them in different directions after high school—Chris’s deployment, Shane’s tech career in San Francisco, and Max staying behind to run the auto shop—they had always stayed in touch, and here they were having a great time once more.

Walking through the Renfaire, the three friends wandered from shop to shop, admiring the crafts on display. Shane insisted on buying them small trinkets, despite their half-hearted protests. They knew it was his way of showing he cared. He’d been gone the longest—spending the last ten years out of state, making a fortune doing something tech-related in California. Shane never talked about it in detail, and when they once pressed too hard, he’d blown up in a way none of them had expected.

They didn’t push him after that. Chris, especially, understood. He had his own stories—things he’d seen and done during his deployment that he would never be able to share. But they all knew, without saying it, that no matter what, they had each other’s backs.

Shane pointed out a silver pendant to Max—a disk etched with runes, circling an inset peridot, the stone of Max’s birth month. For Chris, he chose a thick leather bracelet with a metal wolf’s head, its surface intricately carved with patterns, sturdy and strong. For himself, he picked a wooden figurine in the likeness of a fox, simple but cleverly crafted.

“Each of these reminds me of you guys,” Shane said, his voice quieter than usual. “You’re the only people who never doubted me.”

Even Chris, usually not one to show his softer side, was visibly moved. Without a word, he pulled both of his friends into a tight hug, pressing them against his muscular chest. For a moment, the three of them stood there, locked in an embrace that spoke of years of friendship and trust—of bonds that time and distance hadn’t broken.

They broke the hug, and Max glanced up at the sky. Dark clouds were gathering fast on the western horizon, twisting unnaturally in the breeze. A heavy feeling settled in his gut.

“Hey, looks like a storm’s coming,” Max said, nodding toward the sky.

Shane and Chris exchanged confused looks before turning back to him.

“What are you talking about?” Shane asked, concern creeping into his voice. “It’s clear as day, man.”

Max blinked, looking again. The clouds were still there, dark and ominous, but his friends were acting like nothing was wrong.

Chris chuckled, shaking his head. “Wrong season for rain, and it’s not cold enough for snow. Better share whatever you’re smoking, little bro.” He gave Max a playful nudge, his grin wide.

Max frowned, glancing between the sky and his friends. “You guys don’t see that? Really?”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Max, the sky’s fine. You feeling okay?”

Max's stomach twisted. The clouds were real—he knew it. But they didn’t see them. He forced a laugh, though it felt hollow. “You two are messing with me, aren’t you?”

Their joking faded fast when they saw the look on Max’s face.

“Nah, little bro, we wouldn’t mess with you like that. Well, not too much,” Chris said, but worry creased his brow. “The sky’s clear.”

“Let’s get you to the shade and grab some water,” Shane suggested, his voice calm but edged with concern. He was always the rational one, trying to make sense of things.

Max looked up at the sky again, heart pounding. The dark clouds he’d seen earlier were directly overhead now, swirling and churning like something alive. There was a weight in the air—heavy, thick, and crackling with energy. He could feel it deep in his bones.

“Guys, seriously. Look at the sky,” Max said, his voice shaking now. He pointed up, but Shane and Chris just gave him puzzled looks.

“What are you talking about, man?” Shane asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice. “The sky’s still clear.”

“Max, are you okay?” Chris added, worry knitting his brow. “It’s the wrong time of year for storms. There's nothing there."

Max’s pulse quickened. Why couldn’t they see it? The clouds were so close now, dark and ominous, spreading like a bruise across the sky. He opened his mouth to speak, but before the words could come, something strange happened.

A thread of light—thin, bright, and glowing—slithered down from the heavens. It moved slowly, like it was alive, weaving its way through the fairgoers, twisting around them without a sound.

Max froze, his eyes wide. What the hell is that?

His friends were talking, but their voices seemed distant now, muffled by the growing hum in the air. All of Max’s focus was on the thread of light as it snaked its way through the crowd, heading straight for him.

“Guys...” Max barely managed to whisper, his voice cracking as his breath caught in his throat.

In an instant, the world exploded into light.

A bolt of lightning shot down from the sky, faster than thought, striking him dead center in the chest. The force was overwhelming—pure, raw energy coursing through him like fire. Max’s body seized, every nerve lit up with searing pain.

He couldn’t scream. He couldn’t move.

The world around him blurred, washed out in blinding white as the ground dropped away beneath him. Time seemed to stretch, his thoughts spinning in a whirlwind of confusion and terror.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the pain vanished. Everything went silent.

Max’s body crumpled to the ground, limp, as the last echoes of the strike faded into the distant rumble of thunder. His vision flickered, the edges of the world darkening, and the last thing he saw before he slipped into unconsciousness was Shane and Chris rushing toward him, their faces pale with fear.

And then... nothing.