My father was the most skilled fortune-teller in the world. His predictions were never wrong.

The most famous instance was when the capital city endured three days of continuous rain. My father predicted that on that very night, a fire would break out in an alley on the eastern side of the city.

Nobody believed him. In fact, many bet against his prediction, using their money to prove him wrong.

The ten households in that alley joined forces. They extinguished all lanterns, avoided lighting candles, and were determined to discredit my father’s reputation.

But as the hour of midnight approached, just as the third watch of the night was announced, a massive fire erupted at the end of the alley.

Fortunately, everyone had prepared for the worst, so a major disaster was averted.

It was later revealed that the incident stemmed from a romantic affair. A young lady had arranged a secret meeting with her lover at midnight. Normally, the two relied on the light from lanterns hanging under the eaves. But since all the lights were extinguished that night, they lit their own lantern to see each other.

A strong gust of wind knocked over the lantern, and the fire quickly spread. The lover fled, leaving the young lady disgraced and heartbroken.

Rumors and gossip spread, tarnishing her reputation completely. In her despair, she came to my father.

At first, my father thought she was there to confront him, but instead, she came with a generous gift to thank him. She said his prediction allowed her to see the true nature of her unfaithful lover, saving her from a life of suffering.

That was how my father first met my mother.

They spent over a decade together, deeply in love and completely trusting one another. During those years, my father gave up fortune-telling, refusing to make predictions for anyone, whether they were powerful officials or extraordinary individuals.

But when I was ten years old, my mother passed away suddenly from an illness. It struck like lightning on a clear day. Before the medicine brewing on the stove could even be finished, she was gone.

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On her deathbed, she left the four of us sisters with eight words of advice:

“Do not be consumed by schemes; do not be enslaved by magic.”

Among the four of us, three inherited the gift of fortune-telling, except for our youngest sister.

After our mother’s death, my father became a completely different person. He fell into deep despair for half a month before returning to his old profession of reading fortunes for others.

For over a decade, my father’s name had faded into obscurity. Yet now, he carried himself with an arrogance that surpassed anything from his past. He didn’t just foretell the future; he dared to proclaim life and death.

He often said that such knowledge was a divine secret, not to be shared.

I began to suspect that my father no longer cared about his own survival.

For five years, he built his reputation as the greatest seer alive, leveraging the lives and fates of countless people. And then, at the end of those five years, the man he had been waiting for finally arrived.

The man was around fifty, with piercing eyes and a heavy fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders. A retinue of attendants followed close behind—stoic, sharp-featured individuals with deliberate, calculated movements. Each one carried an air of importance, their focus unshakable.

The man spoke with authority:

“The kingdom is in turmoil, the court riddled with schemes and intrigue. Can you divine who will claim the throne when all is said and done?”

My father laid four coins on the table and said,

“The destiny of the crown lies with one of these four.”

There was little in the world that my father did not know.

When my mother was alive, he used his talents only to amuse her.

She’d ask him about trivial matters—the price of grain, the timing of rain, or the first snowfall of the season.

He’d chuckle softly, shaking his head, and ask,

“Why don’t you ask me something more significant?”

But she would just sit under the porch, watching snowflakes flutter, her hands warming over the hearth, and reply:

“What is significant? Should I care who becomes the next king?”

One day, as a child, I was running through the courtyard with a branch of blooming plum blossoms in hand when I overheard my father’s reply:

“Fair enough. Many have asked me the same. The future king will be one of these four: Prince Alaric, Lord Chancellor Corwin, General Elias, or Duke Rowan.”

Five years later, my father repeated those very names.

And that prophecy became our doom.

The one who ordered our imprisonment was none other than the reigning king himself, a man who demanded one answer alone: his son, the Crown Prince.

The king accused my father of spreading treasonous lies to sow unrest and decreed our family’s execution.

But under the cover of darkness, the king himself crept into the dungeons. He demanded my father reveal the name of the rightful heir to the throne.

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