Fleance adjusted the strap of his small bag, feeling the reassuring weight of the lucky stone in his pocket. The path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, but he knew he had to face whatever lay ahead. "Well, if this is my destiny, I might as well face it head-on," he murmured to himself, stepping into the thick underbrush.
The mist seemed alive, weaving through the trees. Suddenly, three figures emerged, their forms barely distinguishable in the haze. The Weird Sisters. The tallest of them cackled, "You took so long to get here, we thought you’d aged a century!" Her voice was like gravel, rough and mocking.
Fleance narrowed his eyes, trying to steady his racing heart. "What do you want with me?" he demanded, his voice echoing through the mist.
Fleance leaned over, peering into the depths of the cauldron. As he did, a vision unfolded—a future where he sat on Scotland's throne, the land flourishing under his rule. But the vision darkened, shadows creeping in, hinting at betrayal and danger. The witches chanted softly, "Not all that glitters is gold, and not all smiles can be trusted."
"Do you have the courage to claim what’s yours?" the ever-changing sister asked, her face momentarily turning into a squirrel.
Fleance straightened, determination etching itself onto his face. "If this is my destiny, I’ll carve it with my own hands," he declared, stepping back from the cauldron. The witches' laughter echoed through the woods, a haunting melody that sent shivers down his spine.
Fleance grasped a fallen branch, its surface sharp and glinting in the dim light. He raised it like a sword, his voice strong and defiant. "You say my doom is written clear, but I’m the one who holds it near! With fire and heart, I’ll stake my claim, your tricks and schemes will end in flame!"
The tall witch lunged, her form dissolving into mist as Fleance struck. The stout witch followed, but he was ready, dodging her attack and breaking free from her magical vines. With a final thrust, he defeated her as well.
Fleance stood amidst the silence, the weight of the witches' words lingering in the air. Yet, a newfound strength coursed through him, the land itself seeming to acknowledge his resolve. "Not all that glitters is gold," he whispered, "but I’ll be the king who earns it." With the path ahead uncertain, Fleance knew one truth: his destiny was now his own to shape.
