Of Plots and Tropes

PROLOGUE

The girl woke up with a jolt, gasping.

Overhead, autumn leaves bobbed, a peaceful forest surrounding her, and birds fluttered between the tree limbs.

But she was covered in blood.

Although something rough lodged beneath her shoulder blades, she didn’t feel any pain. She sat upright, pulse rushing to her head, then winced.

How did I get here? She massaged her temples. The harder she tried to rack into her memory, the fuzzier her mind became. It was like everything about herself, and how she’d gotten to this forest, had been wiped from her head.

She was dressed in some sort of linen smock, and beside her lay a humming, golden sword. A blue illumination glimmered off the naked blade, and the weapon seemed to call to her.

The girl leaned forward to inspect the foreign script engraved into the long sword, and her reflection slid into view. Apparently, she had emerald-colored eyes, flecked with copper and framed by dark, flowing hair. Only a Chosen One possessed such a unique trait as green eyes.

How the hell do I know that? The girl scowled at her own reflection, shuddering at the notion. Smudges of blurry memories hung just beyond the reaches of her mind.

Distant voices called out to her from across the woods, a mixture of panic and relief.

A trio of men disrupted the peaceful scenery. They scurried toward her in a rush of crushed dried leaves and flowing cloaks.

Together, they made a strange combination of various hair colors, body types, and heights — the shortest even had a long tail flicking exasperatedly from behind his yellow overalls.

“Thank the Authors you’re alive, Em!” the blond one gasped as he dropped by her side.

He grabbed her gory hands with his own gloved ones, creases of dimples and a pearly grin flashing across his youthful, freckled face.

His ginger touch almost awoke a distant memory in her.

He was the youngest of the trio, a mere teenager, likely around her age.

“The Princess is bleeding!” the tailed one exclaimed.

Em. My name is Em Smith. I’m a princess, her stomach soured at the realization. But I don’t want to be? Dammit, what’s happened? Why does my head hurt so much?

She patted herself down for wounds, but besides her skinned palms and the annoying stone that had previously pressed against her back, it didn’t appear that the blood smeared along her hands was her own. “I don’t think I’m the one bleeding.”

“Did Brolzross do this?” the darker, mysterious man asked. His hard jawline twitched a singular muscle.

Who?

“I don’t know,” Em admitted. The words clung to her tongue, like her own body was fighting her from revealing the unfortunate truth of her missing memory.

“Her Highness looks so pale,” the impish one with the tail said. “We should take her back to the Long Rest Inn to recharge.”

Long Rest Inn. The blurry memory of a wooden bar-top, a cheerful bard’s lute, alcohol burning in the back of her throat, and a heated argument echoed in her soup of confusion.

“Let me fetch you a healing potion.” The golden-haired teen let go of her shaky hands and dug into his knapsack.

“She doesn’t recognize us,” the dark, brooding one stated.

“Yes, I do,” Em snapped, determined to hide her amnesia. For whatever reason, she wasn’t willing to admit any sign of weakness to these men. Especially not in such a vulnerable state.

“Really?” He crossed his arms, biceps flexing beneath his leathery black armor, and raised an amused eyebrow. His icy eyes flashed with suspicion, framed with smudged eyeliner. “Then who’s that?” He pointed toward the tailed guy, who’d begun whistling and skipping mindlessly in a circle.

“I…” Em flinched, pulling her hands free from the blond teen’s grasp.

“See? She’s lying.” The dark brooder turned away with a huff. “Just like she always does.”

The jerk. Em flipped her blood-stained middle finger toward his back.

“You never cease to amaze me, Em.” The blond teen chuckled, pulling a strange bottle from his knapsack.

The potion glimmered like a sunset, sparkling pinks and oranges swirling like oil through a dark goo.

It had been sealed with a red wax seal. He offered the bottle to her. “Here, this will make you feel better.”

Em cautiously accepted the potion, regretting how the sticky blood on her fingers smeared across the bottle’s crystalline surface. But the small label on it was what really pricked her attention:

MAIN CHARACTER HEALING POTION ONLY— +15 HEALTH

Her memories came flooding back before she even took the damn thing: the dark tower and necromancer, the fact her mentor died moments ago, the prophecy she’d been wanting to destroy, the two men standing in front of her who’d been fighting for her heart, the impish sidekick who was still whistling to himself and chasing a butterfly.

The millions of fucking tropes.

Including her own memory loss.

“Shit!” Em dropped the healing potion. It smashed against the forest floor, glass and sparking liquid oozing into the dried leaves. She scrambled to her feet and threw both middle fingers up at the sky. “FIX THIS”

“Whoa, calm down, Em!” Gair exclaimed, jerking away and retrieving the potion he’d given her.

“Fuck you, Stephanie!” she screamed until her throat was raw.

“This isn’t how my book was supposed to begin! I refuse to start my story with the cliché of waking up!”

Alright. My bad, Em. Let’s start this the right way, then.

Where it really began…