The Prophecy of the Builder

By the turn of the 11th century, the kingdom of Georgia was on the brink of disintegration. There were enemies around its borders: invaders from the north, wide-chested empires from the south, and betrayers within its walls. Once proud, now this country stared at division and despair as a nation, threads held any thing that remained from its future.

It was at that time, under such conditions of chaos, that a young prince named David began his secret training. He practiced day and night with fierce determination, honing his hand at sword and strategy. Though he was but a boy, the weight of his family's legacy was heavy upon his shoulders. It was an ancient prophecy a Builder would rise and reunite the kingdom back to its former glory. David wanted to be this hero and shine light upon his people in their darkest hours.

The wind howled across the stone walls of the royal palace, carrying with it the chill of winter through even the thickest tapestry. In the great hall of Kutaisi, King George II sat upon his throne, his brow furrowed heavy with the weight of the kingdom. What once had been a proud, powerful Georgian Kingdom was now torn asunder, fragmented, with the invading enemies on every side, the Seljuk Turks raiding the lands, and the rebellious nobles stirring unrest. The tension in the room was palpable.

Seated beside the monarch, a boy no older than five years old, swung his legs from a high-backed chair. His dark eyes, precocious for such a young child, darted around the room as he watched whispering courtiers and grim faces of generals. This was David, the youngest son born to King George.

David had heard the stories-the ones that rippled throughout the court and trickled into the streets and onto the dusty corners of the marketplace within the kingdom. Stories of a prophecy whispered amongst the people of a king to come who would reunite the fractured lands and build a kingdom to last for centuries. They called him the Builder King.

He often wondered, was it him?

"David," a low voice called, breaking into his thoughts. His father, King George, peered at him, eyes worn but soft. "Do you understand what is going on?"

David shook his head, not knowing exactly how to respond. He knew more than any five-year-old should-the kingdom was in turmoil, they were surrounded by their enemies, and his father was fighting to hold on to his power. But what could a child do?

"You will, one day," George said, laying a hand on David's shoulder. There was a tinge of sadness in his tone, as if he knew his time was running out, that the weight of the kingdom would soon fall on David's shoulders. "One day, you'll see the burden of a crown."

David couldn't sleep. The winds outside had grown fiercer, making the windows of his small chamber rattle. The torches that lined the hallways on either side flickered and cast long shadows on the stone walls. He slipped out of bed, his bare feet cold against the floor, and wandered down the halls, his mind flying with the thoughts of the future.

In the farthest wing of the palace, the quiet corridors led him to the chambers of Queen Borena, his mother. Approaching the heavy oak door, David placed his hand on the handle and overheard voices-his mother's voice and another person's, an old and raspy one.

"His fate one cannot evade, my queen," he said. "The boy ought to be prepared.".

"Prepared? He's only a child!" Borena's voice was fierce, yet David could hear the tremor in it. "There must be another way, some other—"

"There is no other. The prophecy is clear. He will build a kingdom, but only through blood and war. The Turks will come for us, and if he is not ready…"

There was silence, thick and heavy.

David's heart was pounding. He shoved the door open and sent his mother and the stooped figure of Father Nikoloz-the court priest-jerking upright. The old man's eyes were pale and cloudy, but there was an acuteness behind them, a glint of knowledge that made David feel unwrapped, as though Nikoloz could see right through his soul.

"My boy…" Borena hastened to him, dropping to her knees to clasp him. "You should not be here.

"I heard you talking about me," David said softly, his eyes locked on Nikoloz. "What prophecy?"

Borena looked stricken but Nikoloz only smiled faintly. He leaned against his staff, closer to David. "The prophecy of the Builder King," he said, his voice crackling like the embers of a dying fire. "A king who shall rise in the darkest of times and build a kingdom greater than any before. But first, he must endure great trialsbattles, betrayals, and loss. You, David are that king."

David's heart was racing inside his chest. Small fists clenched at his sides. "I am just a boy," he said low.

Nikoloz nodded, solemn-faced. "For the time being, yes. But the storm approaches. You will have to be so much more, little prince. Much more.

David stood in the training yard, his hand grasping a wooden practice sword. The skin of his face was slapped by the biting wind as he faced off against one of the palace guards: a towering man with broad shoulders and an gruesome expression.

"Come on, then," the guard grunted, tapping his sword against David's in challenge.

David's slight stature was dwarfed by the man before him, but his eyes gleamed fire. The words of the prophecy hovered in his mind-he would be king; he would unite Georgia. First, though, he needed to learn to fight.

He swung the sword but was clumsy, too slow. The guard parried with ease and sent him tumbling off balance into the dirt.

"Again," the guard growled.

David rose to his feet, his face red from anger. He struck again, and once more, each time faster, yet every time the guard blocked a blow.

"You're thinking too much," a voice said behind him.

He turned to see, at the edge of the yard, an old man whose robes were blowing in the wind. It was Master Grigol, probably the most well-known swordsman in the palace and who, when he was younger, served under King George's command. He had long silver hair, his features lined with the many, many battles he had been through, but his eyes were bright with a youth-like energy.

"Your mind is full of noise, young prince," said Grigol, stepping forward. "If you want to be a warrior, you must quiet the noise."

David scrunched his face, smearing dirt off his tunic. "How?"

"By focusing," replied Grigol, tapping David on the forehead with a soft jab of his finger. "Focus on the moment, not on what may come. Feel the wind, hear the clashing of swords, and trust your instincts. Come, let me show you."

It was a heavy schedule that David had for days to come. Master Grigol put him in training right at the crack of dawn and kept him at it long past sunset, teaching him about the sword and the bow, how to conduct a battle. He sparred against the guards of the palace each and every morning, gaining strength daily.

Grigol's methods were cruel-they would punch David when his guard was down, make him run through the mountains until his legs burned, and have him meditate in ice-cold streams to sharpen his mind. But David never flinched. He heard the words of the prophecy echoing in his heart. Indeed, he was intended for something bigger. And he wouldn't falter.