Oliver, drenched and cold, stumbled into the cave to escape the relentless downpour. His only thought had been to find shelter, but as he settled in, he noticed a strange scent lingering in the air. It was faint at first, almost imperceptible, but steady, like a subtle spice often used to ward off wild animals. His heart skipped a beat as the question crossed his mind: Was someone living in this cave?
Curiosity prickled at him. He stood up, peering into the dim cave, wondering how far it extended. The thought of lighting a torch flickered in his mind, but as his hand searched his belongings, he remembered with a groan that everything was soaked through from the rain. His pack lay in a soggy heap near the cave entrance, his supplies rendered useless by the downpour.
With a heavy sigh, Oliver rolled up his sleeves, resigned to making the best of the situation. He plopped back down on the cold, damp ground and picked up a piece of wood. He could feel the weight of fatigue pulling at him, but he took a deep breath and began to strike the wood with a stone, trying to coax out a flame. Under normal circumstances, a little friction would have sufficed to start a fire. But now, the wet wood stubbornly refused to catch.
"I should have bought one of those glowing stones from the city," he muttered under his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. He recalled seeing them in the shop windows; brilliant stones that could illuminate any space without the need for fire. But they were costly, and at the time, he had dismissed them as unnecessary. Now, he regretted not having one.
After what felt like an eternity of effort, sparks finally flew from his hands, and the stick caught fire. A small, flickering flame danced at the tip. He collapsed onto the ground, exhausted, and tossed the stone aside. "I'm going to die of exhaustion before anything else in this cave gets me," he groaned. He glanced over at his belongings, now slightly less soggy, but still in a sad state. He would need them soon, especially if he planned to explore deeper into the cave.
As he ventured further inside, the strange scent grew stronger, evolving from a faint hint to an overwhelming, almost stifling odor. It was as if someone had spilled an entire sack of the spice along the cave's walls. "How much of this stuff did they use?" he muttered, his brow furrowing in confusion. This wasn't the kind of spice one could casually gather from the woods. Whoever had stocked this cave either had deep pockets or was growing the plant themselves.
His mind wandered to his old teacher, a peculiar woman who had once tried her hand at cultivating the spice. She'd given up not long after, claiming her plants had withered and died. Oliver had never seen the dried flowers himself, so he hadn't known what to make of her claim. But now, standing in this cave with the scent so thick in the air, he wondered if this place might hold some connection to her.
The scent was no longer just a curiosity; it was beginning to intrigue him. Perhaps, he thought, this unexpected discovery could serve as a welcome distraction from his recent troubles. He needed to clear his mind, and exploring this cave might be just the thing to help him do so.
After ten minutes of walking, the cave opened up into a wider chamber. On one wall, he spotted some writing; sloppy yet legible, scrawled in both the language of humans and that of the elves. It was a warning, urging any traveler who stumbled upon this place to rest easy, as the spice would keep the wild animals at bay.
Oliver's eyes flicked to another part of the wall where a second inscription appeared, written in a strange mixture of human and elvish characters. This one was brief, and next to it sat a stone plate, carved with an array of unusual symbols.
"Is this a code?" Oliver wondered aloud. He stepped closer to the stone plate, tracing his fingers over the symbols. "A mixture of elvish and human script... Is this some kind of password to open a door?"
His pulse quickened, but he reminded himself not to get too carried away. Hidden relics from forgotten times were always enticing, but they often required a tremendous amount of effort to retrieve. In his current state, exhausted and soaked to the bone, he didn't have the energy for a drawn-out treasure hunt. Besides, there were others out there searching for him. He couldn't afford to waste his strength on a wild chase through some ancient cave.
Still, just as he was about to turn back, something caught his eye. Scrawled on the wall was a crude drawing, a smiling face that looked suspiciously like something a child would draw. Oliver froze in place.
"That style... it looks just like hers," he whispered, his heart skipping a beat. He had seen drawings like this before, and they had left a lasting impression. His teacher, despite her many talents, had been notoriously terrible at drawing. Could it be possible that this cave had something to do with her?
His curiosity now fully ignited, Oliver approached the stone plate and began turning it according to the instructions on the wall. Maybe, just maybe, this place would reveal more than he had expected.
As the door creaked open, a sudden burst of light flooded the room, catching Oliver off guard. His eyes, long accustomed to the dim cave, squinted in the brightness. He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the unexpected illumination.
Inside was a modest secret chamber, far from the grand treasure trove or hidden relic he had imagined. There were no piles of gold, no ancient weapons or mysterious artifacts; just a single, dusty book resting on a stone pedestal in the center of the room.
Oliver walked over, brushing the dust off the book's cover. It was plain, unadorned, and completely devoid of any title or markings. His curiosity piqued, he gently opened the book, expecting perhaps a record of whoever had built this place.
But the first sentence on the page stopped him in his tracks.
"If I'm not mistaken, it should be you, Oliver, who is reading this notebook."
The handwriting; it was unmistakable. His teacher's. A flood of emotions washed over him, memories of her eccentricity and brilliance rushing back. How could she have known he would find this? He swallowed, turning the page cautiously.
"If my guess is wrong, unknown traveler, please put this book back where you found it. Thank you."
The note was so typically her; casual, even in a secret chamber in the middle of nowhere. But what was this all about? Why had she left it here, and why him specifically?
His mind raced, but he pressed on, flipping to the next page.
"If I'm right, Oliver, then you've likely found this book at a critical time. The Black Crow is preparing to confront the elves, and the elves, too, are bracing for battle. I hope, sincerely, that you have come across this before the monster awakens. If not… Well, I might just have to beat Aegnor senseless."
Oliver's brow furrowed. The Black Crow? The elves? His teacher had always had her secrets, her strange way of knowing too much, but this… What was she trying to warn him about? He leaned in, feeling a growing sense of unease.
"Listen carefully, Oliver. The situation is complex, more than I can explain in these few pages. You won't understand everything right now, and you don't need to. There are bigger things coming, and you'll face them in time; one challenge after another."
A chill ran down his spine. His teacher had always been cryptic, but there was something about this that felt more urgent, more pressing. She knew something; something that had to do with him.
"You already know most of the story between the Black Crow and the elves. If you need more details, ask An. She has access to the old records. But don't get involved. This isn't your fight."
Oliver paused, puzzled. Why would she tell him all this only to tell him not to interfere? His teacher always had a knack for dropping pieces of a puzzle but never giving the whole picture. He sighed, feeling the weight of whatever was coming pressing down on him.
"One last thing; stay alive. Be cautious, and don't take unnecessary risks."
His eyes narrowed as he reread the line. What dangers was she referring to? Why was this message so riddled with warnings and half-answers?
He flipped the page, hoping for clarity, but found only more cryptic advice.
"Remember what I've taught you. Think carefully, and don't forget it."
He almost laughed. How could he forget? His teacher had drilled lessons into him repeatedly: be nimble, be smart, avoid fights you can't win. That's why he carried a longbow; so he could strike from a distance, and retreat when things got too heated.
But then, something caught his eye; words that made his breath hitch.
"There are human spies among the elves, and more of them than you might think."
Spies? Among the elves? His heart raced. This wasn't just a casual warning; this was something serious.
"But don't worry. I've made preparations. They won't be able to stop you when the time comes. The path ahead is yours to walk."
The message ended with a final, bolded warning:
"Don't waste time."
The urgency was palpable. Oliver glanced back over the pages, the weight of his teacher's words sinking in. She had foreseen so much, planned for even more, and left him with just enough to guide him forward, without ever giving the full picture.
Yet, despite the gravity of her words, he couldn't help but feel a spark of irritation. Why was she always so vague? Why couldn't she just explain everything clearly?
Still, he continued reading.
The next section seemed to drift away from the immediate warnings, slipping into a reflection on the passage of time.
"In time, fewer and fewer people will remember what happened in those days. Some may sleep beneath the earth, others may fade from memory altogether."
Oliver could almost hear her voice as he read. His teacher often spoke of history with a certain melancholy, a longing for a time when stories were more vivid, heroes more real.
"But there will always be those who remember; the old ones who still speak of the past, recounting the deeds of forgotten heroes. They tell these stories, not for glory, but because the past is far more interesting than any history book could ever capture."
He smiled faintly, recalling how she would laugh at the grand tales told by the elders, only to poke holes in their exaggerated details.
"And among them, only a few laugh every time they hear these stories, not from joy, but from embarrassment."
Embarrassment? What did that mean? Oliver paused, his mind turning over her final cryptic words. As usual, she had left more questions than answers.
And yet, despite the confusion, one thing was clear; his teacher had prepared for something big, something that now rested on his shoulders. Whether he liked it or not, he would soon be drawn into it.
With a deep breath, Oliver closed the book, his mind swirling with the weight of what he had just read. Whatever lay ahead, he knew one thing for certain: he could no longer ignore the signs. The time to act was approaching, and he needed to be ready.