Two shadows moved silently in the twilight. Like spirits of the night, they leapt from branch to branch, their masked faces blending seamlessly with the gloom of the forest.
After a short while, they reached a secluded treehouse, far from the elven settlement. Crouching low, they scanned the target. One of them nodded, confirming their objective. They adjusted their weapons and prepared for the attack.
Everything was going as planned—until something unforeseen disrupted their mission. Their target wasn't a merchant, a wandering warrior, or even a reclusive wizard. They had come to assassinate Harold Golden Shrine, a man whispered about in both fear and awe.
As they moved to set the cottage ablaze, the branch beneath one assassin's foot snapped. The sound echoed in the still night like a warning bell.
"[How did that happen?]" one hissed, sweat beading on his brow.
They froze, their eyes darting toward the treehouse. The silence that followed was deafening.
"[You think he noticed?]"
"[No... He couldn't have... unless—]"
The first assassin's words faltered as his gaze shifted upward. There, on the branch above them, stood Harold. His piercing eyes locked onto them, and before either could react, he struck.
---
The following morning, the elves gathered to honor the man who had survived the fabled Trial of Scythes of Life and Death—a feat no one had accomplished before.
A grand procession formed, with mounted warriors and soldiers in flowing silken robes escorting Harold toward the north. Along the way, elves presented him with flowered wreaths, murmuring "Maethor" as a sign of their respect.
Days later, they reached the northern lands. Harold participated in sacred elven rituals, rare traditions performed only by their kin. He bathed in the waters of a hidden spring deep within a cave, hunted mythical beasts, and donned elven garments, leaving behind his battered armor.
As they approached Asryndor, Harold dismounted. The Elven Lord and his elders awaited him at the gates. The Lord embraced Harold and whispered, "May fortune guide you."
Talion, one of the elders, watched silently, his expression clouded with resentment. He had hoped to join Harold's quest but hadn't been chosen. Despite his bitterness, he stood at the Forgotten Gates to witness Harold's departure.
Harold bowed to the elves and approached the ancient stone gate. Intricate carvings of interwoven vines adorned its surface. At first glance, it appeared dormant, but as Harold neared, the Scythes of Life and Death at his side began to glow. A massive tree's image emerged from the carvings, and the gate slowly shifted open.
An elf approached Harold, handing him a torch. "The path ahead is long and dark," he said solemnly. "Be vigilant."
Harold gave a small nod, his face set with determination, and stepped into the shadowy corridor. The stone gate closed behind him, leaving him alone in the suffocating silence.
---
The torchlight illuminated only a small area around Harold. As he descended deeper, the air grew colder, and the path narrowed. On one side, a chasm yawned, its depths seemingly endless.
Time passed without measure, and Harold could no longer tell whether it was day or night. Weariness began to set in. He searched for a safe place to rest, knowing full well that the deep earth harbored dangers—undead, giant spiders, and creatures far worse.
Just as his exhaustion grew unbearable, the faint sound of rushing water reached his ears. Renewed by hope, he followed the sound until he found himself in a vast cavern.
An underground waterfall cascaded from a high crevice, feeding into a crystal-clear lake. Bioluminescent frogs and glowing lotus flowers dotted the scene, casting the cavern in a serene, otherworldly light.
"So this is real," Harold murmured, a hint of awe in his voice. He crouched by the lake and touched the water. It was cool and soothing.
The glow of the lotus flowers rippled with his touch. Harold sighed, exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders. "This might be a good place to rest," he muttered, but his eyes scanned the cavern warily.
"Still… I can't be sure something isn't watching."
After some deliberation, he removed his sword and placed it within arm's reach. "If anything happens, I'll use Blink to get out and fight." He hesitated for a moment, then began to strip off his worn clothing. His body bore the marks of decades of battle—scarred, weathered, yet still formidable.
As he stepped into the water, its gentle warmth eased his aching muscles. He gazed at his reflection in the surface. The man staring back was a shadow of his former self. His hair was white, his beard long, and his eyes, once burning with purpose, now seemed hollow.
"What am I even fighting for anymore?" he whispered.
The memory of the assassins resurfaced. "They were Gerard's nameless knights," he mused aloud, "but Gerard wasn't with them... Which means someone in the Temple secretly ordered this."
He clenched his fist, his voice filled with bitterness. "Who? The High Priest? No, he gains nothing from my death... Could the Dark order have infiltrated the Temple?"
Suddenly, his reflection wavered. At first, he thought it was the rippling water, but then another face began to emerge. The face of a woman—ethereal, beautiful, and impossibly serene.
Harold's heart pounded. "[A mermaid? Here?!]"
Legends spoke of mermaids as seductive predators who lured men to their deaths. They were said to be both enchanting and deadly. Harold instinctively stepped back, preparing to use Blink to escape the water.
But before he could react, a hand shot out from beneath the surface, wrapping around his waist. With terrifying strength, it pulled him under.