The village of Eldermere had always been a quiet place—hidden beneath the shade of towering cliffs, where the sea whispered lullabies against the shore. Time did not touch this place as it did the rest of the world. Seasons passed gently, the people lived in harmony, and the gods were always listening.

At dawn and dusk, the villagers would gather at the great stone shrine, an altar carved from ancient obsidian and veined with silver. They would kneel before the twin statues of their divine patrons—Lirien, the Ever-Glowing, whose form shimmered with an ethereal grace, and Vaelith, the Blooming Abyss, a visage both haunting and mesmerizing, his dark beauty edged with an aura of destruction.

Prayers were offered. Candles were lit. Songs were sung.

It had been this way for centuries.

Until the day silence replaced their worship.

No one knew who had failed—who had faltered, who had forgotten, who had dared to defy the rituals that sustained the village. But the gods had seen. The gods had listened. And they did not forgive.

The air grew thick with sickness. A shadow spread across Eldermere, slow and insidious. At first, it was merely exhaustion, a fever that came and went. Then, the coughing began—deep, ragged, and wet with crimson. The elderly fell first, then the weak, then the children.

Panic turned to pleading. The villagers returned to the shrine, bowing lower than ever before, crying out for mercy.

And for the first time in centuries, the gods spoke back.

Their voices rang through the stone, through the air, through the very bones of those who knelt. Lirien's voice was light yet unyielding, a golden bell tolling across the sky. Vaelith's voice was like the deep rumble of the ocean before a storm—beautiful, but carrying the promise of ruin.

"Your faith has wavered."

"Your devotion has withered."

"And so you shall wither as well."

But the gods, in their divine cruelty, did not simply condemn them to die. They offered a path—narrow and treacherous, but a path nonetheless.

"Prove yourselves."

"Let one among you face the Twenty Trials."

"Only through sacrifice, suffering, and submission shall the curse be lifted."

The villagers hesitated. They whispered. They waited for a hero to rise.

No one did.

But then—

"I will go."

The voice was not one of a warrior or a wise elder. It was young. Uncertain. Afraid.

Adalas.

He was one of the youngest in the village—a boy barely of age, with the solemn eyes of someone who had seen too much and spoke too little. His hair, a wild cascade of soft pink, looked almost ethereal beneath the moonlight, strands catching the dim glow of the shrine's candles. His face was sharp yet delicate, his blue eyes carrying a quiet intensity, like the depths of the ocean before a storm. He was not strong. He was not fearless. And yet, he stepped forward.

Because if no one else would go, his mother and little sister would die.

He stood before the shrine, the dim light casting long shadows over his worn features. His tattered robes, once the color of deep earth, were now faded and frayed, a testament to the quiet struggles of village life. A short, weathered gray cloak hung around his shoulders, barely shielding him from the night's cold.

He swallowed his fear and knelt, pressing his forehead to the stone.

"I will take the trials. I will prove our faith."

The gods did not answer.

Not in words.

But the ground trembled, and the statues wept tears of liquid gold and blackened silver.

The pact was made.

—

The entire village stood at the shore, watching in silence as a lone wooden boat bobbed against the dark waves. The air smelled of salt and regret.

Adalas stood before his mother and sister, his hands clenched into fists to keep them from shaking. His mother, pale from both sickness and sorrow, cupped his face with trembling fingers. His little sister clung to his robes, silent tears tracing down her cheeks.

"You don't have to go," his mother whispered, but they both knew he did.

He turned to the others—the elders, the children, the same villagers who had once hesitated, who had once looked away. He did not resent them. But he did not forgive them either.

With one final breath, Adalas stepped into the boat.

The tide pulled him away.

The village, his home, his family—all of it faded into the mist behind him.

And ahead, only darkness stretched. A vast, endless ocean.

A journey with no promise of return.