The wind howled through the mountains, carrying with it the faint scent of old earth and forgotten secrets. The land of Eldros had once been a beacon of light, a kingdom where knowledge, magic, and power flowed as freely as the rivers that wound through its valleys. But those days were long gone, swallowed by time, war, and the ravages of an unforgiving age. Now, only ruins remained—silent, broken remnants of a past too distant to remember, too painful to mourn.
High upon the jagged cliffs of the Mistpeak Mountains, a single figure stood, gazing out over the abyss below. Cloaked in tattered robes, their face hidden beneath the shadow of a hood, the wanderer took in the desolate sight—an expanse of broken earth and ancient stone, tangled in the embrace of thorns and overgrowth. Somewhere down there, hidden in the fog and decay, lay the city of Eldros. The capital. Once the heart of a kingdom. Now, only a whisper.
The wanderer's hand rested upon the hilt of a blade, its steel blackened with age and the blood of battles long past. They had no name, not one they could recall. Only fragments of memories—flashes of faces, of places—clung to the edges of their mind like fading stars in an endless night. There were no answers to their past, only questions. And the prophecy.
"The crown lies shattered, but the blood remains. A wanderer shall reclaim it, for they are the last of the line."
The words had come to them in dreams. Visions of a golden crown, broken in two, scattered upon the cold stone floor of a forgotten throne room. And with it, the face of a king—a ruler who had vanished from history, leaving nothing but shadows in his wake. A king whose blood flowed in the wanderer's veins.
The journey had been long, winding through haunted forests, across barren plains, and into the heart of cursed valleys. Each step, each revelation, brought the wanderer closer to the lost city. But with each passing moment, a deeper truth emerged: the land was not the only thing in ruin. The wanderer could feel it—the darkness that lingered in their own heart, a seed planted long ago, growing with every step they took.
The crown. The throne. They were more than just symbols of power. They were chains. And the wanderer could feel the weight of them pulling them toward an inevitable fate.
But the prophecy was clear. The bloodline would return, and balance would be restored. The question remained: Could the wanderer embrace the truth of their heritage, or would the shadows of the past consume them first?
As the mist rolled in, cloaking the mountains in its eerie embrace, the wanderer stepped forward, their eyes fixed on the horizon. Eldros awaited. And with it, the ghosts of the past, both those of the kingdom... and their own.
The journey had only just begun.