The village of Darrow's Hollow sat on the edge of a vast, twisted forest, a place where the trees whispered of things best left forgotten. It had once been a prosperous settlement, nestled between the rolling hills and the quiet flow of the Asherin River. Now, it was little more than a haven for outcasts and wanderers, its people broken by years of war, famine, and plague.
The wanderer had arrived at dawn, just as the sun began to burn away the mist that clung to the land like a living thing. Their cloak was tattered, their boots worn from travel, but their eyes—those eyes that had seen too much—were sharp, unwavering. They did not stop at the village gates, nor did they seek the shelter of the small inn that stood crooked and sagging by the riverbank. There was no need. They had come here for one purpose: to find answers.
The village, like so many others, had forgotten its own history. The elders told tales of a time long past, of Eldros and the glory that once was. But in Darrow's Hollow, those stories were whispered only at night, when the children had gone to bed and the firelight flickered against the darkened walls. No one believed them anymore—not since the Great War had torn through the land and left nothing but ashes in its wake.
Yet the wanderer knew better. They had heard the prophecy—the one that had followed them like a shadow through the years. A wanderer shall reclaim the crown. And now, the crown was closer than ever. Darrow's Hollow was merely the first stop on a path that would lead them to the heart of Eldros, to the crumbling ruins where the throne awaited.
As the wanderer moved through the village, they passed the broken houses, the overgrown streets, and the weary-eyed villagers who watched them with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. No one dared approach, for there was something unsettling about the figure—something that spoke of danger and ancient power. The wanderer's presence seemed to stir the very air around them, like a storm gathering on the horizon.
At the center of the village stood a stone well, surrounded by fading flowers and brittle vines. The wanderer paused here, their gaze drawn to the darkened depths of the well. There was something there—something calling them. It wasn't just the memory of old magic, nor was it the lingering pull of the prophecy. No, this was different. This was personal.
From beneath their hood, the wanderer's fingers brushed against the cracked pendant hanging from their neck. The gem pulsed softly, as if in response to the call. They could feel the weight of it, the faint warmth that seeped into their skin, an echo of something ancient that had been buried long ago. It had to be here. Somewhere beneath this village, deep within the earth, lay a clue. A key that would unlock the mystery of their past.
A voice broke through the silence—a soft, trembling voice, barely a whisper carried by the wind.
"Looking for something, stranger?"
The wanderer turned sharply. A woman stood a few paces away, her long, silvered hair cascading over her shoulders like a veil. Her face was weathered with age, but there was a sharpness in her eyes that betrayed a wisdom that most would never understand. In her hands, she held a simple bundle of herbs, though her gaze was fixed firmly on the wanderer.
"You've come to the wrong place," the woman said, her voice low but steady. "This village holds no answers. Only the ghosts of those who died long ago."
The wanderer said nothing, but something in their gut stirred, as if the woman's words carried more weight than they let on.
"The crown is lost," the woman continued, stepping closer, her eyes narrowing. "The prophecy is just a story. A tale for children to frighten them into bed. There is no returning what has been broken."
The wanderer studied her, their gaze unwavering. "Is that what you believe?"
The woman hesitated, and for a brief moment, something flickered in her eyes—fear, perhaps, or recognition. She glanced at the well again, then back at the wanderer.
"I've seen your kind before," she said softly. "Chasing shadows, chasing ghosts. But the truth is… the past can never be undone. Not even by you."
The wanderer's fingers tightened around the pendant. They could feel it now, the truth pushing to the surface. The journey ahead would be dangerous, the path uncertain, but they could no longer turn back. The time had come.
Without another word, they turned away from the woman, their boots pressing into the dirt as they continued down the path that led into the heart of the village. The sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the land, and with each step, the weight of the past seemed to press down harder.
Darrow's Hollow had been the first stop. The first place where the ghosts of Eldros whispered. But it would not be the last.
As the wanderer walked on, the wind shifted, carrying with it a faint voice, barely audible but unmistakable:
"The crown awaits."
The journey had begun.