The tomb loomed behind them, its ancient stones holding their secrets in silence. The voice that had spoken from the shadows still echoed in the wanderer's mind, its cryptic words heavy with meaning. The truth is not as simple as you believe. What had they meant? Were they warning the wanderer of something greater than the cursed throne they sought, or were they hinting at a deeper, more dangerous truth tied to their own bloodline?
The journey ahead grew murkier with each passing hour.
As the wanderer continued through the forest, the moon hung high above, its light fractured by the thick canopy overhead. The trees, twisted and gnarled, seemed to close in, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to grasp at the wanderer's cloak. The air grew colder, an unnatural chill seeping through the bones, and the path beneath their feet became uneven, littered with rocks and roots that threatened to trip them at every turn.
They had been walking for hours, but it felt like days. Time had begun to lose its meaning, and the line between the living world and the forgotten past blurred in the deepening twilight. The forest was alive—alive with whispers, alive with the shadows of things long dead, things that had never truly passed from this world.
And then, through the fog of doubt and fatigue, the wanderer saw it.
A flicker of movement, a shadow darting between the trees.
At first, they thought it was just the play of the moonlight, or perhaps a trick of the wind. But then it came again—a dark figure slipping silently through the underbrush, too swift to be anything natural.
The wanderer's heart quickened. Their fingers brushed the hilt of their sword, but they did not draw it. Not yet. They had learned long ago to trust their instincts, and right now, every fiber of their being told them to wait.
A moment passed in tense silence. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Then, without warning, the figure stepped into view.
It was a woman, cloaked in black, her face hidden by a mask of silver and iron. Her hair was dark, like a raven's wing, and her posture was regal, poised, yet dangerous. In one hand, she held a slender dagger, its blade gleaming faintly in the pale light. Her eyes, however, were what captured the wanderer's attention—cold, unblinking, and filled with something more ancient than fear.
"You move quickly for someone with such a heavy heart," the woman said, her voice soft but edged with an unsettling calm. "But it will do you no good. You cannot outrun what is already inside you."
The wanderer said nothing, their hand resting on the sword's hilt, but they made no move to draw it. Instead, they studied the woman. There was something familiar about her—something in the way she moved, in the way she spoke—as if they had crossed paths before, though they had never met.
"Who are you?" the wanderer asked, their voice steady but wary.
The woman's lips curled into a faint, enigmatic smile. "You don't remember me, do you?" she asked, stepping closer. "Perhaps you're not meant to. But we are bound by the same fate. The prophecy that haunts your every step… It haunts me as well."
The wanderer's eyes narrowed. "The prophecy?"
The woman nodded slowly, her smile fading as she regarded them with a piercing gaze. "Yes. The one that speaks of a lost crown and a broken land. I am one who has followed its whispers for far longer than you can imagine. And I have seen what it does to those who are foolish enough to seek the throne."
"You're not the first to tell me I'm foolish," the wanderer said, their voice taut with growing tension. "But if you know something, then speak plainly. I have no time for riddles."
The woman chuckled softly, her eyes glinting with a strange mixture of amusement and pity. "You will have plenty of time for riddles, in the end. Time, after all, is what this kingdom has in abundance. Time to pay for its sins. Time to watch it crumble beneath the weight of its own desires."
The wanderer's grip tightened on their sword. "I didn't come here to listen to your cryptic ramblings. If you have knowledge of the crown, then share it—or leave me be."
For a moment, the woman said nothing, her gaze lingering on the wanderer. Then, with a fluid motion, she turned and began to walk away, the folds of her cloak rustling in the still air.
"You will find the crown," she called over her shoulder, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken words. "But you will not be the one to wear it."
The wanderer's pulse quickened at the words. Not the one to wear it. What did she mean? They were the heir, weren't they? They were the one destined to restore Eldros, to claim the crown and reunite the fractured lands. The thought of someone else standing in their place stirred a cold fury within them.
But before they could demand more answers, the woman had disappeared into the shadows, leaving the wanderer alone in the eerie silence of the forest.
The journey was becoming more than just a search for a crown. It was becoming a battle for the truth, and with every step, the wanderer was drawn deeper into a web of lies, betrayal, and the haunting specter of the past.
As the night deepened, the wanderer pressed forward, the weight of the woman's words lingering in their mind. The prophecy had always been clear. A wanderer shall reclaim the crown.
But now, the question that burned in their heart was no longer if they would reclaim it—but why it had been broken in the first place.
And what price they would have to pay to restore it.