The path from Darrow's Hollow wound its way through the dense woods, twisting like a serpent through ancient trees that seemed to groan with the weight of centuries. The sun was low now, casting a pale, dying light through the canopy. Shadows lengthened, and the air grew heavy with an unsettling stillness, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.
The wanderer had not spoken since leaving the village. Their mind was a swirl of questions, doubts, and fragments of forgotten memories, but there was one thing they knew for certain: the woman's words had not been spoken in vain. Darrow's Hollow had held a piece of the puzzle—something that would push them closer to the truth. The pendant around their neck pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, its rhythm steady yet somehow anxious. The past was stirring, and the wanderer could feel it, as though the land itself was awakening in response to their presence.
The forest seemed to close in around them, the trees growing thicker, their branches twisted into shapes that appeared almost deliberate, as though the woods had been shaped by some ancient hand. The path beneath their feet grew more uneven, rocky, and treacherous, and the wanderer slowed their pace, senses alert. They could hear the sound of something moving in the underbrush—a rustling of leaves, the crack of a branch underfoot. But when they glanced over their shoulder, the forest remained still.
A low, guttural growl broke the silence.
The wanderer's hand instinctively went to the hilt of their sword, fingers brushing the cold steel. They had known this was coming. The land was not as empty as it seemed. Old creatures, long forgotten by the world, still haunted these places. The magic of Eldros had not simply vanished. It lingered, hidden in the cracks of the world, twisting the land into something dark and unnatural.
A figure emerged from the trees—a hulking shape, its body twisted and grotesque. It had the form of a man, but its face was a nightmarish fusion of wolf and human, with glowing yellow eyes that shone like twin moons in the fading light. Its breath came in ragged gasps, as if the creature had been lying in wait for hours, ready to strike.
The wanderer drew their blade in a smooth, practiced motion, the edge gleaming with an unnatural sheen in the dim light. The creature snarled and lunged, its claws outstretched, but the wanderer was faster. With a single, fluid motion, they sidestepped and drove the sword deep into the beast's side. The creature let out a horrible, guttural scream, thrashing violently, but the wanderer held their ground, twisting the blade as it sank deeper into its flesh.
With one final, desperate howl, the beast collapsed to the ground, blood pooling around it, the light in its eyes fading. The wanderer stood over it, breathing heavily, their heart pounding, but their eyes were cold and focused. This was not the first creature they had killed, and it would not be the last.
They pulled the blade free and wiped the blood from the steel on the grass, sheathing it with a quiet sigh. The forest was silent again, but the tension lingered, thick in the air. The wanderer stood still for a moment, their gaze fixed on the creature's lifeless form, and then they turned away, continuing down the path.
The encounter was only a small setback. There was something larger at work here, something pulling the strings of fate. The prophecy had not been a mistake, and the crown was still out there, waiting to be claimed. But with every step, the wanderer felt the weight of what lay ahead grow heavier. The path was not a simple one. It was a trail laced with danger, betrayal, and the ever-present threat of the unknown.
As night fell, the wanderer reached the edge of the forest and came upon a clearing—a wide, open space with a stone structure at its center. It was ancient, weathered by time, but still imposing. A tomb, perhaps, or a monument to a forgotten king. The air around it hummed with power, an ancient magic that stirred the air with a chill.
The wanderer approached cautiously, their instincts telling them that this place held answers, though they could not say why. The pendant around their neck pulsed again, stronger this time, as if calling them forward.
They stepped closer, the stones beneath their feet cold and slick with moss. The tomb was a ruin, half-collapsed from years of neglect, but the markings on the stone were still legible, though faded. They ran their fingers along the engravings, feeling the deep grooves left by long-forgotten hands. The carvings were of a crown—broken in two, just as they had seen in their visions. And beneath the crown, a symbol: a serpent coiling around a shattered stone.
The wanderer's breath caught in their throat. The serpent.
They had seen it before. In the whispers of the prophecy, in the dreams that had haunted them since childhood. The serpent was no mere symbol. It was a warning.
But from whom?
A cold breeze swept through the clearing, carrying with it a voice—low, soft, almost drowned out by the rustling of the leaves.
"You are closer than you think. But the truth is not as simple as you believe."
The wanderer spun around, their hand instinctively reaching for their sword. But there was nothing there. Only the wind. Only the stillness of the night.
The voice had come from the stones. From the tomb itself.
And in that moment, the wanderer knew. The journey they had begun was far more dangerous than they had imagined. The crown was waiting. But so were the secrets of the past. Secrets that could unravel everything they thought they knew.
They would need to be careful. The shadows were watching. And they were not the only ones searching for the crown.
With a final glance at the tomb, the wanderer turned away, their path now uncertain but clear. They would follow the whispers, even if they led into the heart of darkness itself.
The crown was within reach.
But so was the curse.