The battlefield seemed still. The darkness that had clouded the sky for centuries parted, revealing the first sunlight in ages. Eryndor, kneeling in the blood-soaked soil, felt the weight of centuries of war lift from his shoulders. The shadowed figure's voice echoed in his ears: You are free, knight.
But as the silence stretched on, Eryndor's mind began to stir with doubt. He rose slowly, expecting to see the other warriors laying down their weapons, expecting the weight of freedom to spread. But as he looked around, his heart sank. The battlefield had not changed. The warriors of Argul, the elves, and the beasts stood frozen, their weapons still poised for battle. Their eyes were empty, lifeless, as though time had ceased around them.
Panic rose in Eryndor's chest. He looked to the sky, where the sunlight that had broken through was already fading, devoured by a creeping shadow. His hands trembled as he turned toward where the shadowed figure had stood moments before—now gone without a trace, like smoke dissipating in the wind.
Had he been tricked?
Eryndor staggered forward, clutching his chest, his breath shallow and quick. He reached out to the warriors closest to him, shaking their shoulders, shouting at them to wake. But they did not move. It was as though they were statues, frozen in the midst of battle, caught in some cruel suspension.
"No… no, this can't be," he whispered, fear gripping his heart like iron claws. The release he had felt was nothing more than an illusion. A sick, twisted lie.
A cold voice echoed in his mind. Did you really think it would be that easy?
Eryndor spun around, swordless, defenseless. The world around him began to ripple, as if the very air was peeling away. The battlefield—the cries of battle, the clashing of steel—sounded distant, hollow. His surroundings twisted, bending like reflections in water, revealing the truth beneath the illusion.
The world was still shrouded in darkness.
Eryndor's eyes widened as the shadowed figure reappeared, its form towering above him, now more monstrous than ever. Its molten blade dripped with shadow, and its eyes blazed with a cold, mocking light.
"You were so eager to believe in freedom," the shadow purred, stepping forward with a predatory grace. "You humans are all the same. Desperate for hope, even when none exists."
Eryndor's knees buckled, and he fell backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The lie of freedom had cut deeper than any wound he had ever received. "Why?" he rasped. "Why deceive me? Why let me believe the war was over?"
The shadow knelt beside him, its burning gaze fixed on Eryndor's face. "Because the war is not over. It never will be. You are cursed to fight for eternity, bound by a magic older than the stars. There is no escape, Eryndor. Only suffering. But I needed you to believe—needed you to break, to let go of the will that binds you to the others."
The shadow's words struck him like a blow. Eryndor understood, now, the cruel truth of the shadow's game. By casting away his sword, by relinquishing his role as a knight, he had severed his bond to the warriors and the battle itself. The curse had lifted from him, but not from the others. He had been freed, but at a terrible cost. He was alone.
Eryndor's heart sank into despair. All around him, the armies of Argul and their enemies stood frozen in their eternal battle, still trapped in the web of magic that bound them to the endless war. And Eryndor—Eryndor had escaped, but only to face an even crueler fate.
"Now," the shadow whispered, "you will wander the wasteland, the only soul free of the war's curse, but unable to change it. You will walk among the dead and the dying for eternity, knowing you abandoned them. Knowing that the war continues because you let it."
Eryndor's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white with fury and anguish. "I was deceived," he spat, though his voice trembled with the weight of guilt. "I did not abandon them."
The shadow leaned closer, its breath cold as ice. "But you did. And now, you will live with that knowledge forever."
With that, the shadow vanished once more, leaving Eryndor alone on the desolate battlefield. He looked out over the warriors—his comrades, his enemies—all trapped in an eternal moment of violence. His heart ached with the weight of his mistake, the bitter knowledge that the war would never end.
He had no sword now, no purpose. He was free, but the price of that freedom was too much to bear.
As the years stretched on, Eryndor wandered the battlefield, calling out to the warriors, trying in vain to rouse them from their cursed slumber. But they never answered. The war, though frozen, would rage forever. And Eryndor, knight of Argul, would walk alone through the ruins of a world consumed by war, haunted by the illusion of freedom that had broken him.
In time, the shadows would claim him as well. And though he had escaped the war, he could never escape the prison of his own guilt.