Dratia awoke to a world of pain. The darkness was thick, but it was the ache in his body that pulled him from the depths of unconsciousness. He lay on damp ground, the cool earth pressing against his back. As he shifted, a sharp stab of agony shot through him, and he gasped, forcing his eyes open. He struggled to sit up, the world spinning around him. Blood matted his hair and soaked the fabric of his torn cloak. He brought a trembling hand to his face, feeling the dried blood caked around his right eye, which throbbed with every pulse of his heart. A jagged scar cut across his brow, a cruel reminder of the fate that had befallen him. Panic surged as he reached for his left hand, only to find nothing but a bloody stump. “No…” he breathed, disbelief crashing over him like a wave. The loss was profound, a part of him severed as brutally as the limb itself. He clenched his jaw against the pain and ripped a strip from his cloak, tying it around the wound to stem the bleeding. It was a poor bandage, but it would have to suffice for now. With painstaking effort, Dratia pushed himself to his feet, swaying as he did so. The forest loomed around him, oppressive and dark. He needed to hide, to find shelter. Every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves sent a surge of fear through him. He couldn’t afford to be caught again. As the sun struggled to rise, casting weak rays through the dense canopy, he stumbled through the underbrush, each step a reminder of his vulnerability. The forest was alive with sounds—birds calling, insects buzzing, and the distant growls of unseen predators. Hours passed as he navigated the thickets, every shadow a potential threat. Finally, as the sun dipped low in the sky, he spotted something through the trees—a dilapidated structure perched precariously atop a tree trunk, its wooden walls weathered and worn. Hope ignited within him, and he hurried toward it, each step driven by the desperation to escape the forest’s grasp. He climbed the rickety steps, his heart pounding. The house creaked ominously beneath his weight, but he pressed on, pushing open the door to reveal a dark interior. Dust motes danced in the dim light, and the smell of decay hung heavy in the air. As he stepped inside, the floorboards groaned underfoot, and cobwebs brushed against his skin like ghostly fingers. Dratia searched the small space, finding nothing but remnants of a forgotten life—broken furniture, rusting tools, and the faint smell of mildew. But as he rummaged through the detritus, his hand brushed against something cool and smooth. He pulled it free, revealing an old leather-bound diary, its cover cracked with age. He blew off the dust and opened it, revealing the faded handwriting of a man long forgotten. “My name is Alaric Thorne,” the first entry read. “I have come to this forest in search of solace, but what I have found is darkness beyond measure…” As he read on, Dratia felt a connection to the author’s words. Alaric had faced his own demons, battling shadows that felt all too familiar. The diary spoke of the forest’s haunting power, of the creatures that roamed the night, and of the secrets buried within its depths. It was a chronicle of despair, but also of resilience. Hours slipped by as he poured over the pages, losing himself in the man’s struggles and triumphs. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, a chill crept into the air, reminding him of the dangers lurking outside. He closed the diary, clutching it tightly to his chest, a newfound resolve igniting within him. He would not let the forest consume him.


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    In the heart of the city, a candle flickered in the grand chamber of the church, illuminating the face of Pope Cedric, a man of imposing presence and unwavering resolve. He waited, hands clasped beneath his crimson robes, for the arrival of the assassin. Kain Eldrath had long been a loyal servant of the church, a shadowy figure who operated in the dark, but today, something felt amiss. The heavy door creaked open, revealing Kain, his face bruised and his cloak tattered. “Your Holiness,” he began, but the Pope raised a hand, halting him. “Speak,” Cedric commanded, his voice a low rumble. “What news of the boy?” “The boy is presumed dead,” Kain replied, his voice heavy with the weight of failure. “He entered the Black Forest. No one returns from there.” “Fool!” The Pope’s voice rose, slicing through the air like a blade. “You were tasked with ensuring his demise, and yet you let him slip through your fingers? The Eldrath line must be extinguished!” Kain’s eyes widened, fear creeping in. “It was not my doing, Your Holiness! The forest… it has a will of its own. The beasts within—” “Silence!” Cedric’s voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls. “Your incompetence is a stain upon the church. You brought this upon yourself.” Before Kain could respond, a surge of divine energy crackled in the air. The Pope raised his hands, and in an instant, Kain was thrown backward, slamming against the cold stone wall. Pain flashed across his features as he gasped for breath. “Please, Your Holiness, I—” “Death is a mercy for House Eldrath,” Cedric intoned, voice smooth and unyielding. “You have failed me for the last time.” As Kain’s vision blurred, he felt the life draining from him, a darkness creeping in. “I am… I am your servant!” “Not anymore,” the Pope whispered, and with a final flick of his wrist, Kain’s breath stilled, the light fading from his eyes. In that moment, the truth hung heavy in the air, a secret bound by blood.