Chapter 3: The Call of Eldergrove

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Oaths of Duty and Honor

The Northern Reaches of Valandor were a place of stark beauty and unforgiving wilderness, a land where only the strong and resilient could thrive. Here, amidst towering pines and snow-covered hills, Rhiannon Archer, known simply as "Archer" to those who knew her, had made her home. She was a Paladin of the old ways, a Barbarian Paladin who drew her strength not just from her physical power but from the very land she swore to protect.

Archer moved through the dense forest with the ease of someone who had spent her life in its embrace. The wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the scent of pine and the cold bite of impending snow. The villagers she guided through the wilderness were less accustomed to the harsh conditions, their breaths visible in the frigid air as they stumbled over the uneven ground.

“Stay close,” Archer called over her shoulder, her voice carrying the authority of someone who had seen more battles than most could imagine. Her armor, crafted from the hides and bones of the beasts she had slain, was both practical and symbolic of her connection to the wild. Her sword, a massive weapon engraved with ancient runes, rested on her back, its weight familiar and comforting.

The villagers obeyed, their fear palpable as they huddled together, their eyes darting nervously at every sound. They were simple folk, farmers and craftspeople, unprepared for the violence that had torn through their village at dawn. Bandits had come, ruthless and without mercy, leaving destruction in their wake. Archer had arrived in time to drive them off, but not before lives were lost and homes were burned.

Now, she led the survivors to a safer place, her senses alert for any sign of danger. The land was quiet, too quiet, and Archer’s instincts told her that the bandits were not finished with their work.

As if on cue, a rustling in the underbrush caught her attention. Archer halted, raising a hand to signal the others to stop. Her green eyes narrowed as she scanned the shadows between the trees. The wind shifted, bringing with it the faint scent of unwashed bodies and metal—a telltale sign of those who did not belong in these woods.

Archer’s grip tightened on her sword hilt as she turned to face the direction of the noise. “Keep moving,” she instructed the villagers, her tone calm but firm. “I’ll deal with this.”

The villagers hesitated, but a sharp look from Archer was enough to spur them into action. They moved quickly, fear driving them forward as they followed the path she had laid out for them. Once they were out of immediate danger, Archer turned her full attention to the threat that lurked in the forest.

Three figures emerged from the shadows, their faces masked by crude cloths, their weapons drawn. Bandits, the same ones who had attacked the village. They spread out, trying to encircle her, but Archer was no easy prey.

The bandit leader, a tall figure with a mask covering most of his face, stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he assessed her. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled down the mask, revealing a jagged scar that ran from his temple to his chin, a testament to past violence. “You should’ve stayed with your flock, girl,” he sneered, his exposed face twisting with contempt. “Now, you’ll die with them.”

Archer’s only response was a cold, assessing look. She had faced down beasts far more fearsome than these men. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm and even, belying the tension in the air. “Leave now, and I’ll let you live. Continue this path, and you’ll find nothing but death.”

The bandit leader laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed through the trees. “Brave words for a woman alone. Let’s see if you can back them up.”

Without another word, the bandits charged. Archer moved with the speed and precision of a seasoned predator, her hand finding the hilt of her sword and drawing it in one fluid, practiced motion. The first bandit lunged, his blade slashing wildly toward her shoulder, but she sidestepped, her feet light and sure. Pivoting with lethal intent, she brought her sword down in a powerful, controlled arc that cleaved through his chest armor, the steel biting deep into his flesh beneath.

The man’s eyes widened in shock, a brief, ragged breath escaping him before he crumpled to his knees. Blood seeped through his tunic, and with one final, shuddering exhale, he slumped forward, lifeless. His weapon slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a dull clang. Only the sound of Archer’s steady breathing filled the air as she turned, already prepared for the next attack.

The second bandit hesitated, fear flashing in his eyes as he saw his comrade fall. Archer pressed her advantage, her movements precise and unrelenting. She feinted left, then struck right, her sword cutting deep into the man’s side. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath as his life ebbed away.

The bandit leader, seeing his men defeated, snarled in fury and lunged at Archer with all his might. But his rage made him reckless, and Archer was ready. She parried his blow with a swift motion, the force of the impact reverberating up her arm. For a moment, they were locked in a deadly dance, their blades flashing in the dim light, but Archer’s experience and skill soon won out.

With a final, decisive strike, she disarmed the bandit, sending his weapon flying into the snow. He stumbled back, clutching his hand, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Archer stepped forward, her sword poised at his throat. “Leave,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “Tell your master that the people of this land are under my protection. If you ever set foot here again, you won’t be so lucky.”

The bandit, pale and shaking, nodded frantically. “I’ll go,” he stammered, his voice trembling with fear. “I’ll go.”

Archer lowered her sword and watched as the man fled into the forest, his retreating figure quickly swallowed by the shadows. She sheathed her weapon, her breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

As the tension of the battle faded, Archer turned her attention back to the path ahead. The villagers would be safe now, but the threat they had faced was only a symptom of a larger problem, one that had been growing ever more apparent in recent weeks.

The forest, once vibrant and full of life, felt darker than it should. The animals were restless, their usual patterns disrupted. And there was a heaviness in the air, a sense of something unnatural encroaching on the land. Archer had tried to dismiss it as the natural cycle of the seasons, but the more she felt it, the more she knew it was something far more sinister.

She reached the settlement by nightfall, a small fortified outpost that served as a refuge for travelers and traders. The villagers she had saved were greeted warmly, the settlement’s guards helping them to food, warmth, and safety. But Archer did not relax. She had a responsibility to these people, and she couldn’t leave them vulnerable.

As she ensured the villagers were settled in, a figure approached her from across the courtyard. He was a young man, barely more than a boy, his face pale and gaunt from exhaustion. His clothes were travel-worn, and he stumbled slightly as he walked, as though his strength was nearly spent.

Archer met him halfway, concern etched on her features. “What’s happened?” she asked, her voice gentle but firm.

The young man looked up at her, his eyes wide with fear and desperation. “You’re… you’re Archer, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“I am,” she confirmed, her tone encouraging him to continue.

The boy fumbled with a leather pouch at his side, pulling out a sealed scroll. The wax seal bore a symbol that Archer recognized instantly—Eldergrove. Her heart tightened as she took the scroll from him.

“They… they sent me from Eldergrove,” the boy stammered, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “The druids… they said it’s spreading. The corruption… the forests… it’s all falling apart. They need help—your help.”

Archer’s pulse quickened as she broke the seal and quickly scanned the contents of the scroll. The message was brief but urgent. The druids of Eldergrove were calling for aid, warning that the corruption in Myranthia was spreading at an alarming rate. The message spoke of dark forces at work, of twisted creatures emerging from the depths of the forest, and of the need for warriors, mages, and anyone with the strength to stand against the growing darkness.

Archer’s hands clenched around the scroll as she absorbed the gravity of the situation. The land she loved, the people she had sworn to protect, were all in danger. And she was being called to action.

She looked back at the boy, who was watching her with a mix of fear and hope. “You’ve done well to bring this to me,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. “Rest now. You’ve earned it.”

The boy nodded weakly, his relief palpable as he slumped onto a nearby bench. Archer turned her attention to Harlan, a grizzled man with a weathered face who had been watching the exchange with concern.

“I have to go,” Archer said, handing him the scroll. “Eldergrove needs me. The corruption is spreading faster than we thought. These people will be safe here, but you must remain vigilant. The threat isn’t over.”

Harlan took the scroll, his expression grim. “We’ll do what we can,” he replied. “But the people here trust you, Archer. You’ve been their shield for so long. Are you sure this is something you need to do?”

Archer met his gaze, her eyes resolute. “I have a duty to all of Valandor, not just to this village. If I don’t go, the darkness will spread, and

more lives will be lost. This is what I was meant to do.”

Harlan nodded, understanding the weight of her decision. “Then go with our blessing. And may the currents guide you.”

Archer offered a brief nod in thanks before turning away. She gathered her belongings quickly, securing her sword and supplies with the efficiency of someone who had done this many times before. The night was cold, and the wind bit at her skin as she stepped outside the settlement’s walls, but she barely noticed. Her mind was already on the journey ahead.

The path to Eldergrove was long and treacherous, but Archer had faced worse. She would travel alone, as she always had, guided by her instincts and the land itself. The corruption was spreading, and every moment she delayed could mean more lives lost.

As she moved through the darkened forest, the silence was broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath her boots. The trees loomed above her, their branches heavy with snow, and the air was thick with the scent of pine and earth. But beneath it all, Archer could sense the creeping darkness, the unnatural force that was tainting the land.

Her heart was heavy, but her resolve was strong. She had made her choice, and she would see it through. The land needed her, and she would not fail it.

The journey would take her through the heart of the forest, where the trees grew so tall and thick that they blotted out the sky. It was a place where the spirits of the land were said to be strongest, where the ancient magic of Valandor still lingered in the air like a living presence. But it was also a place where the corruption was said to be at its worst, where the twisted creatures of darkness roamed freely.

As she traveled, Archer couldn’t help but reflect on the oath she had taken so many years ago. The oath of a Paladin was a sacred bond, a promise to protect the innocent, to uphold justice, and to fight against the forces of evil. It was an oath she had taken willingly, with full knowledge of the sacrifices it would require. And now, as the darkness threatened to consume the land she had sworn to protect, that oath had never felt more important.

The night wore on, and the cold grew more intense, but Archer pressed forward, her steps steady and determined. She knew that the path she had chosen was a difficult one, but she also knew that it was the right one. The land needed her, and she would not falter.

As she neared the heart of the forest, the air grew thick with an oppressive energy, and the once-familiar sounds of the wilderness were replaced by an eerie silence. The trees, ancient and gnarled, seemed to close in around her, their branches twisting like claws in the dim light of the moon. Archer could feel the corruption growing stronger, its dark tendrils seeping into the very earth beneath her feet.

But she was not afraid. She had faced darkness before, and she would face it again. Her sword was ready, her resolve unshakable. The druids of Eldergrove had called for aid, and she would answer that call with every ounce of strength she possessed.

With a final glance back at the settlement, now barely visible through the trees, Archer set her sights on the path ahead. The journey would be difficult, but she was ready. The call of Eldergrove had been heard, and Archer would answer it with all the strength and courage she possessed.

The Alchemist’s Riddle

The city of Ravensport was a sprawling, bustling hub of activity, a stark contrast to the wilds of Valandor where Archer battled bandits and protected villagers. Here, the air was thick with the scent of saltwater, smoke, and the myriad spices and goods traded from distant lands. The cobblestone streets were alive with the sound of merchants hawking their wares, sailors swapping stories from far-off ports, and the constant murmur of the city’s inhabitants going about their daily lives.

Amidst this controlled chaos, Phineas Greymantle moved like a shadow, slipping through the crowded streets with a practiced ease that made him nearly invisible. He was a man of medium build, his dark hair tousled in a way that suggested he spent little time worrying about appearances. His clothes were simple but well-tailored, designed to blend in with the crowd while still allowing for quick, unobstructed movement. Everything about him was unremarkable by design, perfect for a man whose business often required being overlooked.

Phineas had a destination in mind—a wealthy merchant’s estate on the outskirts of the city. The merchant, a man named Verrin, was known for his extensive collection of rare and valuable artifacts, many of which had been acquired through less-than-honest means. Verrin was wealthy, well-connected, and very cautious, but Phineas had been watching him for weeks, meticulously planning his heist.

The merchant’s estate was a grand, imposing structure, its high stone walls topped with iron spikes, and its gates guarded by men who looked like they had seen their fair share of battles. But Phineas was not deterred. This was just another job, another puzzle to be solved, and he had never met a lock he couldn’t pick or a guard he couldn’t evade.

As night fell, the city began to quiet down, the bustling marketplace giving way to the more subdued sounds of the evening. Phineas made his move, slipping through the narrow alleys that led to the estate’s rear entrance. The walls were high, but the thick ivy that clung to the stone provided ample handholds for someone of Phineas’s skill. He scaled the wall with ease, his movements silent and fluid, and dropped down into the courtyard on the other side.

The estate was dark, its windows shuttered against the chill night air. Only a few lights flickered in the upper windows, indicating that most of the household was either asleep or otherwise occupied. Phineas crouched in the shadows, taking a moment to observe the guards patrolling the grounds. They were alert, but their movements were predictable—standard procedure for men who believed themselves secure behind high walls and iron gates.

Phineas allowed himself a small smile as he moved toward the main building, sticking to the shadows. He avoided the front entrance, knowing it would be heavily guarded, and instead headed for a side door he had identified during his earlier reconnaissance. The door was locked, of course, but Phineas made quick work of it, pulling a set of delicate picks from his belt and working the mechanism with practiced precision.

The lock clicked open with a soft snick, and Phineas eased the door open, slipping inside and closing it quietly behind him. The interior of the estate was as opulent as he had expected—rich tapestries adorned the walls, and the floors were covered with plush carpets that muffled his footsteps. The air was thick with the scent of wax and polished wood, mingling with the faint aroma of spices from the merchant’s personal stores.

Phineas moved through the halls with confidence, his memory guiding him to the location of Verrin’s private study. This was where the merchant kept his most prized possessions, the rarest of his artifacts, and it was here that Phineas expected to find what he had come for.

The study door was, unsurprisingly, locked. But this lock was more complex than the one at the entrance, designed to thwart anyone who might have gotten this far. Phineas took his time, carefully examining the mechanism and choosing the appropriate tools from his kit. His fingers moved with deft precision, the years of practice evident in the way he manipulated the intricate components of the lock.

As he worked, his mind wandered briefly to the thrill of the job. It wasn’t just the value of the artifact he sought that drove him—though that was certainly a factor. No, it was the challenge, the game of it all. Outsmarting the traps, slipping past the guards, getting in and out without a trace—it was as much a test of his skill as it was a way to fill his pockets.

The lock finally yielded, and Phineas allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before pushing the door open. The study was dimly lit by a single oil lamp on the desk, casting long shadows across the room. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, scrolls, and various curiosities collected from across the continent. But Phineas’s attention was drawn to a small, intricately carved wooden chest on the desk—the object of his quest.

He approached the chest cautiously, knowing that Verrin would not leave such a valuable item unprotected. Sure enough, as he examined it, he found a delicate trap mechanism hidden within the carvings—designed to release a deadly poison if the chest was opened without the proper key. Phineas grinned to himself. This was where his alchemical expertise came into play.

From his pouch, he pulled a small vial containing a clear, viscous liquid. This was a neutralizing agent he had concocted specifically for situations like this, a mixture of rare herbs and compounds that would render the poison harmless. He applied the liquid carefully, watching as it seeped into the tiny grooves of the trap. After a moment, the mechanism clicked softly, disarming the trap without releasing its deadly payload.

With the trap neutralized, Phineas opened the chest. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a small, glowing orb, pulsing with a soft, ethereal light. It was a thing of beauty, a rare and valuable artifact that would fetch a fortune on the black market. Phineas couldn’t help but admire it for a moment, holding it up to the light to watch the way it seemed to draw in the surrounding darkness.

But as he prepared to pocket the orb, a faint sound reached his ears—voices, drifting up from the floor below. Phineas froze, listening intently. The voices were muffled, but he could make out enough to understand that a conversation was taking place directly beneath him, in what he guessed was the dining hall or a parlor.

“…Myranthia… the corruption… Eldergrove calling for aid…”

Phineas’s brow furrowed as he caught the words. Myranthia—the ancient, mystical forest of Valandor. He had heard rumors of the corruption spreading there, but like most rumors in the city, he had dismissed them as exaggerated tales meant to scare children or draw attention to causes seeking funds. But there was something in the tone of the speakers—an urgency, a fear—that made him pause.

Phineas moved silently to the door of the study, leaving it ajar just enough to hear more clearly. He knew eavesdropping could be risky, but his curiosity was piqued. He was, after all, a man who thrived on information as much as on material wealth.

One of the voices, older and gravelly, spoke with a sense of authority. “I’m telling you, the corruption is spreading faster than we anticipated. The druids at Eldergrove are desperate. They’ve called for aid from every corner of Valandor, and even beyond.”

A second voice, younger and more hesitant, responded, “But what can we do? We’re merchants, not warriors. How can we possibly help?”

The older man’s voice lowered, and Phineas had to strain to hear. “It’s not about fighting. It’s about survival. The corruption isn’t just a threat to the forests; it’s a threat to us all. Trade routes through Myranthia are already being affected. If the corruption continues to spread, it’ll choke off commerce, and then we’ll have more than just monsters to worry about.”

There was a pause, and then the younger voice asked, “And what of Eldergrove? Can’t the druids handle it?”

“The druids are powerful, but they’re stretched thin,” the older man replied. “They need help—any help they can get. Warriors, mages, alchemists… anyone with the skills to fight back against this darkness. They’ve sent out messengers to every major city, calling for aid. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them reached Ravensport soon.”

Phineas leaned back, his mind racing. A call for aid from Eldergrove, of all places. The corruption spreading through Myranthia was no longer just a rumor—it was a reality, one that was beginning to affect the world beyond the forest’s borders. The mention of alchemists needing to help did not go unnoticed either.

For a moment, he considered simply pocketing the orb and leaving, continuing on with his life as he always had—untouched by the larger conflicts of the world. But something held him back. A small voice in the back of his mind, one that had been growing louder ever since he had overheard the conversation, urged him to pay attention.

“Something about this feels different,” he muttered to himself, his thoughts spinning in unfamiliar directions.

He wasn’t a hero. He had never been one for noble causes or grand adventures. His life was one of practicality, of surviving and thriving through wit and skill. Yet, there was a pull, a curiosity mingled with something deeper—perhaps a challenge he hadn’t faced before, or a chance to prove himself in a way that went beyond material gain.

Phineas shook his head, pocketing the orb. “Damn it, Phineas, since when did you start caring about anything other than yourself?” he muttered, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes. The conversation had planted a seed of doubt, and he knew it would gnaw at him until he did something about it.

He made his way out of the study as silently as he had entered, his mind already on the journey ahead. He didn’t know what awaited him in Eldergrove, but he had a feeling it would be more than just another job. And if the corruption was as serious as the merchants feared, there might be something more valuable than gold to be gained.

The night air was cool as Phineas slipped out of the estate and back into the city streets. Ravensport was quieter now, the hustle and bustle of the day replaced by the softer sounds of night. He moved through the shadows with practiced ease, his thoughts drifting back to the words he had overheard.

Myranthia. Eldergrove. The corruption.

Perhaps it was time for Phineas Greymantle to take on a different kind of challenge—one that might just change the course of his life.

As Phineas navigated the winding streets of Ravensport, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no ordinary heist. There was an underlying tension in the city, a sense that the corruption plaguing Myranthia was more than just a distant problem—it was a threat that could soon find its way into the heart of Ravensport itself. The thought gnawed at him, making his usual satisfaction at a job well done feel hollow.

Phineas paused at the edge of a shadowed alley, his keen eyes scanning the street ahead. He knew these streets better than most, every corner, every hidden passage. But tonight, they felt different, as though the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

His instincts told him to lay low, to get out of the city before whatever was coming reached its peak. But another part of him, the part that thrived on challenge and danger, urged him to stay, to see this through to the end.

“What am I doing?” he muttered to himself, his hand brushing the pocket where he had stashed the glowing orb. “I should be on a ship out of here by now.”

But even as he said it, he knew he wouldn’t leave. The conversation he had overheard had struck a chord, one that resonated with something deep inside him. It wasn’t just about the job anymore—this was about something bigger, something that could affect all of Valandor.

Phineas continued through the city, his steps taking him toward his hidden workshop, a place where he kept his tools, supplies, and various items of value that he had acquired over the years. The workshop was located in a nondescript building, one that blended in perfectly with the surrounding structures. From the outside, it appeared abandoned, its windows dark and covered in grime, but Phineas had ensured that it was secure and well-hidden from prying eyes.

He entered the workshop through a side door, locking it behind him before making his way to the main room. The space was cluttered with shelves of potions, alchemical ingredients, and various gadgets, all meticulously organized despite the chaotic appearance. Phineas moved with practiced ease, gathering the items he would need for the journey to Eldergrove.

As he packed, his mind continued to race. The corruption in Myranthia was spreading faster than anyone had anticipated, and the call for aid from Eldergrove was a sign that the situation was dire. If the druids, known for their connection to the natural world and their ability to harness the Aetheric Currents, were struggling to contain the darkness, then it was only a matter of time before the corruption reached other parts of Valandor.

Phineas paused, his hand hovering over a vial of a particularly volatile substance. He had always prided himself on being able to see the angles, to understand the risks and rewards of any situation. But this… this was different. The stakes were higher, the danger more tangible.

He shook his head, pocketing the vial along with several others. “This isn’t just another job,” he reminded himself. “This is about survival.”

The thought of what awaited him in Eldergrove filled him with a sense of anticipation he hadn’t felt in years. He had faced many challenges in his life, but this was something new—something that would test him in ways he hadn’t expected.

Phineas finished packing and took a moment to survey the workshop one last time. He didn’t know when—or if—he would return, but that didn’t bother him. He had always lived in the moment, seizing opportunities as they came, and this was no different.

With his pack slung over his shoulder and the glowing orb safely secured, Phineas left the workshop and made his way toward the city gates. The night was still and quiet, the moon casting a pale light over the cobblestone streets. Ravensport was a city that never truly slept, but at this hour, it was as close to peaceful as it ever got.

As he approached the gates, Phineas caught sight of a figure standing in the shadows, watching him. He slowed his pace, his hand instinctively reaching for the dagger at his side, but the figure made no move to approach. Instead, they simply nodded in his direction before melting back into the darkness.

Phineas frowned, his grip on the dagger tightening. He didn’t like being watched, especially not by someone who could disappear so easily. But he had no time to dwell on it. Whoever it was, they hadn’t tried to stop him, and that was enough for now.

The gates loomed ahead, and beyond them, the road that would take him to Eldergrove. Phineas took a deep breath, steeling himself for the journey. He didn’t know what awaited him, but he was ready to face it head-on.

As he stepped through the gates and out into the night, the weight of the orb in his pocket felt both comforting and ominous. It was a reminder of the power he carried with him, a power that could change the course of events in Valandor—for better or for worse.

Phineas Greymantle had always been a man who thrived on the thrill of the unknown, and this journey was shaping up to be the greatest challenge of his life. The road ahead was uncertain, filled with dangers and mysteries, but Phineas wouldn’t have it any other way.

He set off at a brisk pace, the cool night air filling his lungs as he left Ravensport behind. The call of Eldergrove had reached him, and he would answer it. Not just for the thrill of the challenge, but because deep down, he knew that this was a path he was meant to take.

And as the city faded into the distance, Phineas couldn’t help but smile. The adventure had only just begun.

Phineas’s Gamble

Phineas Greymantle woke to the pale light of dawn filtering through the trees, the cool air carrying the scent of dew and earth. The remnants of his campfire smoldered faintly, sending wisps of smoke curling upward into the morning mist. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his muscles from a night spent on the hard ground, and took a deep breath. Today, he would reach Eldergrove, and whatever awaited him there.

The weight of the glowing orb in his satchel felt heavier with each passing hour, like a silent reminder of the power he carried. A small part of him still wondered if he should have left it behind—left all of this behind. But no, curiosity had always been his curse and his gift. Phineas was many things, but he wasn’t a man who shied away from opportunity, no matter how dangerous it seemed.

As he packed up his belongings, the forest around him was alive with the sounds of waking creatures—birds chattering in the canopy above, the rustle of leaves stirred by unseen animals. The forest of Myranthia was no longer the vibrant place it had once been. Even now, Phineas could sense it—something foul lingered beneath the surface. A corruption, like a slow poison, tainted the land.

Setting off, he moved at a brisk pace, eager to reach Eldergrove before nightfall. The path ahead was less traveled, winding deeper into the heart of Myranthia. The trees here grew taller, their branches forming a near-impenetrable canopy that blocked out much of the sunlight. Despite the eerie atmosphere, Phineas felt a certain thrill. This was what he thrived on—the unknown, the challenge, the promise of secrets waiting to be uncovered.

The forest seemed to shift as the day wore on, its once-familiar sounds growing more distant, more subdued. Phineas pressed forward, his senses sharp, every rustle of leaves and crack of a twig causing him to pause and scan his surroundings. Something was watching him. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it—a presence just beyond the trees, keeping pace with him. His hand instinctively moved toward the hilt of his dagger, though he made no move to draw it.

After a while, Phineas spotted a narrow stream cutting through the forest, its waters clear and cold as they rushed over smooth stones. He knelt beside it, cupping his hands to drink. The cool liquid was refreshing against his parched throat, but the moment of reprieve was short-lived. Movement flickered at the edge of his vision—a shadow, too quick to be fully seen.

Phineas tensed, his gaze snapping toward the trees. Nothing. Just the swaying of branches in the wind. But he knew better than to dismiss his instincts. Slowly, he rose to his feet, his hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger as he scanned the forest. The shadow returned, stepping out from the treeline—a man cloaked in dark, weather-worn clothes, his face hidden beneath a hood. His movements were graceful, almost unnatural, as if he belonged to the shadows themselves.

“You’re far from home, traveler,” the man said, his voice low and rough. “What brings you to these parts?”

Phineas didn’t relax, though he made no move to draw his weapon. The man didn’t feel immediately hostile, but there was an air of danger about him. “Curiosity,” Phineas replied, his tone carefully measured. “I’ve heard interesting things about Myranthia. Thought I’d see it for myself.”

The man’s hooded head tilted slightly, as if considering Phineas’s words. “Curiosity can get you killed here,” he said. “The forest isn’t what it used to be. It’s sick.”

Phineas nodded, his gaze not leaving the man. “I’ve noticed. But I’m not one to turn back just because things get a little dangerous.”

The man remained silent for a moment, then slowly pulled back his hood, revealing a face lined with age and wisdom. His eyes were a deep, unsettling blue, sharp and watchful. “You’re heading to Eldergrove, aren’t you?” he asked, though it wasn’t a question. “If you go any further, you’ll be walking into something far worse than danger.”

Phineas met the man’s gaze evenly. “I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge,” he said. “Whatever’s happening in Eldergrove, I’ll deal with it.”

The man’s expression softened, though the warning in his eyes remained. “The forest is full of trials,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not all who enter will leave unscathed. Be sure you’re prepared for what lies ahead.”

Phineas gave a faint smile. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The man regarded him for a long moment before nodding. “May the currents guide you, traveler,” he said, his voice distant, as though already fading into the wind. “And may you find what you seek.”

With that, the man turned and disappeared into the shadows, his form dissolving into the forest like smoke. Phineas stood there for a moment longer, the man’s words lingering in his mind. Prepared for what lies ahead. Phineas had been preparing his whole life, whether he realized it or not. The skills he’d honed in the back alleys of Ravensport, the knowledge he’d gained from his work as an alchemist and thief—all of it had led him to this moment.

Phineas shook off the unease that had crept over him and continued on his way. The forest grew darker as he pressed on, the trees closing in around him, their branches twisted and gnarled. The air was thick with the stench of decay, the corruption of the land more palpable with every step. Even the ground beneath his feet felt wrong—soft, spongy, like the earth itself was rotting from within.

By the time he reached the edge of Eldergrove, the last light of day was fading, casting long shadows across the forest floor. The path ahead was obscured by mist, the trees looming like silent sentinels, their bark etched with strange, twisting symbols. Phineas felt a chill run down his spine, though whether it was from the cold or something else, he couldn’t say.

Phineas paused at the forest’s edge, where the towering trees marked the natural boundary of Eldergrove, the ancient city nestled within the woodlands. His hand rested on the hilt of his dagger as he surveyed the dark path leading inward. He had come this far, driven by curiosity and a sense of purpose he couldn’t quite explain. But now, standing at the threshold of Eldergrove itself, he felt the weight of what lay ahead. This wasn’t just another job, another heist. This was something bigger, something that could alter the fate of Valandor itself.

Taking a steadying breath, Phineas crossed the line of trees and stepped fully into Eldergrove. The air here was colder, thicker, as though the very essence of the place had been tainted by the corruption. Shadows lingered under the canopy, and the trees whispered as he passed, their branches swaying in a wind he couldn’t feel. With every step, he sensed more of the dark power that had taken root here, winding through both city and forest alike.

As he moved deeper into the forest, Phineas felt the presence again—something watching him, something ancient and malevolent. He tightened his grip on his dagger, every instinct telling him to be ready. The ground beneath him began to shift, a subtle tremor that sent a shiver through his body.

Suddenly, the earth cracked open before him, a deep fissure running through the forest floor. From within, a sickly green light pulsed, casting an eerie glow on the trees around him. Phineas knelt beside the fissure, peering into its depths. At the bottom, he could see a crystal, its surface smooth and reflective, glowing with the same unnatural light.

He reached out, but a sense of foreboding stopped him. This wasn’t natural. It was the very corruption he had come to investigate. But something about the crystal called to him, pulling at him with an almost magnetic force.

Phineas hesitated for a moment longer, then slowly extended his hand toward the crystal. The ground trembled again, the fissure widening. The light grew brighter, more intense, and Phineas stumbled back, his heart racing as the earth around the crystal began to crumble.

Before he could react, the crystal shattered, releasing a burst of energy that knocked him off his feet. The ground shook violently, the trees swaying as the air crackled with magic. Phineas lay on the ground, gasping for breath, his body still trembling from the force of the explosion.

When the tremors finally subsided, Phineas pushed himself to his feet, his mind reeling. The forest was still once more, the light gone, the fissure closed. Whatever had just happened, it had been powerful. And it was only a taste of what awaited him in Eldergrove.

With renewed determination, Phineas continued deeper into the forest, the weight of the orb in his satchel a constant reminder of the power he now carried. The road ahead was uncertain, but Phineas Greymantle had never been one to shy away from the unknown.

He had come to Eldergrove for answers, and he would find them—no matter the cost.

Shadows of Valandor

Table of Contents

In the world of Valandor

Chapter 3: The Call of Eldergrove

Oaths of Duty and Honor

The Alchemist’s Riddle

Phineas’s Gamble

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