THE TREE

Years passed, or perhaps only moments. Time had become meaningless to Eryndor as he wandered the battlefield, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the dead and frozen. The sun never rose again after that brief, cruel glimpse of light, and the creeping darkness had swallowed the sky once more. The shadow's words had been true—he was free from the curse of the endless war, but it was a freedom worse than death.

One day, as Eryndor stood over the lifeless form of a former ally, his armor tarnished and his face gaunt with despair, he heard something—a faint whisper carried on the wind. It was a sound unlike the hollow silence that had engulfed him for so long. It was the sound of life.

Eryndor straightened, his heart quickening as he scanned the desolate wasteland for the source. In the distance, beyond the frozen armies, he saw movement. It was subtle, but unmistakable—a figure walking toward him, a single silhouette against the backdrop of eternal night.

His hand instinctively reached for his sword, but of course, it was not there. He was defenseless, but he no longer cared. He had nothing left to lose.

The figure drew closer, and Eryndor's eyes narrowed. It was not the shadowed figure from before—this one was smaller, human in appearance, and wore a cloak that billowed in the wind. As the stranger came near, they stopped a few paces away from Eryndor, their face obscured by the hood of their cloak.

"Who are you?" Eryndor's voice was hoarse from disuse, barely more than a rasp.

The figure remained silent for a moment, then slowly raised their hands, pushing back the hood. Eryndor's breath caught in his throat. The face beneath the hood was that of a woman, her features delicate but etched with the weight of wisdom and sorrow. Her eyes, though tired, shone with a quiet intensity.

"You are not alone," she said softly, her voice like a balm to his frayed soul.

Eryndor's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? The war is eternal. I am the only one free of the curse."

The woman shook her head. "You are not the first to escape it. And you will not be the last." She stepped closer, her gaze piercing as she looked into Eryndor's eyes. "The curse that binds this battlefield is old—ancient, even. But it can be broken."

His heart skipped a beat, hope flickering in the darkness. "How? I've been wandering for years, and the curse remains unbroken. The shadow told me I was free, but only I—"

"The shadow deceived you," she interrupted, her voice firm but not unkind. "It thrives on despair, on the belief that nothing can change. But there is a way to undo what was done here."

Eryndor felt a mixture of disbelief and yearning rise within him. "Why should I believe you? How do I know this isn't just another lie, another trick to torment me?"

The woman's expression softened, and she reached out, gently placing her hand on his arm. "Because I, too, was once bound by the curse. I wandered this wasteland, just as you do now. But I found a way to break free. And so can you."

Eryndor stared at her, his mind racing. "What must I do?"

She glanced around at the frozen battlefield, her eyes lingering on the still forms of the warriors. "The curse is tied to the land itself, to the blood spilled here. It was woven by an ancient power, a god of war long forgotten. To break it, you must seek the Creation Tree."

The name sent a chill down Eryndor's spine. "The Creation Tree? That's just a myth."

The woman shook her head. "It is no myth. It is real, and it holds the key to breaking the curse. But it will not be an easy journey. The tree is hidden deep within the heart of the world, guarded by forces older than the war itself."

Eryndor felt a flicker of determination reignite within him, a spark of the knight he had once been. "I will go. If there's even a chance to free the others, I will do whatever it takes."

The woman nodded, her expression grave. "But be warned, Eryndor. The shadow will not let you go so easily. It will follow you, try to drag you back into despair. You must be strong, or you will fall just as I nearly did."

Eryndor clenched his fists, his resolve hardening. "I will not fall. Not again."

The woman smiled faintly, though her eyes remained somber. "Then follow me. I will show you the way to the path that leads to the tree. From there, the journey is yours to make."

As they began to walk together, the weight that had pressed so heavily on Eryndor's soul began to lift, if only slightly. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he had a purpose again. The war may not have been over, but now, there was hope—a faint, fragile hope that perhaps, someday, the warriors of Argul would be freed from their eternal battle.

And Eryndor would not walk alone.