The morning mist clung to the ancient cliffs like a jealous ghost, unwilling to release its grip on the secrets buried within the stone. The great rock face, jagged and timeworn, loomed over the emerald canopy below. Trees whispered in the wind, their branches swaying as if they were beckoning—urging wanderers to step deeper into the shrouded wilderness.
For centuries, the people of the lowlands spoke in hushed voices of Mistvale Keep, the fortress that once stood proudly on the mountain’s edge. Now, only ruins remained, swallowed by time and forgotten by history. Legends claimed that within those ruins lay something beyond mortal comprehension—a treasure not of gold or jewels, but of power. The Heart of the Storm, a crystal said to hold dominion over the winds and sky, was hidden in the keep's depths.
Few dared to seek it, for the mountain was cursed. Many had tried, only to vanish into the mist.
But Elias Varrow was not like the others.
A mercenary by trade and an outlaw by fate, Elias had spent his life hunting relics of legend, trading his sword for knowledge, and selling his findings to the highest bidder. But this was different. He did not seek the Heart for wealth—he needed it to save someone. His sister, Elya, lay dying of a sickness no healer could name. Only the Heart, whispered to possess the ability to control life itself, could bring her back from the brink.
Now, as Elias stood at the mountain’s base, his cloak damp from the swirling mist, he felt the weight of unseen eyes watching him. A shiver ran down his spine, though not from the cold. Something was here—waiting.
Drawing his blade, he pressed forward.
The climb was treacherous, the path a twisted serpent of broken stone and tangled roots. The higher he ascended, the thicker the fog became, wrapping around him like fingers reaching from another world. Shadows flickered within the mist—illusions, he told himself, but doubt gnawed at his resolve. The wind howled through the chasms, carrying whispers of forgotten voices.
Then, he saw it.
The ruins of Mistvale Keep loomed ahead, its skeletal remains barely visible through the swirling fog. Towering stone walls, cracked and crumbling, stood defiant against time. Vines strangled the remnants of archways, and a lone spire pierced the sky like a dagger.
But something else was there.
A figure.
Cloaked in black, standing motionless at the ruin’s entrance.
Elias tightened his grip on his sword.
“The Heart is not yours to take,” the figure said, its voice both ancient and commanding.
Elias exhaled, stepping forward. “Then you’d best try and stop me.”
Lightning cracked across the sky.
And the battle for the Heart of the Storm began.