The path beyond the gates of Eldoria twisted like a serpent beneath the waning moon. Anita's boots crunched over dew-soaked leaves as the enchanted compass glowed softly in her palm, its needle pointing toward the deep heart of the Forest of Whispers.
Legends spoke of this forest as a place where magic pulsed through the very soil and where time itself bent to the will of ancient spirits. Many feared it, believing the trees whispered secrets that could unravel the mind. But Anita felt drawn to it, as though it called her by name.
The moment she stepped past the first line of ancient trees, the world changed. The night air grew heavier, yet more alive. The leaves shimmered with faint light, and the wind whispered in a language just beyond understanding.
Every so often, her compass shifted, leading her deeper into the thicket. Strange symbols appeared on tree trunks—glowing runes that pulsed like heartbeats. Though the forest brimmed with mystery, Anita felt no fear. Instead,she felt... watched.
Suddenly, the underbrush rustled ahead. She froze.
A figure emerged from behind a tree, blades at his hips and a teasing smirk on his lips. He had tousled dark hair, amber eyes that glinted with mischief, and an air of danger wrapped in charm.
"Well," he said, crossing his arms, "not many nobles wander into these woods unarmed."
Anita lifted her chin. "I'm not just any noble."
"I can see that," he replied. "Name's Tristan. And you're either very brave… or very foolish."
"Why not both?" she said.
He laughed. "Fair enough. But you should know—you're heading straight into danger."
"So are you," she countered.
"So are you," she countered.
And just like that, a strange alliance was born.
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