The warlord

When Harold's burst of energy triggered drastic climate changes, the magical towers atop the shattered peaks activated. The elven mages rallied, launching a powerful magical counterattack to mitigate the effects.

Beams of light erupted from the towers, converging upon the forming storm's eye. The elven mages stood resolute, resisting the chaotic surge of energy. The light beams flickered and wavered, their intensity fluctuating between brilliance and faint glimmers, but they never disappeared entirely.

After a prolonged battle, the beams pierced through the storm's eye, dispersing its ferocity and ending the tempest.

Though Harold's madness was subdued by the obsidian pendant, he failed to contain the overwhelming surge of energy in time. The storm's destruction left him gravely injured.

When Talion arrived, it was all over. Harold and the elves who had been monitoring him lay unconscious on the ground. The queen spiders' corpses had disintegrated into vapor, and the surrounding forest within a twenty-meter radius was obliterated.

Talion cast an angry glance at the damaged Asryndor, frustration evident in his eyes.

---

In the underground halls,

The elven lord stood silently before the ancient murals, relics of a forgotten age. The images depicted the legendary tale of the first elven warrior who vanquished demons by mastering dark magic and forging their souls into a singular weapon—the Scythe of Death and Life.

The weapon, a mythical artifact, consisted of two massive, razor-sharp scythes linked by an extraordinarily long chain. It now hung solemnly within the tomb of the great warrior.

Lady Lúthien tread softly through the dim corridors, passing countless relics of the past. Her path ended at a colossal statue of the elven warrior. Beneath the statue lay a gateway leading to the tomb. Crossing through, she joined the elven lord.

"My lord," she began, her voice calm but laced with concern.

Without shifting his gaze from the Scythe of Death and Life, the elf lord spoke. "You have heard the whispers, have you not? They intend to send him to the trial grounds."

"Yes, my lord. After the incident, they're adamant he must undergo the trial. There's no way to halt the process."

"Perhaps it is destiny—or perhaps the first spark that will ignite this ancient land's downfall…"

"I'm confident nothing will happen. The spirit of the great warrior resides within the scythes. It will not allow harm to befall us."

"Let's hope so. Yet, no one has ever succeeded in this trial—not even our warriors. These scythes demand an infinite reserve of energy, and even the mightiest of elves falter after mere minutes."

"My lord, I believe the man has the potential to endure the trial. You saw the storm he created."

"That storm is precisely what troubles me," the elf lord said, his voice grave. "He is a mutant, yes—his body brimming with mana. But channeling such immense power without precision is dangerous. If he fails to control it, the scythes' consciousness may consume him."

"You're right," Lúthien conceded. "But success isn't impossible. He might overcome the trial and redeem himself. After all, this is what we believe…"

"This is what we believe," the elf lord echoed, his voice heavy with uncertainty.

---

In the elven dungeons,

A group of elven guards, clad in shimmering silk robes, made their way through the narrow pathways and bridges suspended over a deep, shadowy chasm. These bridges, intricately carved from forest roots, arched gracefully as though shaped by ancient hands.

They navigated sharp turns, iron-barred staircases, and barricades. Most of the prisoners were rebels or dwarves from Dirckthol who had violated treaties by attempting to infiltrate the Whispering Forest through hidden routes. Among the captives were also humans and druids, each imprisoned for their own reasons.

The group pressed deeper into the dungeons, the suffocating darkness seeming to stretch on endlessly. Finally, they reached a specific cell, guarded by two vigilant elves.

"Unseal the cell." the elven lord commanded.

The heavy door creaked open, revealing a damp, foul-smelling chamber. The oppressive stench of blood and sweat filled the air.

One of the accompanying elves cast a light spell, summoning an ethereal orb that illuminated the space.

Inside, a man sat shackled, his battered body marred with wounds. His disheveled gray hair framed his glowing golden eyes, which pierced through the dimness.

"You wield sacred magic, mutant, do you?" the elven lord asked, his tone cold.

Harold smirked. "I came here at one of your requests, and this is the welcome I receive?"

The elf lord unsheathed Harold's silver sword, held by one of the guards. He approached with deliberate calm.

"That's right, holy mercenary. This is your punishment for desecrating the forest's trees and Asryndor's ruins."

He pressed the blade to Harold's throat but, with a swift motion, severed the chains binding him. Tossing the sword at Harold's feet, he continued, "Yet you were hired to serve the elves. And the one who hired you was one of the High Elves. So, I'll give you the chance to prove your worth."

Harold spat on the ground as he pushed himself to his feet. "I believe I've been through this stage before, haven't I, High Elf?"

His glowing eyes shifted to the woman standing silently in the background.

Lady Lúthien stepped forward. "You noticed me? Perhaps you're not as simple-minded as the lord assumed."

"I've seen your skills before, but now you're expected to show them to all the elves."

"And why should I?" Harold demanded. "I never agreed to this. Are elves so quick to break their word? No wonder you've hidden in your forest for centuries!"

An elf drew his blade in anger and lunged at Harold.

Harold summoned his silver sword to block the attack, but the elf lord intervened, stopping them both.

"Talion!" Lúthien's voice rang out sharply. "I told you not to act rashly. The human is right; we're imposing these conditions on him."

After a pause, she softened her tone. "You're correct, but our laws leave no room for exception. You harmed the sacred forest, but due to your aid in destroying the spiders, we're granting you another chance. You must undergo the Trial of the Scythe of Death and Life. You're the first human ever given this opportunity."

"Given the circumstances, we'll return one of your weapons. Listen, human. The lair of those demonic creatures lies at the heart of Asryndor, and the Scythes of Death and Life are the key to its ruins."

"If you can master the scythes, you'll gain entry to Asryndor's gate. We've tried before, but the scythes reject every warrior, pushing them away. And those who entered the tunnels through which the demons emerge… none have ever returned."

Harold rested his sword on his shoulder, his expression defiant. "Why should I care? I've slain the beasts I was hired for. Your troubles are none of my concern."

Talion clenched his fist, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. "You committed a grave crime, human. Your only way to atone is through this trial. If you wish to see the sun again, this is your only chance. Otherwise, I'll gladly accompany you to the gates of hell!"

Harold burst into a chilling laugh, the sound echoing ominously. "Fine. But what's in it for me if I succeed?"

The elf lord's voice was steady. "You may make one request of me. Whatever it is, I'll grant it without question."

A sly grin crept across Harold's face. Pointing his sword at Talion, he declared, "This elf. I want him."