"Shadows of the Forgotten Kingdom"

In the core of thick, old backwoods, neglected by time and man, there lay a realm lost to history. The Realm of Veridorn, when a prospering domain of sorcery and power, had been decreased to only destroys, consumed by shadows. Legends murmured of its significance, yet nobody alive could recall how it fell or what hid in the shadows that had guaranteed it. Few thought for even a second to wander close, and the individuals who did were at absolutely no point ever heard from in the future.

Yet, for Alaric, a youthful researcher and traveler, Veridorn's secrets were too enticing to even consider overlooking. He had experienced childhood with accounts of the failed-to-remember realm, passed down from his grandma, a relative of the people who once lived in Veridorn. The stories talked about incredible abundance, concealed inside the realm's lost sanctuaries, and the enchanted that had bound the land. Yet, more than the fortune, it was the insider facts of the realm's ruin that drove him. Not entirely set in stone to reveal reality.

Furnished with minimal in excess of a guide portrayed from old texts and a copying interest, Alaric set out into the woods. As he ventured further, the once brilliant skies became faint, and the air turned out to be weighty with an unnatural tranquility. The transcending trees appeared to surround him, their curved branches framing dim, approaching shapes. Regardless of the agitating calm, Alaric went ahead.

Following quite a while of going through the thick backwoods, Alaric at last got a quick look at the realm's remains. The primary sign was the monstrous stone walls, disintegrating and canvassed in plants, scarcely unmistakable through the rot. Past them lay the remainders of what had once been an excellent city — presently overwhelmed naturally and shrouded in a weighty fog. The sun scarcely entered the despair, and shadows stuck to each corner like the actual haziness was alive.

Alaric's heart beat in his chest as he passed the boundary of the city, his means reverberating through the unfilled roads. The quietness was ghostly, broken exclusively by a periodic murmur of wind through the empty structures. Somewhere far off, the enormous outline of the castle lingered, when the core of Veridorn's power. That's what Alaric knew whether the responses he looked for were anyplace, they would be there.

As he advanced to the castle, an unexpected development got his attention. A figure, shrouded in murkiness, shot between the vestiges. Alaric froze, his hand naturally going as far as possible from his blade. He had been informed the realm was deserted, reviled even, yet this shadow moved with reason. Was it a deception, a reminder of the realm's failure to remember the past? Or on the other hand, was there something more vile at work?

"Who's there?" Alaric called out, his voice shaking regardless of his endeavor at dauntlessness.

The figure quit, turning gradually toward him. It was shrouded totally in shadow, its structure vague, at this point its eyes — two gleaming circles — penetrated through the murkiness, locking onto Alaric.

"You ought not to be here," the shadowed figure said, its voice an empty reverberation. "This is a position of ruin, reviled by the eagerness and egotism of men."

Alaric moved forward. "I look for the reality of this realm," he said, his voice steadying. "The world has failed to remember Veridorn, yet I haven't. I need to understand what occurred here."

The shadow appeared to falter briefly, as though got between universes. "Reality," it murmured, "isn't what you anticipate. It is covered in the shadows, very much like the actual realm."

Yet again with that, the figure liquefied into obscurity, letting Alaric be. Be that as it may, the experience had just energized his assurance. He had made significant progress to turn around now.

As he moved toward the castle, the climate became heavier. The air was thick with sorcery, antiquated and malignant like the very stones were permeated with the realm's revile. The excellent ways to the castle were unlatched, squeaking open at his touch. Inside, the incredible corridor extended before him, its walls fixed with disintegrating embroideries and broken leftovers of what had once been Veridorn's most prominent fortunes.

In the focal point of the lobby stood a stupendous lofty position, and upon it stood a figure — a man, hung in illustrious clothing, yet pale and ghastly, as though he had been depleted of deep-rooted prior. His eyes, similar to the shadow outside, sparkled faintly in the faint light.

"Welcome, voyager," the figure said, his voice resounding through the chamber. "You stand in the court of Lord Malachar, leader of the failed-to-remember realm. Or then again, what is left of it."

Alaric's breath was trapped in his throat. "Ruler Malachar… I thought you were long dead."

"As it were, I'm," the ruler answered, his tone unpleasant. "I am nevertheless a sorry excuse for the man I used to be. My realm — this realm — was obliterated by my own hand. I tried to control the old sorcery that moved through Veridorn, to make myself and my kin unfading. However, sorcery, as you most likely are aware, isn't to be restrained."

He rose from his lofty position, his otherworldly structure moving and gleaming like a fire. "In my ravenousness, I released a power far more noteworthy than I had some control over. The shadows consumed my kin, transforming them into what you have seen — reverberations of their previous selves, caught among life and passing. Furthermore, I, the Lord, am everlastingly bound to this privileged position, reviled to look after the remains of my realm."

Alaric felt a chill run down his spine. The fact of the matter was more terrible than he had envisioned. Veridorn hadn't been annihilated by trespassers or some catastrophic event — it had been consumed from the inside, by its own ruler's desire for power.

"Could the revile at any point be broken?" Alaric asked, however, he dreaded the response.

"There is a way," the ruler said. "Yet, it includes some significant downfalls. The shadows that tight spot this realm are attached to my spirit. To free Veridorn, you should cut off that tie."

Alaric got it. He would need to obliterate the ruler's soul, finishing his timeless presence, to lift the revile.

With crushing sadness, Alaric drew his blade. The shadows of the failed-to-remember realm would be lifted, however, its disastrous history could never be neglected.