Dorian sat by the fire, watching as the flames danced and flickered, the wood crackling and popping in the evening quiet. The warmth of the fire contrasted sharply with the cold ache in his heart. With a moment of respite finally before him, he allowed his eyes to close, seeking solace in the brief reprieve.

His mind, however, was a tumultuous sea of emotions, memories, and burdens that he had kept carefully locked away. Each thought was a wave threatening to crash over him, but he fought to keep his composure. The struggle to maintain his stoic exterior was a battle in itself, one he could not afford to lose.

Thoughts of his mother, father, sister, and best friends pounded in his mind. He missed the simple things from his life that he used to take for granted, from a simple hot shower to a comfortable bed.

A single tear escaped, tracing a path down his dirt-streaked face. It was a small betrayal of the storm raging inside him, but he let it fall, unnoticed in the shadows cast by the firelight. Despite the tear, he kept his expression resolute, his features set in a mask of determination. He had to stay strong, if only for a little while longer.

The fire's glow reflected in his eyes as he opened them again, the orange and red hues mingling with the sadness and resolve within his gaze. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the day's trials pressing down on him. Yet, amidst the sorrow and exhaustion, there was a flicker of hope, a small ember of determination that refused to be extinguished.

As the fire continued to burn, casting its warm light on the surrounding darkness, Dorian made a silent promise to himself. He would persevere, no matter the cost. He would face whatever challenges lay ahead for him, with the same unwavering determination that had brought him this far. And perhaps, in time, he would find a way to heal the wounds that festered deep within his soul.

For now, he would gather his strength, one breath at a time. He would keep the memories of his past close, using them as a source of strength. As he stared into the heart of the fire, he resolved to rise from the ashes, no matter how many times he might be burned.

With a final, steadying breath, Dorian wiped the tear from his cheek and stood, feeling the warmth of the fire at his back as he turned to face the night. The path ahead was uncertain, but he was ready to take the next step, one foot in front of the other, until he found his way to a new dawn.

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Dorian woke up the next morning, gathering his backpack and the few things he had crafted. He checked his map, noting that he hadn't yet explored Eastway; he had mostly been heading in a northwestern direction. Remembering that the sun always rose in the east and set in the west, he decided it was time to venture eastward.

With a sense of determination, Dorian entered the forest, the canopy above casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. The air was crisp and filled with the earthy scent of pine and moss. As he walked, he scanned a few unfamiliar plants, including vibrant sunrise flowers, their petals catching the morning light. In a nearby cave, he discovered a moonlit flower, its luminescent petals glowing softly even in daylight.

Continuing his journey, Dorian came upon a desolate, worn path. Ahead of him stood a rotten signpost, covered in moss and overgrowth, rendering any writing illegible. Despite the ominous feeling the path gave him, he continued, hoping it would lead to something new to explore.

As he walked further, the forest grew denser, the trees closing in around him. The atmosphere became heavy, the air thick with an unsettling silence. After a while, Dorian reached the remains of a wooden wall, its timbers rotting and covered in creeping vines. The smell of wet decay filled the air, mingling with the scent of damp earth and mildew.

Passing through the gate, Dorian found himself amid an abandoned village. The eerie quiet was punctuated by the occasional creak of decaying wood and the distant call of a lone bird. The path beneath his feet was uneven, and overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. He noticed that part of the village had been overtaken by a swamp, the murky water reflecting the twisted shapes of dead trees and crumbling structures.

As he moved further in, a chilling sight stopped him in his tracks: bloody writing scrawled across the outer walls of a nearby building. The words were smeared and faded, but still legible: "Turn back. Do not enter. Death awaits." The warning sent a shiver down Dorian's spine, adding a sense of dread to the already unsettling atmosphere.

The village was a ghostly place, with remnants of what once was scattered about. Broken pottery, rusted tools, and dilapidated buildings told the story of a community long forgotten. The air was thick with a sense of lingering sadness and decay. Dorian could almost feel the presence of those who had once lived here, their lives etched into the very fabric of the village.

As he ventured deeper into the village, the sense of unease grew stronger. The shadows seemed to move just out of the corner of his eye, and the silence was so profound it was almost oppressive. Each step echoed loudly in the stillness, adding to the eerie atmosphere. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, but whenever he turned to look, there was nothing there.

Dorian approached what appeared to be the village centre, where a large, ancient tree stood. Its gnarled branches reached out like skeletal fingers, and its roots twisted and coiled around the remnants of an old well. The ground beneath the tree was sunken as if the very life had been drained from the soil.

Nearby, he found a small, dilapidated building that looked like it might have been a workshop or a store. The door hung ajar, creaking on its hinges. With a deep breath, Dorian pushed it open and stepped inside. The interior was dark and damp, the smell of rot even stronger here. On one of the broken shelves that lined the walls, Dorian found a few boxes of nails. Picking a box up, he looked inside and saw they were still there, just slightly rusted. Packing a few into his bag, he looked around some more, noticing the floor was littered with debris.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

As he carefully made his way through the building, he noticed strange markings on the walls. They seemed to be symbols or runes, faded with time but still discernible. He couldn't decipher their meaning, but they added to the growing sense of unease.

Dorian exited the building and continued to explore the village, each discovery adding to the mystery and the creeping sense of dread. The village was a place frozen in time, haunted by its past and the secrets it held. As he wandered through the silent streets, he couldn't shake the feeling that the village had been abandoned suddenly, the inhabitants leaving behind their lives in haste.

Approaching the well, he noticed a small, crumpled piece of paper pinned beneath a stone. Curious, he picked it up and unfolded it. The note was hastily written, the ink smudged and the paper worn. It read: "We had no choice. The well is cursed. Do not drink from it. Do not stay."

The warning sent a chill through Dorian. He glanced at the well, now seeing it in a more sinister light. The village, with its haunting silence and air of mystery, beckoned him to delve deeper into its secrets. With each step, Dorian felt a growing determination to uncover the truth of this eerie place.

And so, with a mixture of trepidation and resolve, he continued his exploration, driven by the need to gather anything useful and to understand the story behind the abandoned village and the strange sense of foreboding that hung over it.

Checking another nearby building, Dorian saw a small doll lying by the porch, its fabric stained with old, dried blood. The sight of the doll sent a chill down his spine, evoking an eerie sense of abandonment and tragedy. Hesitantly, he walked inside, where the remains of a kitchen and a table came into view. The room was filled with dust and cobwebs, evidence of years of neglect.

The kitchen's counters were covered in a thick layer of grime, with broken plates and utensils scattered across them. A rusted pot sat on an ancient stove as if the last meal had been abruptly interrupted. The table, situated in the centre of the room, had collapsed on one side, its wooden legs weakened by time and decay. Bits of broken glass and faded scraps of paper littered the floor, hinting at the life that once thrived here.

As Dorian cautiously moved through the room, he noticed a bloody handprint sliding down the wall, frozen in its descent. Above it, scrawled in a desperate hand, were the words: "The twin gods of water, Nymrion and Thalriss, have doomed us all." The ominous message hung in the air, adding a layer of supernatural dread to the already creepy atmosphere.

Walking closer, Dorian saw two closed doors. He opened the first one and found old food and various items inside, their once-vibrant colours were now faded and lifeless. He closed the wooden door and moved to the second one. As he opened it, his heart sank, leaving him speechless at the sight before him. The skeletal remains of an older person and a child lay together in a bed, a rusted knife clutched in the hand of the older remains.

In the dim light of the room, he saw a dresser with a note lying on top, written in what appeared to be a tearful goodbye. He picked it up and read:

"To my dear Lyra, forgive me for not heeding your warnings. We waited for as long as we could, but the sources of water all dried up. H- gave us some water, but we are dying. The blackened lines are running up our bodies. My breath grows shorter by the minute. Please forgive me, Lyra."

Dorian placed the note back down, a heavy sadness settling over him. He pulled out a few of the sunrise flowers he had gathered earlier, their warm scent filling the air as he placed them gently between the pages of the note.

"She knows. I hope you three find peace in the afterlife," he whispered, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him.

The weight of the village's tragic past hung heavily on him as he walked toward the centre once more, his footsteps echoing in the eerie silence. The old dead tree stood there, a stark reminder of the life that had once thrived in this now-desolate place. The village felt like a graveyard for the dead, each abandoned building a tombstone for the lives lost and the secrets buried.

As he approached the ancient tree, something caught his eye. Etched into the bark was a strange rune, barely visible under the layers of moss and decay. Dorian carefully brushed away the moss, revealing the intricate symbol. The moment he touched the rune, a surge of energy coursed through him, and his vision blurred.

He found himself standing in a lush meadow bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of insects. In the distance, a figure appeared, walking toward him with an ethereal grace. It was Lyra.

Lyra had long, flowing hair that shimmered like spun gold in the sunlight. Her eyes were a deep, soulful green, filled with a mix of sadness and determination. She wore a simple dress that seemed to blend with the natural surroundings, making her appear almost otherworldly. As she approached, her expression softened, and she reached out a hand to him.

"Dorian," she whispered, her voice carrying a warmth and familiarity that made his heartache. "You must listen to me. My home, the village—something lurks in the shallows of the water. You are in grave danger."

He tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He could feel her urgency, the desperation in her eyes. She took his hand, and suddenly the meadow around them faded, replaced by the village, but not as he had seen it. This village was alive, bustling with activity. Children played, and villagers went about their daily routines.

Lyra led him through the village, showing him scenes of daily life, but there was an undercurrent of unease. People whispered to each other, casting fearful glances at the forest edge. The well in the center of the village, once a source of life, now had an ominous aura about it. The water was murky, and strange symbols were etched into the stones around it.

"We didn't heed the warnings," Lyra said, her voice trembling. "The twin gods of water, Nymrion and Thalriss, became corrupted. We thought we could heal them, but they turned the water against us, and the village died."

She led him to the edge of the forest, where the trees stood tall and menacing. Their branches twisted and turned, as if alive with some dark energy. The air grew colder, and shadows seemed to dance around them.

"You must find a way to heal the twin gods of water," Lyra pleaded. "There is still time to save yourself, to save others from this horrible fate. But you must act quickly."

As she spoke, the vision began to blur. Lyra's form started to fade, her hand slipping from his grasp. "Remember, Dorian. Do not forget what you've seen. The answers lie in the past, in the memories of those who came before you. Find the frozen tears and seek what was lost in the valley."

And with that, the vision faded completely, leaving Dorian standing alone in the abandoned village. The weight of her words pressed heavily on his mind. The vision of Lyra was not just a memory, but a message—a plea for help from beyond the grave. It was a call to action, a reminder that the past held the key to the future. Dorian knew he had to uncover the truth, or his life would be at stake.

then Dorian heard a hiss behind him, the sound causing a chill to run up his spine.