The elder sat, unmoved and unmoving, his gaze penetrating the dim haze that filled the ancient cavern. His throne, an intricately forged mesh of bone and metal, seemed as ancient as the mountain itself, molded by hands long turned to dust. The scepter in his grip bore blades honed by centuries of silence, not dulled by war but sharpened by waiting.
Once, he had wielded it in countless battles, a symbol of wrath and justice. Now, he held it not as a weapon but as a marker of a duty that even time dared not steal. Legends whispered of his origins—some said he was a god who had chosen mortality, others claimed he was the last of a forgotten race. To all who ventured into his lair, he was simply The Keeper, the last barrier between their world and something far worse.
Today, a sound disturbed the silence, echoing faintly from the cavern's mouth. Another fool, another wanderer in search of glory, he thought. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he gripped the scepter tighter. His lips moved in a near-whisper, a phrase from a language older than language itself.
“Come,” he murmured to the darkness. “Face the end you sought.”
And with a slow, creaking rise, he stood to meet his challenger.
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