The Tale of the Crimson Rose
There is a legend that dates back to a time before even the oldest immortals can remember. It is the story of the Crimson Rose, a flower that blooms only once every century, on the highest peak of the Shadowspire Mountain. The petals are said to be so red, they seem to shimmer in the moonlight, almost like a flame.
It is said that whoever plucks the rose will be granted a single wish. But there is a price. For each wish granted, the world will lose something precious in return. A balance, some call it. The immortals, those wise enough to understand the ancient laws, have long since abandoned the idea of wishing for anything from the Crimson Rose.
Yet… some cannot resist.
One such soul, a young elf from the City of Shadows, ventured forth to seek the bloom, his heart set on a wish that burned bright enough to blind him to the dangers. When he arrived at the peak, he found the rose as it was promised—its petals as bright as the sun, though the chill of the mountain made the air seem all the colder. He hesitated for but a moment, but it was enough.
Before he could grasp the flower, it was plucked by another hand.
He turned.
The figure stood there, their cloak swirling around them as though they were part of the wind itself. The only thing he could see clearly were the eyes—cold, black, and glinting like the very stars themselves.
"You came for it," the figure said, voice like gravel. "But I was always the one meant to take it."
The elf stumbled backward, realizing far too late that the price for this wish was far more than he could ever afford. And though he tried to speak, to beg, to make a plea for mercy, the figure only smiled, and in that smile was a promise:
You will never have what you seek.
Some say that young elf returned to his people, broken and lost, never to speak again. Others say he disappeared, swallowed by the mountain itself. But one thing is certain: the Crimson Rose still waits atop the peak, blooming only when it is most needed—and never when it is wanted.
And should you find yourself standing before it one fateful day, remember this: the price for your wish may not always be yours to pay.
As for the one who took the rose that night…
Well, they’ve been gone for quite some time, though there are rumors that when the moon is full, you can hear the soft sound of a cloak in the wind.
Some say it’s nothing. Others—
Well, they know better.
