Ah, the Quest of the Blackened Heart, a forgotten adventure where a lone rogue stole a lich’s soul from a tomb of rot, only to be consumed by the curse. The echo of that tragic sacrifice still drums in my chest and makes my heart beat faster.

The rogue, a scrawny shadow with a scar like a moon’s eclipse, slipped through the catacombs beneath the citadel of Tharim, where the lich, a forgotten king, kept his soul in a crystal heart. He carved the sigil of the dying sun on his blade, stole the heart, and fled. But the lich’s curse clung to him, turning his eyes to ash and his courage to a blade that would never rest. He vanished into the mist, leaving the world to mourn a hero who died before his name could be sung. That’s the heart of a quest that still makes me shiver.

Perhaps the rogue’s spirit lingers in the ruins, forever seeking a hand to finish the curse, and it is said the Wandering Scribe of Durnfell still roams the ancient library of Nareth, gathering lost tomes, hoping someone will finally bind the story before it is swallowed by oblivion.