Everland

Long ago, when the world was young and whispered with the voices of ancient creatures, there stood two mountains side by side. One was tall and proud, its peak kissed by sunlight and the soft touch of the wind. The other, smaller and humbler, strained ever upward, yearning for warmth and light that seemed forever beyond its reach.

For ages, they lived in quiet harmony, their shadows sheltering the people who dwelled at their feet. The people, hunters and gatherers, lived peacefully, careful not to wake the ancient powers sleeping beneath the earth. From time to time, the mountains would sigh or groan, but they never quarreled.

Yet even the deepest contentment is fragile.

The smaller mountain began to covet what its neighbor possessed—the sunlit heights, the green hills that caressed its slopes. And so, from the depths of its stony heart, it whispered secrets to its people—old, forbidden magics that should have remained buried. The people listened, enthralled by power, and they chipped away at the taller mountain’s foundations, waging a silent war in the dark.

In time, the smaller mountain grew mighty, its flanks swelling with pride. The sun finally shone upon it, unfiltered and pure. But too much light, like too much ambition, can burn. The lands withered, the skies blackened, and the earth trembled beneath the weight of betrayal.

When the dust settled, the proud mountains had been reduced to mere hills, their greatness shattered. In the valley that remained, darkness lingered—a twisted forest grew, feeding on the sins of envy and stolen power.

The people remembered this tale, passing it from parent to child, a whispered warning: Beware the folly of ambition, for what promises light may yield only shadow.