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The Rogue’s Dilemma

The rogue stood at the heart of the corrupted grove, his breath shallow, every muscle tense as the ground pulsed with dark energy beneath him. The ancient trees groaned around him, their twisted shapes mocking his every thought, whispering his doom. He had fought countless battles, but this—this was different. The grove wasn’t just a battlefield; it was alive. It was hungry. And it had chosen him.

His friends were far behind, yet he could still feel their presence, their fates hanging in the balance with his. Adrian’s words echoed in his mind, a cruel reminder: “What if the sorceress was right?” And then, of course, the druid’s rasping retort, filled with centuries of bitterness: “We have to destroy it. There’s no other way!”

But there had to be another way. There had to be. The rogue’s grip tightened around his blade as he stood, alone in the face of the ancient evil that pulsed around him.

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