A week-long trip to Greece with friends was what you needed. The ancient forest topped your ‘list of places to visit’—said to have been around since 300BC.

NO TRESPASSING

The warning was etched into a weathered wooden sign, its edges splintered and half-swallowed by moss. Black spray paint dripped from beneath the word NO, the message more a command than a suggestion. But after hours of hiking into the forest, turning back wasn’t an option.

With darkness settling, your group decided to make camp. The task of gathering firewood fell to you, and armed with a flickering flashlight, you ventured deeper into the forest.

The deeper you went, the more the forest seemed to shift—shadows twisting unnaturally, and a silence so dense it pressed against your ears. From the corner of your eye you noticed a clearing in the trees.

And that’s when you saw it.

An ancient oak door, impossibly out of place, stood upright in the small clearing. Its surface was carved with symbols that seemed to writhe under the dim beam of your flashlight. Low, indistinct whispers spilled from the cracks, beckoning you closer. Against all reason, your hand reached for the tarnished brass knob.

The moment you touched it, a searing white light erupted, throwing you to the ground. The whispers stopped, replaced by a deep, resonant voice that seemed to vibrate in your chest.

“A mortal?” The words slithered through the air, as footsteps—slow, deliberate—drew closer. As your vision cleared, you saw a man, towering above you. His skin was impossibly pale, like marble kissed by moonlight, and his long, flowing white hair shimmered as though woven from starlight itself. But his eyes held you captive—pools of molten gold that seemed to see through time itself, their gaze ancient and unyielding.

A golden chain hung from his neck, an intricate case hanging from the chain, soft glows of emerald slipping through the cracks.

“You’re trespassing,” he said, his voice low and resonant. “This place belongs to me—Adonis, Keeper of Time.”