The Elder lost.
From the moment he feared death and sought the power of the Night Race... no, further back than that, back on the battlefield a century ago, when he first encountered the Night King, he had already lost.
How strange.
Through these long years, the countless memories in the Elder's mind have long yellowed and blurred; those matters that were once incredibly important to him, he can barely remember now.
The faces of comrades, the voice of a lover, the breeze of the Wind Source Highlands, even the scent of fine wine... things once so familiar are now so foreign to him.
Everything is unclear, except the wager with the Night King, which remains incredibly vivid, immune to the ravages of time, retaining its original form.
A hundred-year bet, culminating in such an outcome.
The Elder laughed hoarsely; looking back, the Elder felt as if he was observing the life of another person.
