The legend of the Harvester was whispered among the Coursers, a tale so ingrained in their culture that even the most hardened among them gave it a moment's thought when the Harvest Moon rose in the sky. Its blood-red beams were said to awaken something ancient, something primal and relentless. The Harvester, as the legend went, was not a Courser like the rest but a figure from the old days—before the Age of Coursers had dawned, before the humans were gone. He was a grim presence, an amalgamation of myth and terror, and many believed he still roamed the dungeons, waiting for the right night to emerge.

Altair had heard the stories since he was a colt. They had been told around fires by older Coursers, the flames casting long shadows as they described the Harvester's grisly deeds. The older stallions spoke of the creature as if it had once been real—something corporeal and tangible that could be seen, touched, and, in rare cases, survived. Some claimed the Harvester had once been a Courser himself, though twisted by the dark magics that still flowed through the dungeon's veins. Others said he was a ghostly figure, a curse brought to life by the collective sins of those who had braved the dungeon before the Coursers’ rise.

"Under the Harvest Moon," the legends warned, "the Harvester roams, seeking those who are bold or foolish enough to tempt fate."

Altair had always considered himself more bold than foolish. The stories of the Harvester were just that—stories. Stories meant to keep the skittish Coursers from venturing too far into the dungeon during the lunar spectacle, stories designed to keep them in line. And yet, on this night, with the Harvest Moon hanging heavy and red in the sky, Altair found himself in the dungeon once more, pushing deeper into its labyrinthine corridors.

He had no intention of hiding. That was never his way. Altair thrived in the dark, relished the challenge of the unknown, and craved the sense of power that came with defying the dungeon's many dangers. His hoofsteps echoed in the narrow stone halls as he made his way forward, the torch in his grip casting jagged shadows along the walls.

But tonight was different.

The air felt thick, charged with an energy that made the fur on the back of his neck bristle. The deeper he went, the quieter the dungeon seemed to grow. There were no distant echoes of water dripping, no faint rustle of creatures lurking in the shadows. It was as if the entire dungeon was holding its breath, waiting for something—waiting for him to decide.

"Do I seek him out?" Altair asked himself, pausing for a moment as he stared up at the crimson light filtering in through the dungeon's rare openings. The moonlight bathed the stone in an eerie glow, a reminder that the night was not like other nights. It would be easy to turn back now, to seek shelter and wait out the Harvest Moon like the others. Logue had mentioned it earlier before they parted ways for their respective dungeon dives: “You’d be mad to stay out here tonight, Altair. Not even the most desperate of us would tempt the Harvester’s wrath."

Altair had smirked at that, brushing off Logue’s concern with his usual bravado. "You worry too much, Logue. It's just a legend. A bunch of old tales to keep us scared of the dark."

Now, alone in the dungeon's bowels, the weight of the moon's red glow pressing down on him, Altair wasn't so sure. His heart beat a little faster than usual, and he could feel a prickle of something creeping up his spine. Was it excitement? Or was it fear?

He snorted at the thought of fear. No, it couldn't be fear. Not for him.

Altair had made his decision long before he entered the dungeon. He would seek out the Harvester. Let the others cower in their corners, trembling under the weight of stories. Altair wanted to see for himself what the legend truly was—whether the Harvester was real or just a ghost conjured by the paranoid minds of those who had come before.

His steps quickened as he moved through the dungeon's labyrinth. The corridors felt more twisted than usual, the paths more convoluted. Every turn felt the same, but Altair was undeterred. He knew the dungeon like the back of his hoof, and his confidence was unshakable. But as the minutes passed, he began to feel the dungeon changing around him.

The walls seemed to breathe.

The air grew colder, almost frigid.

And the shadows... the shadows seemed to grow longer, stretching out to greet him as he passed. His torch flickered and sputtered, the flame dancing wildly as if responding to some unseen force.

The red light from the Harvest Moon cast eerie shapes along the walls, and as he pressed on, Altair began to hear it—a faint sound, barely perceptible at first. It was a soft scraping, like the sound of metal being dragged across stone. It echoed through the corridors, growing louder with each step. Altair's ears twitched as he strained to make sense of it. His pulse quickened, but his resolve remained firm. He was not turning back.

The corridor ahead of him opened up into a large chamber, the ceiling high and vaulted, the walls lined with old, crumbling banners from a time long forgotten. The red moonlight filtered in through cracks in the stone above, bathing the chamber in an unholy glow. And there, in the center of the room, was a figure.

Cloaked in shadow, it stood tall and imposing, its presence commanding the entire space. The scraping sound continued, now unmistakably coming from the figure as it dragged a massive scythe along the ground. Its movements were slow, deliberate, as if it had all the time in the world.

The Harvester.

Altair's breath caught in his throat, but he forced himself to stay calm. He had come here for this—for answers. For proof. He squared his shoulders, holding his torch high, its flickering light casting the Harvester's silhouette into sharp relief. The figure was massive, its form wrapped in tattered robes that billowed slightly as if caught in a wind that did not exist. Its face, or what should have been a face, was obscured by a hood, but Altair could feel its gaze on him—cold, calculating, ancient.

The Harvester's scythe gleamed in the moonlight, its blade impossibly sharp, reflecting the crimson glow of the Harvest Moon. The scraping stopped as the Harvester came to a halt, standing perfectly still, as if waiting for Altair to make the first move.

Altair's heart thundered in his chest, but he refused to back down. He stepped forward, his hooves echoing in the chamber as he spoke, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"I know who you are," Altair said, his words bold, though laced with the tension of the moment. "They say you only come out under the Harvest Moon. Well, here I am. Show me what you are, Harvester."

For a moment, there was silence.

And then, without a word, the Harvester moved.

It was fast—faster than Altair had anticipated. The scythe swung through the air with a deadly grace, and Altair barely had time to react. He leaped to the side, the blade missing him by mere inches. His heart raced as he steadied himself, the weight of the Harvester's presence pressing down on him like a physical force.

This wasn't just a story.

This was real.

The Harvester moved again, its scythe cutting through the air with a terrifying swiftness. Altair dodged and weaved, his muscles straining as he avoided each deadly strike. He was fast, but the Harvester was faster. Every movement it made was precise, calculated, and Altair knew that one misstep would mean his end.

But he was no ordinary Courser. He had trained for moments like this, honed his skills in the deepest, darkest parts of the dungeon. He wasn't about to be outdone by a legend.

As the Harvester swung its scythe again, Altair saw his opening. He darted forward, using the momentum of the Harvester's strike to get in close. With a swift motion, he brought his torch up, aiming for the figure's hood. The flame sputtered and flared as it connected, but instead of catching fire, the Harvester recoiled, the torch's light searing through the darkness that surrounded it.

A guttural sound escaped from the Harvester, a noise that sent shivers down Altair's spine. It staggered back, momentarily disoriented by the light. Altair pressed the advantage, his heart pounding as he swung the torch again, forcing the Harvester to retreat.

But the legend wasn't so easily vanquished.

With a growl that reverberated through the chamber, the Harvester righted itself, its form shifting and twisting in the crimson light. The scythe gleamed as it rose once more, and Altair knew he was in for the fight of his life.

The dungeon around him seemed to pulse with the energy of the Harvest Moon, the walls vibrating as if in tune with the Harvester's every move. The red beams of the moon illuminated the chamber, casting long shadows that danced and twisted in the flickering torchlight.

Altair had sought the Harvester, and now he faced the reality of the legend.