In the elven empire, the World Tree was the most sacred existence.
To the elves, it was more than a tree—it was a living conduit to nature itself, the bridge that drew them closer to the spirits and allowed them to form bonds with them. Its blessing let them harness mana more efficiently than any other race in Etheron, shaping spell and sword with effortless grace.
That blessing had made the elves proud.
Too proud.
It wasn't that they couldn't stand other races; it was just that, deep down, they believed everyone else was a little more… inferior.
Alex walked through the capital city of the elven empire—Moonshade—holding an ice cream in one hand as he wove through the crowds of elegant elves.
'I should really take a taxi or something,' he thought. 'Using my strength here will make them think I'm a trespasser.'
He glanced up at the distant World Tree, its crown piercing the clouds.
