The chill of night still clung to Sylvia's black gown as she stepped out of the vampire palace. From afar, the obsidian spire loomed like a black fang stabbing the heavens, lit by the heavy glow of the red moon hanging in the sky. The vampires still knelt in the great hall, accepting that their throne now belonged to a zombie queen. But Sylvia did not look back. She had not come to bask in victory, but to prepare her next move.
The forest swallowed her figure whole. Her steps left almost no sound upon the damp earth, thick with roots. Black chains drifted lazily around her body, forming a silent barrier between her and the night.
Her goal was clear: the dark elves.
They were known as the race most sensitive to intrusion. It was said even a bird perching on a branch could earn a poisoned arrow. Yet this time, Sylvia came not with power, but with words.
.....
