Far from the sacred heart of the Elven Forest, beyond the golden light of the World Tree's waning aura, the woods changed.
The air thickened. The warmth of life gave way to cold mist and silence. Trees stood taller here, their bark blackened as though charred by time, their branches twisted together like withered fingers reaching for a sky that had long forgotten the sun. The faint glow of mana that danced through the upper forest dimmed into a ghostly blue shimmer, pulsing faintly through the fog.
And deep within this shrouded realm—where not even the wind dared to whisper—a throne of obsidian stood beneath the roots of a dead tree.
Before it, shadows bowed.
An elven woman stood beside the throne, her back turned to the gathered crowd. Every movement of hers exuded quiet dominance, the air around her bending slightly with mana so dense it felt alive. The flickering torches barely illuminated her, casting long, sinuous shadows along the cavern walls.
