The island of Iltharim floated in the sky above the sea.
Concealed by clouds, this glimmering paradise was unknown to the world outside those who claimed it as home.
The dark elves had never needed friends.
Not since their expulsion millennia ago.
They lived and thrived alone, their clans bound together by ancient blood and older grudges, free from the reach of the world below.
The rivers that ran from Iltharim's heart, a vast glacial lake, fed their fields, their beasts, and their cities of obsidian and pearl.
They had no need for trade.
No want for outside knowledge.
Only the lessons their ancestors had carved into bone and song, and the memories carried by the eldest among them.
Yet even here, in the smoke-lit council hall of obsidian and bone, the world's tremors reached.
The chamber was a circle, its walls carved with glyphs that told of their exile and survival.
