Night fell gently over the elven capital, moonlight filtering through layers of ancient leaves like pale silver breath.
Prince Aetherion moved.
He advanced through the forest with his personal guard, fifteen elite elves clad in darkened armor etched with concealment runes. No torches burned. No words were spoken. Their steps were light, practiced, almost reverent as they melted into the shadows.
Ahead of them rose the Regent's residence, grown from the Mother Tree's oldest roots—wide, solemn, and heavy with peaceful authority.
As they drew closer, Aetherion raised a fist.
The guards protecting the residence lay scattered across the outer platforms.
Some were slumped against the living walls, eyes wide and glassy. Others lay sprawled across the glowing roots, armor cracked, weapons knocked aside. There was no blood—only faint scorch marks, broken ribs, and the unmistakable stillness of those who had been struck down without mercy.
Alive.
But barely.
