The air beneath the canopy of the World-Cradle was thick with the scent of ancient moss and the hum of concentrated mana. It was a place where time did not flow; it lingered. Here, the military of the fairies and the elven legions had assembled—a sea of emerald silk, silvered mail, and wings that shimmered like oil on water.
In the center of the moss-covered glade, Thrain Gold-Vein, a leader of the Dwarven clans, stood with his thick arms crossed over a chestplate etched with the history of his ancestors. He looked up at the High Commander of the Elven Guard, his brow a furrowed landscape of stone-grey wrinkles.
"My forges are screaming, Elf," Thrain's voice rumbled, echoing against the massive roots of the sacred tree. "My kin have tunneled deeper into the marrow of Mystika than we have in three centuries. We are pulling iron and mithril as if the sky itself is falling, yet the warehouses are full. I was born three hundred years ago, during the Age of Stillness, and in all those years, there has not been a drop of blood spilled between the fair people. So, I ask you, and I ask the silence of this forest: what is the intention of these weapons? Why must my people mine the earth until it bleeds?"
The Elven leader, Prince Aerithon, turned his gaze from the high balcony of the priestess. His ears were long and pointed, his skin like polished porcelain. He spoke with a wordy, melodic cadence that carried the weight of a long-remembered sorrow.
"Thrain of the Deep, your heart is tethered to the stone, and thus you do not hear the shifting of the winds," Aerithon replied, his eyes narrowing. "You speak of peace as if it were a permanent decree of the heavens, yet you forget the covenant of the Four. When time was but a whisper and Mumit was being carved from the void, the four gods could not find a singular vision. They could not decide which race was most suitable to inherit the beauty of this world. Thus, a gamble was made. Each god breathed life into their own species, scattering us across the four corners of the planet like seeds in a storm."
He stepped closer, the light of the forest floor dancing in his silver pupils.
"The prophecy of the Cradle is absolute. It was written that when the time of the Great Testing was at hand, the Great Protector's shadow would fail, and Abyssior would make his appearance. The serpent is not merely a beast of the sea; he is the clarion call—the divine signal to prepare for the War of All Races. Our Mother, Galadriel, taught us the language of love, it is true. She taught us to cherish the leaf, the stream, and the song. But that love is for our kind alone. To the godless wretches of the East and the monsters of the South, we owe only the cold edge of the blades you forge. The era of isolation is dead, Thrain. The serpent has risen, and the War of the Four is upon us."
The Silver Frost of Kaldaria
While the West prepared for a holy crusade, the heart of the A.N.T. alliance beat within the borders of Kaldaria, the second nation of Tellus.
Kaldaria was a kingdom of glass and frost, nestled against the jagged peaks of the Azure Range. It was a land of breathtaking, crystalline beauty, where the buildings were carved from enchanted ice that never melted, glowing with a soft, bioluminescent blue from within. The people of Kaldaria were a refined folk; even the lowliest merchant possessed a mana output that manifested as a faint, glittering mist around their fingers. They were a society of scholars and frost-weavers, living in a delicate balance between the harsh cold and their own internal warmth.
Through the grand, arched halls of the Kaldarian Headquarters, Mikaela moved like a winter storm made flesh.
Every step she took was a study in controlled urgency. Her boots clicked against the polished sapphire floors, the sound echoing through the vaulted corridors. Her silver hair flowed behind her like a frozen waterfall, shimmering under the light of the overhead crystals. Her deep blue eyes—sharp as shards of glaciers—complemented the faint aura of frost that clung to her skin. To the soldiers she passed, she was a statue of ice in motion; her every move was cold, distant, and fueled by a desperate, driving purpose.
She ignored the bows of the sentries, her breath coming in short, visible puffs of mist. She was in a hurry, her mind racing faster than her feet. The news of the serpent, the blood on Kael's hands, and the shadows moving in the West had coalesced into a singular, terrifying truth that she could no longer keep to herself.
She reached the massive, frost-etched doors of the command chamber and didn't wait for the guards to announce her. She pushed them open, her presence bringing a sudden, sharp drop in the room's temperature.
At the far end of the hall, standing before a window that looked out over the frozen capital, was Arianne Darko, the Commander of Kaldaria.
Mikaela stopped, her chest heaving slightly, her gaze unwavering.
"Pardon me," Mikaela said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade of ice. "But we have to talk."