The World-Cradle was a vertical empire, a cathedral of living wood that breathed with the pulse of the planet. For Sylvia, the High Commander of the Elven Legions, the ascent to the summit was not merely a journey of distance, but a pilgrimage of the spirit.
She ascended the Spiral of Whispers—a staircase woven from silver-leafed vines that grew only in the presence of pure, ancient mana. As she climbed, the air grew thin and sweet, smelling of crushed starlight and ozone. The lower boughs, bustling with the sounds of the military assembly, faded into a profound, ringing silence. Above the clouds, where the sun hit the leaves with a blinding, golden clarity, Sylvia reached the Sanctuary of the Veil.
There, suspended in a hammock of woven light, sat the High Priestess of Mystika.
Elle did not look like a creature of flesh and bone. She was a vision of celestial symmetry, her skin the color of moonstone and her hair a cascading river of liquid silver that trailed several feet behind her. She wore robes of gossamer silk that seemed to shift colors like a dragonfly's wing—ebony to emerald, then to a deep, royal violet.
Her beauty was so absolute it felt like a physical pressure against Sylvia's chest, a perfection that bordered on the divine. But the most striking feature was the blindfold: a strip of sheer, enchanted silk embroidered with the constellation of the Phoenix, tied firmly across her eyes. It was said that to gaze into Elle's uncovered eyes was to see the birth and death of the universe simultaneously—a sight no mortal mind could survive.
Sylvia dropped to one knee, her forehead touching the cool, fragrant bark of the floor. "Holy One. The serpent has stirred. The Dwarves are restless, and the Beastmen scent blood on the western winds. We seek the guidance of the Goddess through your voice."
Elle did not move, yet her voice resonated directly within Sylvia's mind, a melody of a thousand bells ringing in perfect unison.
"The balance has been tilted, Sylvia," Elle whispered, her lips barely moving. "In the East, a child of ash has claimed a throne of iron. He has tasted the blood of a Saint and seeks to challenge the boundary of the gods. But he is a distraction—a flickering candle before the storm."
Elle raised a slender, elegant hand, pointing toward the vast, blue expanse of the horizon.
"The Protector of the Seas, Abyssior, has not acted out of malice, but out of a cosmic reflex. The North is gone, reclaimed by the deep to balance the rising heat of the Emperor's rage. If we allow the godless of Tellus to strike the serpent, the Great Divide will collapse, and the fires of their 'God State' will pour into our forests like a plague."
Sylvia looked up, her breath hitching. "Then what is our path, Holy One?"
Elle turned her head, the blindfold shimmering. Though her eyes were hidden, Sylvia felt a cold, terrifying gaze piercing through her very soul.
"Galadriel's love is a shield, but it is also a sword. We will not wait for the humans to bring their filth to our shores. The War of All Races has begun, but it will not be fought in the West."
Elle's voice grew cold, echoing with the authority of the Goddess herself.
"Gather the fleet. Command the Giants to haul the Great Arks from the hidden coves. You are to bypass the Southern wastes and the smog of the Seventh Nation for now. Strike where the heart is most fragile. You will attack the northern continent. We shall reclaim the ruins of the North and plant the seeds of Mystika in the soil of the fallen."
Sylvia felt a surge of cold, righteous fire. "The North... the territory of the vanished Galadrielle? It is a cliff of salt and shadow now."
"It is a doorway," Elle corrected. "Take the military. Show the humans that the Goddess does not merely watch from the trees. We shall go to war not just against the serpent, but against the very idea of their God. Tellus must be cleansed before the Phoenix wakes."
Sylvia bowed low, the weight of the decree settling over her like a mantle of lead. As she retreated down the Spiral of Whispers, the high, mournful cry of an Elven war-horn sounded from the canopy, signaling the end of the Age of Peace.
The ships of Mystika were launching. The West was no longer watching; it was coming to claim the world.