[Before some time, Princess Sylthara's POV]
The dying sun draped the forest in hues of gold and ember. Shafts of light pierced through the ancient canopy, scattering across leaves that shimmered like shards of emerald glass. Each step crunched softly against the roots and moss beneath their boots, the rhythm steady, solemn, unbroken.
At the head of the formation walked Princess Sylthara of the Dark Elves, her silver hair flowing behind her like liquid moonlight. The faint glimmer of her armor caught the waning light, each engraved rune pulsing with restrained mana. Behind her marched her retinue — proud, silent warriors clad in matching silver, their faces calm but eyes sharp, bearing the quiet fury of a people long denied.
They moved as one through the twilight woods — a tide of shadows beneath fading light.
From beside her, an aged voice spoke, rough yet reverent.
