The night bled beneath a shrouded moon.
Ash floated through the air like black snow, whispering over the corrupted roots of the World Tree, whose once-radiant light now flickered — pale and trembling — against the void above.
From the ridge, Luca stood still, his breath steady but his heart pounding.
Below him stretched a nightmare.
Hundreds of cultists in dark robes had formed a massive circle, their chants crawling through the air like a swarm of locusts. The ground within their circle glowed faintly, etched with runes pulsing a deep, hungry red.
And at the center of it all — clustered protectively around the dying roots of the World Tree — were dozens of dark elves, their obsidian skin glistening with sweat and blood under the dim light.
They weren't fighting for victory.
They were enduring.
Every stance, every strike screamed desperation — a people protecting their last fragment of hope.
Luca's eyes narrowed. His voice was a breath against the wind.
