The night was suffocatingly still.
Ash drifted through the air like gray snow, settling over bodies, weapons, and the blood-soaked roots of the forest. The silver light of the moon barely pierced through the haze — just enough to glint off drawn blades and trembling hands.
Two groups faced one another across the scarred clearing: elves and dark elves, shoulder to shoulder for the first time in seven millennia, and opposite them — the cultists, their grins stretching too wide, their eyes gleaming with madness.
Sylthara's breath came sharp and uneven. Her eyes, burning with fury and pain, locked onto the gray-tattooed cultist leader. The veins on her neck stood out as she trembled, unable to contain the storm inside her.
"You… you bastard!" she shouted, voice breaking with rage. "You were behind my mother's death!"
