Ashes danced on the air like dying stars, glowing softly as they descended upon the scarred battlefield of the Obsidian Groves. Giant trees—once as ancient as memory—lay splintered across the craters, their psychic-resonant bark cracked and humming with echoes of the battle. The very Will of the land had been shaken, bent beneath the weight of two titanic forces.
And now, one knelt.
Queen Ashtora, Monarch of the E'Sherils, her body flickering with the aftershock of spent psychic energy, lowered her head. Her tail—majestic and marked with ten sharp, gleaming spikes—lay motionless across the ground, a symbol of her defeat. Yet there was no shame in her eyes—only weariness, and the unfamiliar stillness that followed surrender.
Before her stood Ethan.
