Back in the heart of Sylvathar's concealed sanctuary, the air was thick with the scent of scorched bark and mist-saturated soil. Liam and Mabel stood side by side, their bodies battered and bruised from the clash with the monstrous golem, but their stances unshaken. The pain in their limbs was nothing compared to the intensity in their eyes—sharp, focused, and locked on the elegantly eerie figure ahead of them.
Morenelle.
She stood in the distance, her tall frame still serene, her eyes gleaming like polished emeralds. But now, her smile had twisted—no longer calm, but cold, cruel, and unnervingly pleased. Around her, vines slithered like serpents, their edges glowing faintly, saturated with myst. The air pulsed with her aura, as if the land still obeyed her even after its mystical connection had been partially severed.
After a long, taut silence—broken only by Mabel's ragged breathing and Liam's steady exhale—Morenelle finally spoke.
