[Timeline: Year 4 of the Intermission]
[Location: The Ashen Belt – Northern Wastes]
Time in the wasteland was measured not in hours, but in heartbeats and kills.
Two years had passed since the destruction of the Ravine Facility.
In that time, the legend of the "Pale Ghost" had spread across the Northern border like a plague.
The Twilight Association knew they were being hunted. Every convoy that strayed too close to the woods vanished.
Every research outpost went dark. They doubled their guards, employed anti-magic barriers, and hired 5th Order mercenaries.
It didn't matter. The Ghost didn't care about shields.
Deep in a canyon of petrified trees, a campfire crackled.
A group of Wood Elf refugees sat around it, huddled in fear.
They were starving, their clothes tattered. They had escaped a slave camp three days ago, but they were lost.
"Did you hear that?" a young elf whispered, clutching a broken spear.
"It's just the wind, Silas," an elder muttered. "Go back to sleep."
