The south of the Golden Mountains was, for the elves, quite literally unknown territory. This was a void where the maps ended, far beyond Valtherion's sphere of operations. The scout ships had not yet finished fully mapping the coastline of this massive continent; the land had not even been given an official name. The only information about the continent had been obtained from orbital and distant observations: the coastline, unlike other continents, bore no traces of a major civilization or organized resistance, appearing deceptively calm.
The 25-ship fleet, formed by the gathering of minor houses seeking their own destiny and refusing to remain in the shadow of the great houses, sailed south for weeks toward this unknown after leaving Dawn Isle. No family in the fleet was populous enough, prestigious enough, or politically powerful enough to establish dominance over another. This fleet resembled a headless serpent; it had strength, but no brain to direct it.
This obvious lack of leadership led to the fleet's gradual decay and dispersal, even while still at sea. The house leaders, gathering on different ships each night, engaged in veiled, venomous arguments over who had more say, rather than determining a unified strategy. Opportunities and risks were to be shared equally, but no one wanted to be "less equal" among these "equals."
As the fleet followed the continent's long coastline southward, this fragile alliance began to crack. Houses that saw a sheltered cove or a fertile river mouth as "their own destiny" began to leave the fleet, one after another. Without even informing the others, they filled their sails with a different wind, either in the darkness of night or in plain sight of everyone, and turned toward the shore.
Even the most populous, the "strongest" houses in this fleet had only 3 ships. This meant that every ship that departed was a serious loss of strength for the fleet.
Some of the more cautious houses, who did not approve of these anarchic separations, argued for staying together, claiming these impulsive moves would be their end. Arguments flared among the leaders of the remaining ships.
"This is madness!" roared an old house leader at a meeting when the fleet had dwindled to 17 ships. "We don't know what awaits us in these unknown lands! Our strength is in our numbers! To separate like this is to throw ourselves one by one as prey before a lurking hunter!"
Another arrogant lord, who was in the process of leaving, answered him with contempt. "Your cowardice cannot seal my fate, old man," he said. "Have you forgotten the scout ships' reports? There is no organized threat on the continent. It was reported as calm and safe. While you dally here with your fear, we will fulfill the gods' commands!"
As the weeks passed, that proud fleet of 25 ships melted away. The arrogant, the hasty, and those who took the greatest risks were the first to leave. Those who remained were either the more cowardly or the smarter ones who truly believed that staying together was the only salvation.
Finally, exhausted from this nerve-wracking journey of many weeks and from watching the fleet slowly disintegrate, the last 10 remaining ships belonged to 5 separate houses. These 5 houses reached the mouth of a massive bay in the south. This was the bay known today as the Wyvern's Maw. Beyond the bay lay a partially flat land where a fertile river met the sea, perfect for founding a city.
These 5 house leaders decided together that this was their destiny. They knew that separating any further would be suicide. They drove their ships onto that untouched shore where the Imperial City stands today. What remained of the headless fleet took their first steps ashore on an unknown continent, forced to unite their destinies.
Days followed one another. The elves remaining from the fleet began a new life in the makeshift settlement they established in the Wyvern's Maw bay. The lands were surprisingly calm, just as the scout ships' reports had indicated; in fact, they were almost unnervingly, supernaturally empty.
At first, they acted with caution in these unknown lands. Sentries were not sent to very distant regions, deep into the forest, or beyond the hills. But every day, the hunting parties returned to the camp having seen nothing but the strange but plentiful animals they hunted for their meat. Not a suspicious footprint, not a wisp of smoke on the horizon, not the slightest sign of intelligent life. This untouched, generous abundance slowly, imperceptibly, lowered their guard and their discipline.
That fortified camp, made of sharpened stakes erected in the panic of the first days on the shore, eventually succumbed to this false languor. The defensive walls began to be dismantled to expand the settlement or to build more permanent, comfortable huts. The number of soldiers standing guard at night was reduced; the watchtowers were often left empty. Why waste resources for nothing? This was a paradise; a boon bestowed upon them by the "gods" for a new beginning, free from danger. They named this continent "Serenia," the "Serene Lands," and sent a ship to Qualar to report. Everything was proceeding as calmly and peacefully as the continent's name.
Until that day.
That day, the usual, sleepy afternoon silence of the camp was broken by a frantic shout coming from within the forest. In the middle of a hunting party returning to the camp, there was a wounded, exhausted elf, carried on the shoulders of two hunters. His armor was shattered, bearing the marks of crude claws and wounds from unfamiliar weapons on the elegant elven metal; his body was unrecognizable.
When they hurriedly laid him in the healer's tent, the wounded elf, with lips cracked from thirst, said that the continent was not as empty and calm as they thought.
This elf whispered that he was the last survivor of one of those houses that had arrogantly separated from the fleet and landed alone further north on the coast, "to write their own destiny." He explained that his camp had been destroyed by "monsters" that suddenly emerged from the forest in the middle of the night, that he had fled for days to get here, and that the forests were teeming "with them."
"Barbarians... savage races... they are everywhere..." he rambled as his fever rose. "They are watching us... They have been from the beginning..."
In that moment, with that wheezing whisper echoing in the healer's tent, the elves' dream of a false paradise collapsed upon them. This realization spread from the tent like a wave of ice out into the sleepy languor of the camp. In that moment, the elves understood that these lands were not as calm, as ownerless, and as untouched as they thought.
They understood that this was not a paradise.
Those fortifications they had dismantled, saying "no need to waste resources for nothing," those watchtowers they had left empty, every precaution they had belittled, saying it was "free from danger," now appeared in their minds like death warrants. Their languor, relaxed by the feeling of safety and abundance, suddenly gave way to a cold, nauseating panic. Every rustle they hadn't heard until then, every shadow coming from the forest, was now the harbinger of a potential enemy. They were not alone; they were being watched from the beginning, and they had learned this bitter truth at their most vulnerable moment, the moment they had lowered all their walls.