A tension. A heaviness. Like the forest itself held its breath.
Sir Alex held a sealed scroll—royal gold, crimson wax, stamped with the King's sigil. His jaw was clenched tight, but his hands… they trembled.
He opened it. He read it. His face broke. And then he said it. Words I will remember for the rest of my life.
"The King's forces… They were ambushed.
The entire envoy has fallen. No survivors."
Silence. A deep, suffocating silence. Then the whispers began—Fearful, disbelieving, breaking.
"Fallen?"
"All of them?"
"Impossible—those were the royal elites—"
"Even the mages—?"
Even the elves, who had suffered so much already, bowed their heads like another curse had hit them. The elders fell to their knees. Mothers pressed trembling hands to their children's ears. Warriors clenched their fists, faces twisted in grief.
The air tasted like ash. The scroll detailed everything:
—10 warrior mages
—50 elite knights
—Hundreds of mercenaries and adventurers
