The Queen of Terra stood upon the Skyroot Balcony of her palace, overlooking the dying groves of her capital. Alira wore robes of living ivy and a circlet of sunsteel, yet her face was drawn. The report from Ronan had just arrived, carried by a feathered hawk that fell dead the moment its message was read.
She turned to her advisor, Lady Serath, whose lips were white with fear. "It survived," Alira said flatly.
Serath nodded. "Vorlath."
"The dwarves are gone," Alira said. "And now the forests suffer. If this spreads to the crystal lakes... we lose the heart of Terra."
"We must call the Pact," Serath said.
Alira closed her eyes. "The Realms will not agree. Aqua lives in denial. Ignis blames us. And Aeris hides in prophecy."
"Then we remind them what happens when they ignore fire."
The next day, envoys flew from Terra in four directions, bearing the sigil of the Broken Stone — a call for summit. An ancient treaty, older than kings, to unite the Realms against a threat to the world's balance.
But before any envoy could reach their destination, the world had already begun to bleed.