The war began not with a clash of swords or a trumpet's call, but with a cold, creeping silence that blanketed the borderlands of Wyrmroot.
Astra's forces moved like a shadow at dusk—swift, merciless, and unseen until it was too late. Within two days, the twin border forts of Ashgrove and Hollowpine fell. These were strongholds of the forest folk, guardians of the ancient woods, but Astra's men showed no mercy. The soldiers and villagers alike were slaughtered or dragged into chains, their screams swallowed by the towering trees.
The victors left a chilling message: the bodies of the fallen were hung from gnarled branches, draped in crimson banners bearing Astra's sigil—a black serpent coiled around a burning sun. The gruesome display was meant to terrorize, to announce that the forest would soon burn beneath her rule.
Astrid stood at the heart of Wyrmroot, her face as cold and unmoving as the ice of the northern peaks. She was a tactician born of the wilds, raised among whispering leaves and shadowed glens. When word of the border's fall reached her, she gave a simple command: all surviving forces were to retreat and consolidate at the Emerald Gate.
The Emerald Gate was more than a fortress; it was a living bastion. A massive wooden wall, reinforced with enchanted stone, wrapped in protective wards, it stood like a sentinel against the invaders. Astrid summoned her generals and druids alike. "Let them come," she said, voice steady and unyielding. "They do not understand the forest."
But Astra understood the forest all too well—and she intended to burn it to the ground.
From the backs of dune-bred horses, Astra's archers rained fire upon the trees. Flaming arrows pierced the canopy, igniting centuries-old groves that blazed like infernos. The acrid smoke darkened the skies, choking the life from the forest. Lumber yards, granaries filled with the year's harvest, sawmills—all were consumed in the relentless flames.
The scorched earth campaign was brutal and calculated. Astra's forces cut off supply lines and struck with lightning speed at remote settlements, forcing refugees to flee deeper into the woods, where Astrid's forces lay in wait.
Astrid refused to break. In the depths of Wyrmroot, she called upon the ancient magics of her people. Druids chanted beside sacred groves, coaxing the forest to fight back. Elk-riders—scouts mounted on great, horned beasts—patrolled tirelessly, their eyes sharp and their arrows true.
The war tested the very soul of Wyrmroot. Old oaks, silent witnesses to centuries of peace, fell to the flames. The ground was scarred by fire and blood. Yet through the smoke and ruin, Astrid's resolve only hardened.
Astra's hatred was personal and deep-rooted. She blamed the forest kingdoms for past humiliations, for standing in the way of her rise. But in her fury, she underestimated the forest's wrath—and the unyielding spirit of its queen.
Far to the east, Alexios received the summons on parchment sealed with Wyrmroot's sigil. He read it by candlelight in his study, a chill running through his chest as he took in Astrid's words:
"I have held peace with dignity. I have turned my cheek and opened my gates. But she has chosen war, and I shall not go alone into the fire. If I fall, the forest burns. If I win, the balance tips. Ceaser, I ask not as an ally, but as your friend—stand with me."
Alexios looked to Isis, seated quietly across the table. "Our ancestors bled together. I owe her."
Decades ago, before the rise of the current rulers, Alexios's mother, Lady Elara Helion, and Astrid's father, Lord Thoren Kaigen, stood united against a terrifying threat that nearly shattered the remnants of the Elyari Empire's legacy. A dark, ancient evil had awakened—a cursed warlord infused with forbidden magic who sought to claim the central volcano's power to dominate all successor-states.
Elara, a skilled warrior and master tactician, led the defense forces, while Thoren, a fierce forest lord and expert in guerrilla warfare, commanded the forest militias. Together, they devised a daring plan to trap the warlord within the volcano's fiery depths.
In a fierce battle at the volcano's mouth, Elara sacrificed herself to drive the warlord into a volcanic fissure, sealing him away but at the cost of her life. Thoren, grievously wounded, survived and became a symbol of endurance and vigilance, dedicating his remaining years to ensuring that the ancient evil never returned.
This legendary sacrifice forged the bond between their houses, inspiring Alexios and Astrid in their own struggles to unite the fragmented kingdoms and prevent the calamitous magic of the past from rising again.
Isis nodded. "And you'll gain more than honor. If Astra falls, the entire southern corridor opens. The desert kingdoms trade through her. Aid Astrid, and you shape the route of coin for generations."
But Alexios wasn't thinking of coin. He was thinking of what Astrid meant to the cause. To unity. To vision. If Astra succeeded in burning down Wyrmroot, others would follow her example. Alliance would become myth.
He folded the letter. "Prepare the legions."
The war began not with swords, but with silence.
Astra's forces moved swiftly. They seized the twin border forts of Ashgrove and Hollowpine in less than two days, slaughtering or enslaving every forester within. The bodies were left hanging from trees, draped in Astra's crimson flags.
Astrid, cold and calm as winter, ordered every surviving outpost to fall back and regroup at the Emerald Gate—a massive wooden wall reinforced with stone and magic. "Let them come," she told her generals. "They do not understand the forest."
But Astra did.
She set fire to everything in her path.
From the backs of dune-bred horses, her archers unleashed fire arrows into the canopy. Entire groves, centuries old, went up in smoke. Lumber stocks, granaries, sawmills—all torched as her army advanced deeper into the woodland.
Yet Astrid did not break.
In the heart of Wyrmroot, she rallied druids and tacticians. Elk-riders patrolled the woods. Vine traps were laid beneath leaves. The very trees responded to her pain.