For three nights the blood moon had hung over Warania like a wound that would not close, and on the fourth night the mist finally parted to reveal what it had been hiding. The dark elf king had not come to raid or to bargain or to test the walls. He had come to conquer Warania, to take its castle, its throne, and its name for his own, and he had brought his entire army to finish it in a single night. Out of the black fog came rank after rank of pale archers, their red eyes burning, their curved bows already drawn, moving in perfect silence across the ruined field. At their head walked the king in armor dark as midnight, his crown sharp as a blade, his gaze locked on the last stronghold still standing against him. When he lifted his arm and pointed, the night itself seemed to hold its breath, and then a thousand bowstrings sang at once. The sky vanished under a black rain of arrows, and every soldier behind the castle walls felt the same terrible certainty settle in their chests, that this was not a battle. It was a conquest. On the steps above them, the queen stood alone and did not move. Her silver armor caught the red light of the moon, her dark hair whipped in the rising wind, and she watched the death falling toward her people with a stillness that made even her own soldiers afraid to breathe. The first arrows were close enough to hear when she raised one hand toward the heavens and let the ancient ice in her blood answer. A crack like breaking glass tore through the battlefield, and the air turned white with frost. The volley froze in midair, a thousand arrows suspended above the castle like a forest of glittering spears, trembling for one impossible second before they shattered into a storm of shining shards that rained down harmlessly around her feet. Frost curled from her lips as she lowered her hand, her eyes blazing blue in the sudden silence, and across the field the dark elf king did not retreat.