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Fall had arrived. The crimson leaves twirled and drifted down, their numbers growing by the moment until they painted the entire sky in hues of red.
[Sillad warns of the coming of fall.]
The season always came suddenly, lingering only briefly before vanishing just as swiftly.
[Sillad informs you that the humans have accelerated the coming of fall.]
He was right. It was far too early for the season, as if time had sped up tenfold. The leaves that were green and vibrant just the night before were now drenched in red and falling to the ground.
To some, the sight may have seemed beautiful, even mesmerizing. But to those with knowledge of the Elvenwoods, it was a deeply unsettling omen. These leaves weren’t merely changing color—they had drunk deeply of blood, growing so heavy with it that they finally surrendered to gravity.
To the elves, fall was the harbinger of destruction. It was the season to flee before they were devoured. That was the case with every Elvenwood that Sillad had experienced. Álfheimr was just an Elvenwood by a different name, and it was experiencing the same cycle.
The blood-drenched leaves blanketed the city called Paradise. On the streets now painted the color of spilled blood, the first signs of destruction had appeared.
Suddenly, the roots...
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