The Great Arks of Mystika were marvels of biological and runic engineering.
Carved from the husks of fallen World-Trees and plated in the enchanted mithril of the Dwarven clans, they sat upon the western waters like sleeping leviathans. On the docks of the Silver Harbor, the air was a chaotic symphony of preparation.
Ten thousand Elven archers, their quivers filled with arrows tipped in solidified sunlight, marched in rhythmic silence.
Beside them, the Beastmen of the Lion-Clan sharpened their claws against whetstones of volcanic rock, their low, guttural growls vibrating in the humid air. The Dwarves were the loudest, hauling massive, rune-etched ballistae onto the decks, their hammers ringing out a final, defiant cadence.
Sylvia stood upon the prow of the flagship, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The decree of High Priestess Elle burned in her mind. They were the chosen. They were the cleansing fire of Galadriel.
"The wind is with us," an Elven scout reported, bowing low. "The tide pulls toward the North. We launch at—"
The scout stopped. The sentence died in his throat.
The harbor, which had been a cacophony of metal and voices, suddenly fell into a silence so absolute it felt like a physical blow. The waves, which had been lapping gently against the mithril hulls, stopped moving. The very birds of Mystika—the iridescent song-gliders—ceased their chirping and plummeted from the sky in a dead faint.
Then, the horizon vanished.
It didn't fade into mist or darkness. It was simply replaced. A wall of obsidian scales, each the size of a war-galley, rose from the depths with a sound like the world being torn in half.
The Protector of the Seas had not stayed in the North. He had not remained a distant shadow for the humans of Tellus to fear. He had come home to the West.
The water didn't just splash; it retreated, creating a massive, sucking void as the serpent's head crested the surface. He was a nightmare of primordial geometry, his head a jagged mountain of bone and ancient moss, his eyes two sunless suns that radiated a cold, paralyzing intelligence.
The Elven archers, famed for their unshakable grace, dropped their bows. The Dwarven ballistae, meant to pierce the skin of gods, looked like toothpicks before the sheer scale of the beast.
Abyssior did not roar. He did not need to. His mere presence was a psychic weight that crushed the resolve of the fair folk. As he moved closer to the shore, the sheer displacement of water sent a tidal wave of ice-cold brine crashing over the docks, splintering the smaller vessels like dry twigs.
Sylvia gripped the railing of her ship, her knuckles white. "Position the mages! Fire! In the name of Galadriel, FIRE!"
A few desperate volleys of light-arrows and runic bolts streaked toward the serpent. They struck his scales and vanished, absorbed like raindrops falling into a desert.
Abyssior leaned forward. His massive jaw opened, revealing a throat that looked like a tunnel into the center of the earth. A low hum began to vibrate through the ground—a frequency that shattered the glass windows of the coastal towers and caused the Beastmen to collapse, clutching their ears.
He hadn't come to the West to protect them. He hadn't come as an ally of the Goddess's children.
The serpent exhaled.
It wasn't the concentrated beam he had used to erase Galadrielle. It was a fog—a thick, grey mist of oceanic pressure and ancient mana that rolled over the harbor.
Where the mist touched, the beautiful trees of Mystika turned to grey salt. The Elves, frozen in their terror, were encased in pillars of brine, their expressions of shock preserved for eternity.
In the Sanctuary of the Veil, High Priestess Elle stood up, her blindfold suddenly soaking wet with tears of salt. She felt the death of the harbor. She felt the serpent's mind brushing against her own.
"You speak of war," a voice echoed in her soul, a voice that sounded like the grinding of tectonic plates. "But you are all just pebbles in my tide."
Abyssior pulled his massive body onto the silver sands, his weight causing the very continent of Mystika to groan and tilt. The war against the North was forgotten. The fleet was a graveyard of broken wood and salted flesh.
The West was no longer the aggressor. The West was the prey.