The grand doors to the throne room swung inward, admitti a delegation of five Elven elders. Their robes were the deep green of the ancient forests, and their faces, though lined with age, were set with grim determination. They did not bow as they approached the dais where Elunara sat, her posture regal but her eyes shadowed with recent fatigue.
"Your Majesty," began the eldest, a woman named Cyra with silver hair braided like a crown. "We require answers. The sky darkens without reason. The air tastes of ash and unease. We know you went to the source. What did you find?"
Elunara leaned forward, her fingers resting lightly on the arms of her throne. "I have seen the disturbance. It is being handled. There is nothing for you to worry about at this time."
A murmur passed through the elders. A male elf with a hawk-like nose stepped forward. "Handled? The shadows grow longer by the hour. This reeks of a concentrated attack. The Dark Elves have long sought to—"
