The savannah was rarely silent—but at that dawn, the entire plain seemed to hold its breath.A pale wind swept through the tall grass, dragging dust, dry leaves, and the scent of old blood, as if the world itself knew something was about to happen.
At the heart of neutral territory stood a circle of monoliths—the ancient meeting ground where the eight races gathered when war loomed.
Eight stone thrones awaited their leaders.
Seven were occupied.One remained empty.
As always.
The first to sit were the gray-skinned giants, their eyes deep with memory.Mukhar the Old tilted his head, weary. His massive hands rested on a spear that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.
"The savannah is tired of blood," he said, his voice like a war drum."If we continue like this, there will be nothing left to rule but bones."
His words fell heavy upon the earth…and were ignored, as always.
Around them, the grass crackled under restless hooves, and small birds took flight with shrill cries of warning.
Jakkara, matriarch of the Red Thorn hyenas, bared her teeth in a crooked grin. She tilted her head like a predator scenting fear.
"Old Mukhar," she hissed, her voice sharp as wind through branches,"the savannah lives on blood. Without war, there is no change. And without change… there is no fresh meat."
Her pack answered with guttural laughter, while a jackal slipped through the shadows, drawn by the scent of careless prey.
Every movement she made was defiance.Every laugh—a reminder that strength ruled this land.
Kael-Sur, the red-eyed baboon scarred by countless battles, slammed his staff against stone.
"We're not here to philosophize," he growled."We're here to talk about the territory the Leopards are stealing. Our caves are crawling with their night hunters."
A low, dangerous snort answered him.
The Leopards did not walk to the monoliths.
They simply… appeared.
Shadows sliding over the ground like ghosts.
Yhalir, their leader, spoke from atop one of the stones—though none had seen him climb.
"Territory is claimed by claws," he said, his voice sharp as a blade."If you cannot defend it, you never deserved it."
Baboons snarled. Hyenas bristled. Tails lashed, muscles coiled—every body waiting for the first strike.
The Golden-Horn Antelope stood tall and slender, their horns gleaming like polished blades in the morning light.
Their leader, Veras, stepped forward, hooves kicking up dust.
"The north is drying. Rivers are shifting," he said."If we do not establish clear borders, famine will come—and war will not feed us."
Anxiety flickered in his eyes.
They were not the strongest.But they were many.
And their words carried weight.
Grokar, the massive rhinoceros plated in armor-like hide, snorted and slammed his horn into the ground—shattering stone and sending fragments flying.
"Talk to me of war when it's time to break skulls," he growled."For now, I hear only whining."
The impact thundered through the monoliths.
Hyenas snarled.Baboons struck the ground in challenge.
The tension swelled—a wave on the verge of breaking.
Ravik, leader of the Leontaris, had not come.
Instead, a young warrior stepped forward and dropped a stone tablet onto the ground.
"Chief Ravik will not attend," he said, his voice tight."His patrol… did not return last night. All missing."
A murmur rippled across the plain.
No pity.No surprise.
Only another problem.
"Humans?" Jakkara asked, her laugh dripping venom.
"No," the messenger said, swallowing hard."There were no bodies. No scent. No tracks."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Absolute.
Leopards narrowed their eyes.Elephants stiffened.Hyenas stopped laughing.
Something unseen had entered the game.
The empty throne of the Dark Elves loomed.
A silent, ominous absence.
No one knew if they still lived.No one knew if they would return.
Nothing had grown in their forests for a year.
Their absence was a warning.
Mukhar cleared his throat, the ground trembling beneath him.
"We will speak of the Leontaris when we know more.For now… we must decide if there will be war."
His words lit the fuse.
Hyenas and baboons demanded blood.Leopards stood their ground.Rhinoceroses demanded borders—or battle.The Golden-Horn trembled at the edge of famine.
Everything collided at once:
Fangs against fangs.Claws against claws.Horns against tails.
The tall grass churned like a storm-tossed sea.
The savannah was alive—ready to devour the careless.
A deep roar shook the monoliths.
Mukhar rose, towering, every muscle tightening like living stone.
"Listen to me. If we do not resolve this here, the savannah will burn. And none will remain to claim it."
But the savannah had already decided.
War was coming.
And none of them could imagine…
that the spark would not be the missing Leontaris,nor the borders,nor hunger,nor territory.
It would be a human.
One who walked the savannah with golden eyesand a shadow that did not obey the laws of the world.
With every step, the grass trembled.The mana-laden air quivered, as though the earth itself held its breath—straining to contain the chaos that followed him.
Hyenas hunched low, scenting danger.Rhinoceroses cracked their necks, tense.Antelope leapt nervously.Baboons pounded the ground.
Even the Leopards—unshakable—lowered their heads.
Every race understood.
That being was no mere mortal.
He was a sign.
The spark.The storm.The war—
would begin with him.