When the final skirmish ended and the elven raiders scattered into the frost, Charon led his warriors southward. Their journey home was a quiet one, marked by the shifting landscapes of a continent older than any alliance.They crossed deep jungles, where vines hung like serpents and unseen creatures whispered from the canopy. Ancient ruins lay half‑buried beneath moss and roots — remnants of civilizations forgotten even by elven scholars. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of blooming night‑flowers.

Beyond the jungles stretched endless fields, golden and windswept. The plains rolled toward the horizon like a sea of grass, carrying the distant smell of hearthfires and the promise of rest. Yet beneath that calm, Charon felt the tension in the earth itself. The elves would not accept defeat quietly. The alliance would not remain unchallenged. And the continent seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next spark.

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