[Six Months Later.]
[Plains of Drago, Alfheim.]
[Central Army.]
The stench of death reeked from the place near the border between the Demiurge lands and the Elven front.
Flags of legion fluttered above the tents, the flags that represented the elves in the war.
It was the army stationed on the plains, the main force against the Demiurge.
Exhausted and wounded elven soldiers were common, their eyes devoid of any warmth.
Their eyes were like those of dead fish with no life or hint of hopes in them.
In the center of the camp stood a larger tent—plain, worn by the wind, but guarded at all times.
Inside, maps were pinned, red lines drawn, updates constantly scratched and rewritten.
A young elf sat hunched over the table. His armor was scuffed, silver dulled with grime.
His golden hair, once neatly tied, now hung loose in strands.
A long scar ran across his neck, not deep, but old.
He kept on staring at the map with his dull eyes.
