The war between Idruvia and Lorathil was born not from a clash of armies, but from a spurned king’s venomous pride. King Sergius, his gaze fixed on Lorathil’s legendary riches and innate magic, pursued Princess Maeve under the deceitful guise of a political alliance. His plan was to plunder the land, syphon its power, and enslave its people from within. But Maeve, possessing a wisdom that pierced through his facade, saw the greed burning behind his eyes and utterly rejected his advances. Enraged at being denied, Sergius cast aside all pretense. If the princess would not come willingly, he would take her and her entire kingdom by force. His declaration of war unleashed a storm of iron upon the serene forests. Idruvia’s relentless legions advanced, their hellhound cavalry scorching the verdant undergrowth and their dwarven-wrought siege engines pounding the magical barriers the Lorathil people desperately raised. The very land itself recoiled at the invasion. Yet, Lorathil has held firm. Its people have become an army of enchanters and defenders. Geomancers churn the earth under Idruvian boots, Greenweavers command the very trees to snatch and crush, and illusionists weave terrifying phantasms to break enemy formations. They have turned their home into a lethal, living fortress, making the Idruvians pay for every inch of ground with blood. But this defiance has a limit. Lorathil’s strength is that of the enduring oak, mighty but finite, while Idruvia’s is the relentless hammer, capable of pounding until even the strongest wood splinters. The magical barriers are weakening, the people are exhausted, and the pristine forests are being pushed back mile by bloody mile. Lorathil has held its own with breathtaking valor, but it is a race against time. Without a miracle, the kingdom cannot hold out for much longer against the endless, grinding tide of iron and fire.