**The War of Shattered Veils** began with poisoned honey on King Sergius’s tongue—a proposal of alliance, offered to Lorathil with all the false charm of a serpent coiling around its prey. He spoke of shared prosperity, of Idruvia’s strength shielding Lorathil’s enchanted forests from lesser threats. But Princess Maeve, whose magic thrived on truth as much as growth, saw the rot beneath his words. She spurned him, her refusal as graceful as it was unyielding, and in that moment, Sergius’s mask slipped. If Lorathil’s magic could not be taken through deceit, it would be ripped from the land by force. Idruvia’s war machine descended like a black tide. Siege engines, fueled by dwarven-forged fire, reduced Lorathil’s border towns to smoldering ruins. Hellhound cavalry tore through the sacred groves, their howls drowning out the songs of the forest spirits. The very earth trembled under the weight of Idruvia’s legions—armored in steel that resisted magic, marching in lockstep through storms of arrows turned aside by sorcerous shields. Lorathil’s defenders fought with desperate brilliance: mages wove vines into living barricades, archers loosed arrows tipped with starlight, and the land itself seemed to rise up, roots snatching soldiers into the depths. But for every Idruvian cut down, three more took their place. The heart of Lorathil’s resistance lies in its people’s unity. Farmers become saboteurs, poisoning Idruvian supplies with hallucinogenic spores. Children whisper spells to misdirect scouts into bottomless bogs. Maeve herself moves through the warfront like a ghost, her magic mending wounds and striking with lethal precision—vines strangling officers in their tents, storms summoned to drown battalions. Yet even her cunning cannot stem the tide. Idruvia adapts, deploying alchemists to burn away the magic in the soil, turning lush groves to wastelands. Lorathil still stands, but its light dims with each passing battle. The forests weep. The rivers run red. And Sergius, watching from his iron throne, smiles. He does not need to conquer swiftly; starvation and despair will do his work for him. Unless a miracle strikes—unless Lorathil’s allies awaken, or its hidden powers stir—the kingdom will fall. And Maeve? Sergius has given new orders: *Take her alive.* The war began with her defiance. It will end with her kneeling.