The silver branches of the Moonspire Tree trembled as Lyara pressed her palm against its bark. The sigils carved into her skin burned bright, drawing magic from the tree’s heart. Beneath her, the roots pulsed, twisting, seeking the stolen Crown of Dawns. Without it, her kingdom would fall into shadow.
A pulse of magic. A vision. The thief—a sorcerer cloaked in embers—stood atop the Black Cliffs. Lyara exhaled and poured her will into the tree. The roots surged forward, tearing through rock and soil, reaching toward the cliffs.
The sorcerer turned as the roots coiled around him. He laughed, raising the golden crown high, sending a wave of fire racing toward Lyara. She gritted her teeth and clutched the Moonspire, channeling its essence. Silver light exploded from her hands, extinguishing the flames.
With a final cry, the roots tightened, and the sorcerer fell, the crown tumbling into Lyara’s grasp. As the Moonspire’s magic faded, dawn broke over the land, and her kingdom was safe once more.
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