In the elven kingdom, seven elves with platinum hair stood around a body in a heavily lit room where roots crawled along the white walls, pulsing with pure, radiant life energy.
"Are you sure the elders approved of this, Andor?" One elf asked, his green eyes gleaming as they lingered on the body.
Andor straightened her green robe, her expression unreadable. "Yes, Sylwen. We were given three days to prepare accordingly." Her eyes narrowed. "Don't tell me you're having cold feet now."
Sylwen brushed a strand of silver hair behind his pointed ear, his voice lofty. "Cold feet? Hardly. I merely want to ensure that whatever happens here—whether success or disaster—will not be laid at our feet alone."
The others nodded quietly.
Andor's jaw tightened. "Enough talk. You've been speaking as if failure is certain ever since you heard of it."
