Soleo Fortress
Deep within its fortified walls, Azrazel, the planet's highest-ranking elven commander, lay motionless upon a gilded bed. His once-proud, radiant form was now reduced to an ashen, pallid state. The air around him was heavy with the scent of potent herbs and magic-infused remedies, all futile in the face of the relentless, icy poison coursing through his veins.
For days, Azrazel had waged a desperate battle—not against an enemy he could see but against the aftermath of a brutal sneak attack by the human Alliance's infamous ghost blade units. Their precision strike had left him grievously wounded, his soul locked in an unending struggle to fend off the invasive cold energy that had intertwined with his essence.
His breaths had faltered days ago, leaving his body devoid of life's rhythm. Yet, his indomitable will refused to yield. His form remained, not as a vessel of vitality, but as a last battleground for his soul.
