The calm that had settled over the stronghold after their return was deceptive, almost eerie in its quietness. The Guardians had successfully dealt a crushing blow to the Weavers, but in the back of Elara's mind, a dark unease lingered. The victory was hard-earned, yet something about the Weavers' sudden retreat felt unfinished, as though this battle was merely the prologue to something far worse.
Elara sat at the long wooden table in the war room, staring at the map of their territory spread out before her. Morgana was beside her, hands still shaking slightly as she traced lines of ley energy across the map, murmuring to herself as she tried to pinpoint new disturbances. Lyra and Henry were across the room, discussing strategies for bolstering their defenses, while Doran sharpened his axe in rhythmic strokes by the fire.
"Something doesn't add up," Elara muttered, rubbing her temples. "They were so close to completing the ritual. Why pull back when they had us on the ropes?"
