Eastward gleamed Ithesa, the shimmering capital of the High Elves—an impossible city sculpted from moonlight and marble, her golden spires piercing the skies like spears forged by the gods themselves. Delicate bridges arched between crystal towers. Fountains poured pure magic into silver basins that never overflowed. Trees with leaves of pearl and gold stood sentinel along the promenade, their branches whispering songs older than memory.
It was said that once you stepped foot into Ithesa, you would never wish to leave—not because of wonder, but because of a curse, woven delicately into the very stone beneath your feet. An enchantment. A trap. A command. One cast centuries ago by Queen Vaerilith, High Lady of the Elves, to keep their secrets locked behind beauty and illusion. To keep outsi
