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Suddenly, the forest went silent. The birds stopped mid-chirp. From the darkness, a figure emerged—tall, skeletal, and draped in tattered black silks. The Lich. He didn't speak; he didn't need to. The ground beneath Elora’s feet began to wither, the grass turning to ash in a perfect circle around the dark sorcerer.

"He's coming for us," Elora whispered, her voice cracking. "I can feel him in the air." Suddenly, the forest went silent

The mist over the Wildwood didn’t just sit; it breathed. It clung to the boots of the ragtag fellowship like a physical weight, smelling of damp earth and something older—something rotting. The Lich

A blinding white light erupted from her palms. It wasn't a bolt of fire, but a wave of pure, stubborn life. Where it touched the Lich’s shadow, the darkness dissolved like ink in water. The Lich let out a hollow, metallic shriek before vanishing back into the depths of the forest. "He's coming for us," Elora whispered, her voice cracking

"Magic isn't a sword, Elora," Willow said, his eyes scanning the treeline. "You don't just swing it. You have to want the world to change. You have to command the air to be fire, the earth to be a shield."