The ancient scroll crackled in Elara’s trembling hands, its parchment brittle as autumn leaves. Scrawled across its surface, in inks long faded but still potent, were the arcane pronouncements of a forgotten era. It spoke of the Weeping Wastes, a land blighted by the Shadowfell’s touch, and the creeping rot that threatened to consume even the resilient stones of the Obsidian Citadel.

The passage before her, stained with what looked like dried dragon’s blood, detailed a ritual, a perilous gambit to cleanse the land of its unholy taint. It described the need for a heart forged of starlight, the sacrifice of a song unsung, and the binding words whispered only in the tongue of the Sylvani, the long-vanished forest folk.

Elara traced the glyphs with a calloused finger, each one a spark of dormant power that threatened to ignite within her. The scroll warned, however, of the terrible price. To wield this magic was to dance on the edge of oblivion, to gamble with forces beyond mortal comprehension. Failure meant not just death, but the unleashing of an even greater darkness upon the already suffering world. Yet, with the Citadel’s light flickering and hope dwindling faster than morning dew, Elara knew she had no choice. The fate of the realm rested upon the fragile words etched within this ancient testament.