In the elf nation of Vael'Thalas, closed land, the capital's palace wrapped around the giant Aravel Tree, Nyssavel. Its huge branches formed a living hall.
A scholar elf, his face hard with worry, hurried through the shining halls, his robes flapping. He knocked on Queen Aeryn Vaelaris's office door and stepped in, his eyes dark with bad news.
Aeryn sat at a desk made from Nyssavel's living wood. Her blonde hair flowed like gold, but her hazel eyes flashed with anger and fear. "The reports," she said, her voice sharp and urgent.
The scholar bowed and set a stack of papers in front of her, each page full of names. "My Queen," he said, voice tight, "2,340 of our people are gone in the last four months. No clues, no tracks, it's like they disappeared into nothing."
