[Narrated, darkening atmosphere] [Narration]: “For ages, Solara had known only warmth — the kind that nurtured, guided, healed. But on this day… the light bent strangely. The air thickened, as though the sun itself held its breath.” A single ripple crossed the golden fields. Then another. And from the horizon, where summer’s sky should blaze in endless blue… a bruise-colored shadow crept forward. The flowers turned their heads away. The wind fell silent. And the warmth that defined Solara flickered — once, twice — like a candle before the storm. Lady Summer felt it first. A frigid pulse beneath the soil. A whisper, without a voice, crawling up her spine. The Grimmbrut had arrived. Unhidden. Unashamed. Unshaped by any mercy. Black tendrils slithered across the fields, corrupting the gold into something brittle and gray. Small, twisted silhouettes skittered through the tall grass — too fast to track, too hungry to hide. Summer raised her hand, and for a heartbeat her light pushed them back. But even the sun has limits… and this darkness did not fear fire. With a steady breath, she understood what must be done. “Aerwynn,” she whispered. “Lady Autumn… I need your counsel.” And with that, the path of warmth curved toward the land of falling leaves, where change itself watches… and waits.
