The treehomes were burning.

Lor’Tara Ris-Rehari could smell the smoke even before she saw the flames. She heard the crackling of burning wood and the falling of weakening trees before she felt the heat on her skin. Gléransar was on fire. And from the looks of things, it had been on fire for some time.

But still she denied what her senses told her. If there was fire, then surely it must be a small one. Surely Gléransar, her home, the home of her clan, was not burning. That was what she told herself, what she assured herself, but when she at last beheld the village through the trees, Lor’Tara was forced to face the simple truth: her home was on fire.

For a moment, all she could do was stand there and stare dumbly. Lor’Tara had been out in the woodlands for only two days, hunting game for the village. The elves of Gléransar had never held with the vegetarian restrictions of the All-Branches as most of the elven nations of Azara did, and hunters such as she were revered in their tradition.

It was not uncommon for Lor’Tara to be gone from Gléransar for many days at a time, but always she would return with fresh meat slung across her back. She had no reason to believe that today would be any different, walking through the woodlands as she was with a small deer and a pair of rabbits hanging across her shoulders. She was a young, hardy, and strong elf woman, with pale-green hair tied back in a series of intricate braids. Her skin was the dusky bronze of one who spent much time in the sun, and her muscles were well-defined and tough in her limbs and stomach and back.

She carried her game tirelessly, pausing only on occasion to readjust the bodies’ in relation to her bow and quiver of arrows. As she walked, the vines and roots of the forest moved from her path, compelled as they were by the field of Plant Magic that the elf was projecting.

Lor’Tara had expected to be back in Gléransar by noon, or at least just a bit past. She expected to spend the rest of the day dressing her kills with Hiln’Yris and Osharni. She did not expect to smell the smoke, to feel the fearful stillness of a forest where animals had fled, to pick up the distant and acrid odor of charred flesh.

The game fell to the dirt behind her, and Lor’Tara burst into a desperate sprint.

Even as she ran toward the burning village, she did not quite believe that it was real. This had to be some sort of trick; an illusion or hallucination. Perhaps she was having a nightmare. Gléransar had to be fine—it just had to be.

There was no way the entire village could be on fire. Surely it was but a small blaze, already being dealt with by the wardens.

But all around her there was silence, save for the steady roar of the flames. She heard no shouts, no cries. And when she burst from the thicket and stood on the edge of Gléransar, her very worst fears were confirmed.

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The village of Gléransar had been built across a great river basin running through the mighty forest of Yls. Trees easily thrice the size of those of the surrounding woodlands stood tall and proud over the water, their branches curved and twisting, connecting with one another with their flattened tops that served as roads and pathways. The treehomes that filled the branches were not the products of construction, but rather of growth. They were composed of smaller branches and toughened vines, all twisted together to form sturdy domes that served as the homes and buildings of the elves.

And all of it—all of it!—was ablaze.

Lor’Tara stared. Her mouth hung open. She tried and she failed to wrap her mind around the awful scene playing out before her stunned eyes. A branch, a road, a line of homes, broke off from the rest of its tree and went plummeting down into the river below, flames eating away at every inch of its surface. The roaring crack of the collapse echoed through the forest—a terrible and sudden thunderclap that sent shudders through Lor’Tara’s bones.

So taken in by the sight of her dying home was she, that at first she failed to notice the lone figure crawling out of the flames. Distantly, her sharp ears picked up their wheezing cough, and Lor’Tara tore her gaze from the burning village and beheld before her an elf with skin blackened and cracked, what clothes they had once worn either burned away or melted to their flesh. The elf crawled across the dirt toward her, even as pus and blood oozed from their shattered skin.

“Lora…” the elf whispered, voice raspy and pained. Lor’Tara went and knelt beside them. So badly burned were they that she could not recognize their features.

“It was fire,” the dying elf gasped. Lor’Tara wanted to reach out to them, to cradle them, to provide some small measure of comfort in their dying moments, but she did not know if she could do that without simply causing even more pain with her touch. “Fire in the sky, angry and vengeful… burning wings and a burning blade… It broke us. It never spoke. Broke…” The elf coughed, wheezed. “Went Eastward… such wrath… such power… by the Twins…”

With that, the elf went still.

Lor’Tara stared down at the corpse, at this elf who had called her “Lora.” It was a nickname. They had recognized her, had known her, and yet they had been so badly deformed by the flames that Lor’Tara could not even begin to guess at their identity.

With a start, she realized that she was crying. Her vision was blurred, and tears, warm and wet, were running down her face. She shook, sobbed, pulled a handkerchief from her belt and blew her nose on it.

There were no other signs of life. There was only the flame and the smoke and the falling of the treehomes and branches. Lor’Tara alone was alive, sobbing beside the charred corpse of someone she had known once but did not know now.

Gléransar was no more.

Steeling herself, Lor’Tara turned her gaze Eastward, toward where this monster of flame that had destroyed her home had fled. Her fists clenched at her sides. Rage filled her.

I swear, she silently promised her lost people. I swear that I will find it. I swear I will kill it. You shall be avenged. I swear it!