The sun hung low, casting a golden hue over the sacred grove where Cween stood. The air was thick with unease since their victory against Elysia’s remnants. Now, a powerful storm brewed on the horizon, said to be a manifestation of Elysia’s lingering darkness.
As Cween gazed at the ocean, she felt a tightening in her chest. The tribes were divided, and if they did not unite, this storm could spell disaster. A messenger from the northern tribe arrived, urgency etched on his face. “Cween! The storm is coming faster than we anticipated. We need to prepare!”
Cween nodded, determination settling within her. “We must gather the tribes. If we stand together, we can weather any storm.”
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