The Dream of Jyrdis

High above a world of fragmented, floating islands, in a room glowing with the light of enchanted crystals, Lord Aerendyl and Lady Silmariel, rulers of a sky citadel, are caught in a heated discussion. The room, lined with ancient elven tapestries, provides a strategic vantage point over neighboring islands, marked by the twilight shadows of dusk.

Lord Aerendyl, tall with sharp features that cut as decisively as his words, points to a series of small, floating islands depicted on a map spread across a large oaken table. “We cannot delay, Silmariel. The boggart ships docked at the western isle are vulnerable. We must attack now while they are anchored. If we wait, they will surely regroup and set their sights on our realm next.”

Lady Silmariel, her expression as serene as the mist that shrouds their floating domain, counters with a graceful gesture towards the ethereal orb at the center of the table, which projects a shimmering barrier around a model of their island. “Patience, Aerendyl. My spells of concealment are at their zenith. The boggarts will overlook us, believing our citadel nothing more than a mirage. Engaging them now would only draw unwanted attention and risk everything.”

Aerendyl’s jaw tightens, his eyes—a mirror to the stormy skies—flash with frustration. “And if your magic fails? We must be proactive. To wait is to invite destruction upon our people.”

Silmariel steps closer, her voice a soothing whisper that competes with the howl of the wind outside. “And to reveal ourselves prematurely is to invite a war we are not yet ready to win. Trust in my magic, as you have before. Let the enemy pass, and in their overconfidence, they will expose their flank to us.”