The Ursine Vigil of Hollowtower

Seldom had the ancient oak of Hollowtower groaned so ominously as it did on that moonless night, its colossal boughs cradling a treehouse of impossible proportions. Within this arboreal fortress, the bear known as Old Bramble paced the creaking planks, his heavy paws stirring the dust of centuries. It was not the wind that troubled him, but the silence—a thick, unnatural pall that had descended upon the kingdom of Verdania like a shroud. For the first time in his long memory, the forest's heartbeat had stilled, and he knew the Blight had finally come.

No messenger had arrived, for none could pass the thorn-choked borders; yet the bear understood his duty with an ancient bone-knowledge. Verdania's fate rested upon his broad shoulders, and the Royal Council's last decree had been etched upon his memory: only the Bear of Hollowtower could wield the Sunstone. So he donned the ceremonial helm, ill-fitting and garish, and clutched the glowing orb in his untutored claws. Little did he know that this borrowed regalia would become the very instrument of his undoing.