Nébula approached a bud covered in a thin layer of frost. She plucked it delicately, but suddenly, the petals began to unfold one by one, revealing a fragile, delicate rose. At the heart of the flower lay a sleeping fairy. Her skin was pale, her cheeks faintly rosy as if brushed by the cold, and her hair was white as snow.

The entire forest seemed to hold its breath, expecting her to awaken. But when the first snowflake fell on her body, no shiver ran through her. A second flake drifted gently down and landed on her still form, but the fairy didn't stir, as though her sleep was so deep that nothing could rouse her.

The mythical creatures of the forest, slowly emerging from their own slumber, gathered around Nébula and the rose. Worry clouded their eyes. Usually, the Snow Fairy would awaken at the first snowflake, catch the second, and summon the first snowfall to drape the forest in a soft, white blanket.

But this time, no other snowflake followed. Before their eyes, the rose began to wither. The tender pink of its petals turned to gray, and one by one, they fell to the ground, carried off by a gust of wind that scattered their remains across the still-cool soil of autumn.

An elf from the Eastern Lands hurried forward to catch the young fairy as she slipped from her flower, still unconscious. Nébula's gaze darkened, lost in an impenetrable void. Her fingers trembled, and her eyes darted frantically around her, seeking help. She didn't understand what was happening.

A goblin stepped closer, offering a small measure of comfort, and asked in a trembling voice:
— Is she... dead?

Nébula had no answer. But if she were, she knew the entire forest and its inhabitants would be doomed to perish.

The moon's light, usually soft and silver, suddenly turned violet, casting an ominous glow across the forest. The creatures, stricken with terror, huddled together, hiding behind trees, burrowing into their dens, or squeezing beneath rocks. Only Nébula stood firm, facing what was now taking shape before her.

The moon's glow grew so intense that it became impossible to keep her eyes open. When Nébula finally reopened them, a pale, spectral figure of a woman stood before her.

Keeping her composure, Nébula raised her chin. She didn't move as the woman slowly advanced. As the protector of the forest, it was her duty to confront any who sought to harm her land and its inhabitants.

The woman whispered words that Nébula couldn't understand, but her tone left no doubt about her malicious intent. She extended a crystal sphere toward Nébula, and within it, a vision began to form.

The forest appeared dark and ravaged. The trees, their branches bent as though by exhaustion, seemed to weep. The animals, tormented by an oppressive heat and thirsting in the heart of winter, were dying. The elves fell ill one by one, with no hope of recovery. Torrents of mud swept through the trees, destroying villages and carrying away everything in their path. Acid rain scorched the soil, while the sun's once-gentle rays burned the flowers and the earth.

This oppressive vision sent a shiver through Nébula, a wave of unease and despair crashing over her.