While things were taking a strange turn in Cannes, far away in the realm of the demons, an even stranger situation was taking place. In the mountain forest to the south in the territory of the harpies, an unexpected situation developed.
The night breeze used to be a balm for Ayla, caressing her feathers as she slept in the tallest tree in her home. The canopies of the poplars surrounding her nest formed a natural barrier against the cold and danger.
The chirping of crickets and the hooting of owls were the music of her childhood, and although her mother insisted that she never stray far from the clan, Ayla had always felt that the world down there was calling to her with a seductive whisper.
But that night, the whisper turned to screams. Ayla woke with a start when a rumble split the air. She opened her large amber eyes, still sleepy, only to see flames rippling between the trees. Smoke rose in thick columns, mixing with the smell of burning flesh and incinerated wood.
