That child must die

While news of the calamity in the Central Region remained tightly stifled—contained by the iron grip and sweeping censorship of the Goldenfyre.

Only faint, scattered rumors managed to drift beyond the reach of their suppressive web.

The decimation of entire mountain ranges and the staggering heaps of piled corpses were reduced to whispers, hushed myths traded in secret by those too afraid to speak them aloud.

Far from the silenced battlefields, deep within the Northern Continent, an entirely different world existed.

Here, the land was dominated by a desolate, endless mountain range locked in perpetual frost.

Massive spires of ancient ice pierced the grey sky, shrouded continuously in an intense, blinding mist that tasted of sharp, biting frost.

Jagged icicles, as large and deadly as war lances, hung suspended from towering cliffs, groaning under the weight of howling, sub-zero gales that swept across the frozen wasteland.