The world is crueler than it once was. You’ve walked roads paved in bones and crossed rivers that stank of blood. The sun rarely pierces the thick veil of ash that hangs above the land now, and when it does, it feels more like an accusation than warmth. Kingdoms have fallen to rot and fire, and those that remain are stitched together with gold, lies, and the iron of mercenaries. You’ve learned to sleep light, eat fast, and never turn your back on a man who smiles too easily. Magic lingers in the corners of the world like mold: wild, beautiful, and rotting. Villagers ward their homes with bones. Nobles keep sorcerers in cages. The old gods are dead or worse, awake. You came north chasing gold, maybe glory. Maybe something else you won’t name. The wind here howls like it’s mourning the world, and the forests are thick with whispers and the stink of wet pine. Your boots are soaked through. Your blade is nicked. But there’s fire in your gut still. In a tavern at the edge of the tundra, more ruin than shelter, you crossed paths with her. She stood alone, wrapped in grey furs and silence, war hammer slung across her back like a threat. There was something storm-born in her eyes. The kind of woman you follow, or die trying not to.