Beyond the last dying forests and the edge of all known maps lies Nythera, a land where winter does not pass but reigns eternal. The winds there howl like ancient spirits, carving the ice into jagged cathedrals beneath which its people dwell—in caves of frozen crystal and huts bound with bone and frost-hardened timber. They are a hardened folk, shaped by blizzard and scarcity, their lives measured not in years but in storms survived. Across the endless white, their warriors ride great dire wolves, swift as the cutting gale, bound to them by loyalty forged in blood and survival.
