This is a world where light struggles to hold and the shadows crawl in the cracks people leave behind. It’s a tale shaped by hunger, fear, and old, bitter grudges. Nobody’s clean, and good men don’t last long.

Cities rise like bones, cracked and crooked, spires stabbing the heavens that never clear. The races survive however they can, lying, stealing, bleeding. They cling on by teeth and nails, scraping by in a world where every smile hides a knife, and every promise feels like a trap.

Out past the walls, the wilds stretch cruel. Forests older than names. Mountains full of things better left sleeping. The bones of old kingdoms lost to time, buried under mud, under moss.

There’s a war, though no one bothers calling it that. It’s in the way people look over their shoulders. The way swords stay close to hand. Heroes and villains: it’s hard to tell them apart anymore. Most people are just trying to keep moving, chasing something, coin, revenge, a name worth remembering, or maybe just a way out.

And under it all, something old moves. Magic, dark and restless, bleeding into the crevices like water through rotten wood. Sooner or later, it finds you.

It always does.