FROSTBARROW SANCTUM

In a silent, snow-laden forest where the wind whispers through frozen pines, the Frostbarrow Sanctum rests half-buried in ice and memory. Scattered cairns of stone mark the graves of long-dead warriors, their resting places tended by a solitary hermit who keeps vigil over the spirits of his ancestors. Smoke curls faintly from the chimney of his modest cabin — the only warmth in a landscape of cold white silence.

But not all that sleeps beneath the snow rests peacefully.

Near the edge of a ravine, a cave yawns open like a wound in the earth, its timbers old and splintered, its depths marked with blood. The air grows colder still inside, and whispers echo faintly — voices of the dead, or something older, hungry, and resentful.

The Frostbarrow Sanctum is a place of reverence and unease. The spirits that linger here remember the ancient oaths of their kin — and they do not forgive those who break them.

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