Cold air bites at you the moment you cross the threshold, unnatural and wrong, as though the grave itself resents the living. Along the eastern wall stands a row of six stone doors, each carved with the image of a woman saluting with sword and shield — Iomedae, keeping vigil over the Harnaste dead. In three corners, statues of the same figure stand watch, silent and unyielding. Yet the crypts beyond the doors lie empty.

Where the honored dead of a crusader house should rest in peace, there is only violation: the bodies stolen away piece by piece by demons who slipped past locked stone as easily as shadow, carting the remains off for foul purpose. The defilement lingers in the very air, and something still lurks among these desecrated vaults — drawn here, hateful, and waiting. This is a place that cries out to be set right. To cleanse it is to restore honor to the fallen, to answer sacrilege with courage, and to prove that even here, in the cold heart of the Worldwound, the light of the just has not been extinguished.