In a forgotten corner of the Duskwight Lands lay the territory of a minor, insignificant tribe. Their only settlement—closer to a haphazard sprawl of gray earth huts and weather-beaten tents—didn't even have a name carved at its entrance. Just axe-hewn stakes, totems draped in animal skulls and bone charms, and spectral violet flames burning without wood at the center of a dusty square.
This was a far cry from the Lustra Plains, with their immaculate white ramparts and grandiose architecture. Even further from their atmosphere of prosperity, civilization, and cultural refinement.
Here, in the Duskwight Lands, everything was harsher. Drier. More primitive.
Normally, this region wasn't exactly a tourist hotspot. But the slaughter currently unfolding within it turned the place into something far worse—somewhere you ran from and never looked back.
