The wind at the Frostfang Peaks did not merely blow. It screamed. It carried the bite of eternal winter, a cold so profound it sought to freeze the blood in the veins of anyone foolish enough to stand exposed. Here, at the edge of the known world, the barrier erected by House Stark was the only thing separating civilization from the encroaching void.
Erion Stark stood at the center of the ritual circle, his knees buckling under the weight of the mana he was channeling. The barrier above him shimmered like a wounded beast, translucent white light flickering violently as shadowy claws raked against its surface. Thousands of Hollows pressed against the dome, their formless bodies writhing in anticipation. They did not speak. They did not roar. They simply existed as holes in the world, draining the warmth from the air around them.
