From the mist-shrouded peaks of the Dragon's Spine to the churning, grey waters of the Serpent's Strait, the Kingdom of Westerol breathes a sigh of weariness, a land exhaling its last warmth before a long and bitter winter. But this chill is not born of season; it is born of a fear that seeps from the very soil, a miasma of despair that blights the crops and haunts the dreams of every soul from the highest lord in his stone keep to the lowliest swineherd in his muddy pen.
For generations, the Blackstone Mountains have stood as a silent, immutable border, a jagged wall separating the realm of men from the desolate wastes of the Abyssal Plains. They were a natural fortification, their passes guarded by mighty citadels like the adamantine Sentinel and the ever-vigilant Watch of the Dawn. For centuries, these fortresses held. The skirmishes with the creatures that crawled from the wastes were brutal but manageable—a fact of life, like storms or drought.
That time is now a faded memory, a story told to children who find it harder and harder to believe.
The demons are no longer merely skirmishing. They are conquering. A tide of claw and shadow and unholy flame washes against the mountains, and one by one, the great keeps are falling. The Sentinel lies in ruins, its black stones scattered by some unspeakable force. The Watch of the Dawn is silent, its beacon extinguished, its halls dark. The demons, once disorganized and wild, now move with a terrifying purpose, as if guided by a single, malevolent will.
And as the external threat grows, the internal fabric of Westerol unravels. The crown, once respected and feared, now seems a hollow institution. King Alaric, called "the Steadfast," is aged before his time, his resolve crumbling under the weight of endless bad tidings. His court in the capital of Silvermere is a nest of vipers, where ambitious lords and ladies whisper of succession, of alliances, and of seizing power from a weakening throne.
Clans , they pay their taxes with reluctance and send their levies with delay, testing the limits of the king's authority, each maneuvering to position themselves as the dominant power in the new order they see dawning from the chaos. They bicker over borders and titles while the true enemy pounds at the very gates of the kingdom.
Westerol stands on a precipice, caught between the hammer of a demonic invasion and the anvil of its own internal decay. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and ozone, the sound of distant alarm bells is a constant dirge on the wind, and in the shadows, ancient things stir, sensing that the age of man may be coming to a violent and bloody end.
This is a story of that end… or perhaps, of a desperate, flickering hope against the overwhelming darkness. It is a story of forgotten heroes, of flawed leaders, of betrayal in the night, and of courage found in the most unlikely of places.