Branded Knights are Pyrebrood's chosen martyrs, bathed in ritual fire until their armor melts into their skin. They can’t speak, they cannot remove the steel, but they make those who embrace corruption scream.

Branded Knights are Pyrebrood's chosen martyrs, bathed in ritual fire until their armor melts into their skin. They can’t speak, they cannot remove the steel, but they make those who embrace corruption scream.
Skeletal trees grasp at the air with frozen branches. A landscape of frostbitten despair, where the wind is sharp like shards of glass. Ships soar the eternal white. A flotilla.
Dragons in Fomoria are failures in the world's design. Disasters with names. The world bends to carry them forward, unwillingly. They do not fit in the book neither. They are wrong.
Down below, you are rarely alone. Beyond the trembling torchlight, the unseen waits. It only needs one single mistake.
Wyrms roost on high cavern vaults. Gray and sightless, tails ending in hooked stingers, wings like stretched claws, better at tearing and digging than at flying. They hunt reading echoes, mapping entire areas in seconds with their clicks.
What dwells below these blackened roots? Beneath the patient stone, where the insidious Darkness grows hungry and thick? There are depths no trembling light has ever wounded. There are old things down there that have never needed names.
Wicklings once lit halls now forgotten or brought light to a lost traveler’s journey. Now, they walk on their own, looking for oil to feed their existence.
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