Long ago in Verathia, a single tribe ravaged by endless wars fled into the heart of an abandoned, isolated land. Rumors claimed that the place devoured all intruders—its forests whispered curses, and its waters froze on moonless nights. Desperate for refuge, the tribe’s leader ventured deeper until he found the spirit who ruled the land—the goddess Marzanna. He pleaded for mercy, promising loyalty in exchange for her blessing. Moved by his resolve, Marzanna granted them sanctuary beneath her eternal frost and offered her power to the tribe. She chose her vessels—the daughters to wield her ice, the sons her dark wrath, and one priest to bear both in harmony. From that covenant rose a hidden, independent city untouched by government rule. They called themselves the Children of Marzanna, and their city was named Marzan—a place where mortals and divine frost intertwined. But blessings never come without consequence. In time, the chosen Priestesses who lacked compatibility with the godd

The silence in Neil’s mind was heavy, too heavy. He stood in a place that stretched endlessly — a pitch-black plane, where rippling water covered the ground and each droplet echoed through the void like falling glass. The sound was all that existed here, the endless drip and wave, a rhythm that mocked life in a world already dead. Neil stood at the center of it all, still as stone, disbelief etched across his face. “Here again,” he sighed, voice low, carried away by the cold air. From the shadows ahead, the same eyes appeared — the ones he had seen in the forest. They floated in the dark, unblinking, ancient. For a few seconds they only stared at him. Then, without warning, they widened, and a violent wave burst forth. The impact struck Neil like lightning. His body jerked, glitching in and out of sight, and his knees buckled beneath him. He dropped to the watery surface, gasping, hands clamped over his ears as the wave ripped through his skull. The echoes began — the same voice