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Eira Frostwarden stood alone atop the jagged cliffs of the Northern Wastes, her ice-forged armor glinting under the fractured light of a dying sun. The wind howled like a chorus of forgotten spirits, carrying whispers of a world unraveling at its edges. Below, the Frostbound stirred—ancient entities encased in glaciers now cracking under the weight of a celestial imbalance. Their awakening would drown the realms in eternal winter, a fate she’d sworn to prevent when she carved her oath into the Heartstone centuries ago. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, its blade forged from the first frost, as memories surfaced of the day the Frostwardens fell. Betrayed by the cult they’d vowed to eradicate, her order had been reduced to ash and echoes, leaving her the last bearer of their fractured legacy. Now, rumors whispered of the cult’s resurgence, their shadow creeping toward the bastion of Vostra—the final stronghold resisting the ice’s encroachment. Eira’s mission was clear: reach Vostra before the Frostbound broke free, rally its scattered defenders, and sever the cult’s tether to the primordial cold. But the wastes were treacherous, a labyrinth of shifting ice and prowling beasts shaped from starlight and malice. Even her bond with Nirak, the frostwolf whose silver fur bore scars from a hundred battles, offered little solace. Every step north deepened the cold gnawing at her core, a reminder that the dagger’s power came at a cost—each use splintered her humanity, inching her closer to becoming the very thing she hunted. Yet turning back meant surrendering the world to a storm without end. She gazed at the horizon, where auroras clashed like blades, and stepped forward. The ice groaned beneath her boots. Somewhere beyond the storm, Vostra waited. And so did answers—about the cult, the Frostbound, and the pact her order had buried. But time bled faster than wounds, and the glaciers wept with the voices of what lay trapped within. Failure would mean more than death; it would unmake the fragile balance holding existence together. The Frostwarden’s path was written in frost and fire. She intended to etch its end.
description
The air crackles with untamed magic as you step into the overgrown ruins. Moss-cloaked stone arches loom above, their surfaces etched with bestial symbols that shimmer faintly beneath centuries of grime. Your fingers brush against the weathered cards in your satchel—each one thrums with dormant power, imprinted with creatures both familiar and fantastical. To awaken their strength, you must find *pairs*—two wolves howling beneath the same moon, twin serpents coiled in mirrored spirals. Only matched sets channel enough primal energy to shatter the spectral barriers blocking your path. Whispers swirl through the ruins—the click of insectoid legs, the rasp of scaled wings. Time bends oddly here; hesitate too long between matches, and the shadows themselves twist into half-formed beasts. One misstep could leave you trapped between realms, your essence unraveling into the eternal storm of wild magic. Trust your instincts. The cards react to intent, not logic. When twin energies align, you’ll feel it in your bones—a resonance older than the stones beneath your boots.
