Ranevia.
A northern territory in name alone—more a scar on the map than a functioning province. The air felt like it bore witness to war. The winds were cruel, thick with frost and bitter resentment, gnawing at skin like unseen teeth. Even the sun, when it managed to break through the oppressive grey clouds, looked tired.
The land was untamed. Jagged hills and crooked forests framed a territory that had long since rejected kings and laws. The earth was frozen, cracked and infertile. No crops grew. No noble estates remained. All things dignified had withered or been driven out long ago.
It wasn't just the manabeasts—though those alone would be enough to choke any honest settlement. It was the people.
They called them the north rebels, or less kindly, the rot.
