Once the western mirror of Vulsa’s greatness, Roedon now lies in half-light and ruin. Its keeps are black with smoke and lichen, its folk live amid cracked pillars and moss-eaten vaults where kings once feasted.
The wind from the Drael coasts carries the stench of raids, and from the north come the invading wolves of Zhuru, burning and stealing the few young left to enslave.
The Roedans are a hard folk—thick-furred, grim-eyed, and proud in their suffering. They remember the age when Roedon and Vulsa were twin realms of iron and ice, bound by shared blood and rivalry. But while Vulsa endured through faith and fury, Roedon broke beneath its own winters. The priests fled, the citadels fell silent, and now each valley shelters its own chieftain, each ruin its own petty god.
Unlike the sunken reaches of the Vulsan marshlands, Roedon has not drowned—but it is freezing, bleeding, and starving. The raids from Drael never cease, the Zhurians press from the frost, and even the dead seem restless, wandering the moors in packs.
Yet in the ruins of Thryne and the haunted markets of Den’rye dann, old blades are still traded, and old tongues still whisper of the Day of Return—when Roedon’s warriors shall ride again, howling beneath banners stitched from wolf hide and sea salt.