Far away, across the continent of Erytheia, beyond the reach of the warm southern seas and the trade routes of civilized kingdoms, lay the only region of the far north—the Northern Waste. A brutal land of endless winter where snow buried entire ruins, where the corpses of dead gods slept beneath glaciers, and where only the stubborn, the monstrous, or the damned could survive.
The Northern Waste stretched across the polar reaches beyond the maritime lanes of eastern and western Erytheia. It was a continent of frozen blackwood forests, jagged glacier ranges, shattered divine citadels, and ancient aether scars left behind by forgotten wars between gods and monsters. Entire valleys still glowed faintly at night with pale blue fractures in reality, remnants of divine calamities that had never fully healed.
Within the northernmost nation of the waste was the Boreal Dominion- a nation that stretched across the polar reaches of northern Erytheia, where the sun vanished for months beneath black storms and pale auroras illuminated the frozen horizon. Massive glacier ranges split the continent like the scars of ancient titans. Forests of petrified black cedar stood motionless beneath endless snowfall. Entire valleys remained warped by dead aether zones left behind from divine wars fought long before recorded history.
The land was ancient. Older than most civilizations. Older, some claimed, than the southern empires themselves. Ruined temples dedicated to forgotten gods slumbered beneath the ice, their marble pillars cracked and buried beneath glaciers that had grown over them for millennia. Colossal divine skeletons rested beneath frozen mountains and shattered coastlines—remnants of celestial beings slain during the Age of Ruin, after the god's withdrawal. Even now, their lingering essence poisoned the surrounding lands with unstable mystery and fractured reality.
In the north, the world itself still carried the wounds of the gods.
Unlike the republics, leagues, and imperial provinces of southern Erytheia, the Boreal Dominion was not ruled by a singular emperor. Instead, it was governed through the Boreal Compact, an ancient covenant between the great citadel-houses, frontier dominions, and military bloodline dynasties that endured the polar wastes together.
Each territory maintained its own armies, traditions, and sacred rites, but all ultimately swore fealty to the Cryos Throne—the ancient seat of authority located within the glacial capital of Kryotheon. Kryotheon itself was considered one of the oldest surviving cities in Erytheia.
Built directly atop the petrified corpse of a fallen titan, the city rose from the ice like a monument to humanity's refusal to perish. Towering marble bastions reinforced with bronze and black iron overlooked endless frozen plains. Aqueducts frozen solid stretched between fortress districts. Vast temple-fortresses and military academies dominated the upper terraces, while beneath the city lay ancient catacombs that descended deep into the titan's remains.
The people of the Boreal Dominion were shaped by the cruelty of their homeland. Children learned discipline before language and warfare before philosophy. Survival in the north demanded strength, endurance, and absolute unity. Every citizen, whether noble or commoner, was expected to serve the Dominion in some capacity—through military service, frontier labor, scholarship, or temple duty. Its armies were among the most feared in Erytheia.
Fur-lined legionaries marched across blizzards with tower shields and frost-forged spears. Polar cavalry rode massive tusked beasts across glacier plains. Mystery wielders known as Cryotheans manipulated frost-touched aether drawn from the dead scars of fallen gods, wielding powers considered dangerous even by southern standards.
Yet despite the horrors of the polar frontier, the Boreal Dominion endured. The people of the Waste were as harsh as the land that birthed them. Northern warriors hunted frost wyrms across frozen seas. Children learned to wield axes before they could read. Entire clans migrated atop colossal glacier beasts, carrying mobile fortresses on their backs. Mystery wielders in the north were feared even among their own people, for northern mysteries were deeply tied to primordial things buried beneath the ice—starving gods, forgotten spirits, and ancient forces older than civilization itself.
The Boreal Dominion did not worship the gods with the same reverence as seen in the south. The South saw divinity as glorious even with the gods gone, but the North did not. In the north, the world itself still carried the wounds of the gods, so they knew even gods could bleed.
To the southern empires, the Boreal Dominion was viewed with unease—a harsh and militaristic realm standing at the edge of the known world. Trade with the north was limited. Expeditions into its interior rarely returned. Scholars spoke of entire regions where reality itself froze and where ancient monsters still wandered the ruins of divine battlefields. Many southern scholars believed the Northern Waste should not even be habitable.
To the people of Erytheia, the Waste was viewed with equal parts fear and fascination. Southerners spoke of it as a cursed frontier where monsters roamed freely, and ancient evils slumbered beneath the glaciers. Merchants rarely sailed its waters. Priests claimed the land stood too close to the realm of dead gods. Even imperial armies avoided prolonged campaigns there, for winter itself seemed to wage war against invaders.
To fully enter the Boreal Dominion, one first had to pass through the Titan Grave Roads—a vast fortified corridor carved through the Ashen Field and the Outer Wastes of Titania.
The roads stretched for hundreds of miles across dead frostlands and shattered divine battlefields, guarded by fortress-watchtowers, ancient wall bastions, and heavily armed frontier garrisons. It was the only stable route leading into the northern reaches of Erytheia, for beyond the roads lay regions where reality itself had long since collapsed beneath the lingering scars of dead gods and titanic warfare.
The Outer Wastes of Titania were considered lawless even by northern standards.
Neither the southern nations nor the Boreal Dominion truly ruled the region. Instead, it had become a refuge for those rejected by civilization—exiled nobles, disgraced legionaries, mercenary bands, rogue mystery wielders, escaped prisoners, heretics, and war survivors who carved out brutal lives amidst the frozen ruins.
Fortress settlements clung to cliffsides and glacier valleys like parasites upon the wasteland. Raider kingdoms rose and fell within months. Cults devoted to dead titans and forgotten divinities prowled the ruins beneath the storms. Survival there demanded either overwhelming strength or utter madness.
Many claimed life in the Outer Wastes was even crueler than life within the Boreal Dominion itself.
And beyond the Outer Wastes, deeper still into the Ashen Field, stood the Boreal Dominion upon the far northern edge of the continent—a civilization isolated behind storms, death, and ancient ruin.
It was there that Anastomus appeared.
Within the howling wasteland, ash storms collided with polar blizzards beneath a sky split by frozen lightning. Black snow swept endlessly across the dead land, carried by violent winds that screamed through the shattered remains of colossal ruins buried beneath the ice.
Then the ground moved.
A pale hand clawed its way through the frozen earth.
Anastomus dragged himself from beneath the wasteland like a corpse refusing death itself. Dirt, ash, and frozen blood clung to his body as he struggled against the icebound soil imprisoning him. Every movement felt heavy, unnatural, as though the world itself resisted his return.
The former mercenary of the Blue Orca Company forced himself upward inch by inch until he finally broke free from the frozen grave. For several moments, he remained there on his hands and knees beneath the storm.
Then he inhaled.
His first breath since death. Anastomus was not even certain he had truly died. His memories came in fragments—broken flashes swallowed by darkness and pain. He remembered cutting through a swarm of Daimon shades that had descended upon him within the wasteland, their distorted forms shrieking as they tried to feed upon his flesh, his mystery, his very soul. He had slaughtered dozens of them.
But there had been too many.
They had drowned him beneath sheer numbers, dragging him down into darkness like starving beasts pulling prey into the depths of the sea. Clawed hands had torn into his body. Cold mouths had fed upon his lifeforce. He remembered sinking deeper and deeper into something that had felt far worse than death.
The pits of Hell.
And amidst those fading memories, the last face he recalled seeing was his.
The Ashborn.
For a brief moment, emotion surged violently through Anastomus' mind.
Anger.
Envy.
Hatred.
Spite.
A storm of feelings so intense that it almost frightened him. More emotion than he had felt in years. Perhaps in his entire life.
Why?
Why had they both been born Curseborn, yet become such different beings?
Why had fate chosen the Ashborn while leaving him to rot beneath monsters and ash?
The emotions vanished almost as quickly as they came, swallowed once more by the familiar numbness hollowing out his thoughts. Cold emptiness settled over him again like winter frost.
Yet the question remained. He and the Ashborn were both Curseborn. So why had the Daimons hungered for him alone? Why had they dragged him into the darkness...while the Ashborn walked untouched among them?
"Because the Ashborn was never our true target."
The voice emerged from the darkness around him, low and ancient, carrying a cold amusement that sent unease crawling through Anastomus' body.
His gaze shifted downward.
His shadow was moving.
The black silhouette beneath his feet twisted unnaturally across the frozen ground before splitting open like liquid darkness. From within it, a sickle slowly began to emerge, its curved blade radiating a sickly pale glow that warped the air around it. Frost cracked and blackened wherever its light touched, as though reality itself recoiled from its presence.
And from the weapon, Anastomus felt it.
That presence.
Ancient.
Familiar.
Wrong.
It was a presence he had encountered not long ago, one that had lingered at the edge of his thoughts ever since the battle within the Ashen Field.
"It's you," Anastomus muttered, his voice rough from cold and death. "So you're here with me."
"I have always been with you," the voice replied.
Anastomus slowly rose to his feet. His body ached with unnatural heaviness, his muscles stiff from the frozen earth that had entombed him, yet the moment his hand wrapped around the sickle's handle, warmth surged through his body like dark blood returning to dead veins.
Strength returned.
Not fully.
But enough.
He pulled the weapon free from the shadow completely, and the surrounding storm seemed to howl louder in response.
His senses sharpened immediately afterward. The numb haze clouding his mind began to clear as he scanned his surroundings through the blizzard.
Endless black snow.
Ash-filled winds.
Frozen lightning crackling across distant storm clouds.
At first glance, it resembled the Ashen Field of the Iron March Province within Imperium Arkanis.
But this was different.
The storms were colder.
Heavier.
Older.
Anastomus narrowed his eyes as recognition slowly dawned on him.
He knew this region.
This was not the southern Ashen Field.
This was the Frostburn Frontier—the northern expanse of the Ashen Field that bordered the Boreal Dominion and the Outer Wastes of Titania. A cursed frontier where blizzards mixed with ash storms and the dead remnants of ancient wars still poisoned the land.
One of the most dangerous regions in all of Erytheia.
And somehow...
He had been reborn there.
What a cruel twist of irony.
Anastomus could almost appreciate it.
Almost.
With a flicker of thought, he dismissed the sickle relic back into his shadow before continuing forward through the storm, searching for shelter amidst the frozen wasteland. The Frostburn Frontier was not a place where one survived by standing still.
Even for a Curseborn.
His kind possessed resistance to corruption, decay, and the poisonous influence of the Ashen Field, but resistance was not immunity. Prolonged exposure to the wasteland slowly eroded the body and mind alike, and the corruption within the Frostburn Frontier was far denser than the southern regions near the Imperium.
The north felt older.
More malignant.
As though the land itself remembered the deaths of gods.
Anastomus wandered through the blizzard for what felt like an eternity. Time had become meaningless beneath the black snow and endless storms. Day and night blurred together beneath the ash-choked sky, leaving only cold, exhaustion, and instinct to guide him forward.
Strangely, he encountered no humans.
No caravans.
No patrols.
No wandering exiles.
Only the occasional Daimonic shade drifting through the wasteland like ghosts born from the storm itself.
Yet none of them attacked him.
The malformed creatures sensed his presence from afar and immediately recoiled, disappearing back into the blizzard or sinking beneath the snow-covered ruins rather than approaching him.
Anastomus understood why.
This time, it was not because he was Curseborn.
It was because of the thing attached to him.
Ever since his return from Hell, something otherworldly had clung to his existence like a parasite hidden beneath his skin. He could feel it lingering around his shadow, coiled around his soul with a quiet, watching presence that even the Daimonic shades feared.
Several times, Anastomus attempted to speak to it.
He stared into his shadow.
Called out into the storm.
Even summoned the sickle relic—the cursed mystery relic responsible for awakening his second Mystery.
But the entity never answered.
Only silence greeted him each time.
Eventually, Anastomus stopped trying.
There was little point in speaking to something that clearly wished to remain hidden.
So he continued walking.
One step after another across the frozen wasteland.
His legs moved almost automatically now, carrying him forward without destination or purpose. Yet strangely, he did not mind. The numbness inside him had returned, dulling fear, uncertainty, and even frustration into distant echoes.
Only survival remained.
And eventually, even survival began to fail him.
An unknown amount of time later—hours perhaps, or days—Anastomus finally began to feel the undeniable truth of his condition.
He was still mortal.
Starvation gnawed at his stomach like an animal chewing through flesh. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs with crushing weight. His breathing grew heavier beneath the freezing wind, and the cold slowly seeped deeper into his body despite his resistance.
For the first time since clawing his way out of the frozen grave, Anastomus felt genuinely weak.
Anastomus suddenly felt the absurd urge to laugh at his own circumstances.
After surviving monsters, mercenaries, Daimons, and the horrors of Hell itself, it would be a cruel joke if starvation ended up being what finally killed him.
The thought almost amused him.
Almost.
Then he stopped.
Far ahead, through the endless storm of black snow and frozen ash, he saw it for the first time since awakening in the wasteland—
Light.
Warmth.
The faint orange glow cut through the blizzard like a beacon amidst the dead land.
Immediately, instinct took over.
The numb exhaustion clouding his thoughts vanished as years of survival experience returned to the forefront of his mind. Anastomus lowered his body instinctively, crouching low against the frozen terrain as his senses scanned the surrounding wasteland for movement, traps, or hidden observers.
Nothing.
Still cautious, he moved forward slowly, weaving between frozen ash-covered boulders and shattered stone formations buried beneath layers of snow. Every step was deliberate. Every breath controlled.
Eventually, the storm thinned just enough for him to see the source of the light clearly.
The Titan Grave Road.
The massive fortified roadway stretched through the Frostburn Frontier like a scar carved across the wasteland, its ancient black stone barely visible beneath layers of frost and ash. It was the only stable passage through this region of the Ashen Field, the northern route that eventually led deeper into the Boreal Dominion.
And beside the road sat a military encampment.
Large armored transports and fortified supply wagons had been arranged into a defensive perimeter around several blazing heat braziers. Soldiers moved between tents clad in heavy white-gray military cloaks reinforced with bronze and black iron plating. Tower shields marked with the sigil of the Boreal Dominion rested beside stacked crates and frost-forged spears.
The smell of cooked meat drifted faintly through the freezing air.
Anastomus' stomach twisted painfully.
Only then did he realize just how hungry he truly was.
Still, he was not foolish enough to simply walk into the camp begging for aid.
He recognized the soldiers immediately.
Boreal Dominion forces.
Straight-backed, disciplined, humorless bastards.
Anastomus had encountered Boreal soldiers several times during his younger years wandering the northern routes as a mercenary. The Dominion trained its soldiers like machines—cold, efficient, and perpetually suspicious of everyone outside their borders.
Especially drifters.
Especially Mystery wielders.
And definitely men who crawled out of the Ashen Field looking half-dead. Anastomus narrowed his eyes as he observed the camp from behind the rocks. Those bastards had never understood the concept of fun.
Unfortunately for Anastomus, it seemed fun had found him first.
The moment the killing intent flared behind him, his body reacted purely on instinct. He twisted sideways just as a massive iron-clad fist crashed into the spot where he had been crouching a heartbeat earlier.
The impact detonated against the frozen ground with explosive force.
Ice, ash, and shattered stone erupted outward as a violent shockwave tore through the surrounding boulders. The sheer force nearly threw Anastomus off balance, his boots skidding across the frost-covered earth before he finally steadied himself.
His eyes immediately snapped toward his attacker.
The man was enormous.
A towering soldier with a body built like a fortress wall, broad shoulders wrapped beneath the heavy white-gray military coat of the Boreal Dominion. Pale northern skin stretched across thick muscles scarred by countless battles, while old wounds carved jagged lines across his exposed face and shaved scalp.
Even standing still, the man radiated pressure.
Not ordinary strength.
Predatory strength.
His right arm was encased in a massive iron gauntlet layered with reinforced bronze plating and frost-etched inscriptions. Cold vapor drifted from the weapon with every movement, and the frozen ground beneath his boots cracked faintly beneath his weight.
Anastomus' gaze narrowed toward the insignia branded across the soldier's cloak.
He recognized it immediately.
A Dominion frontier enforcer.
One of the elite soldiers tasked with patrolling the Titan Grave Roads and exterminating threats within the Frostburn Frontier.
"I sensed the presence of a predator," the soldier said calmly, his voice deep enough to rumble through the storm itself. "It seems my instincts were correct."
The man slowly straightened from his strike, snow and ash rolling off the iron gauntlet as he fixed Anastomus with a cold, unwavering stare.
And for the first time since clawing his way out of the frozen grave, Anastomus felt genuine danger.
The hairs along his body rose instinctively.
This man was strong.
Unfortunately for Anastomus, it seemed fun had found him first.
The moment the killing intent flared behind him, his body reacted purely on instinct. He twisted sideways just as a massive iron-clad fist crashed into the spot where he had been crouching a heartbeat earlier.
The impact detonated against the frozen ground with explosive force.
Ice, ash, and shattered stone erupted outward as a violent shockwave tore through the surrounding boulders. The sheer force nearly threw Anastomus off balance, his boots skidding across the frost-covered earth before he finally steadied himself.
His eyes immediately snapped toward his attacker.
The man was enormous.
A towering soldier with a body built like a fortress wall, broad shoulders wrapped beneath the heavy white-gray military coat of the Boreal Dominion. Pale northern skin stretched across thick muscles scarred by countless battles, while old wounds carved jagged lines across his exposed face and shaved scalp.
Even standing still, the man radiated pressure.
Not ordinary strength.
Predatory strength.
His right arm was encased in a massive iron gauntlet layered with reinforced bronze plating and frost-etched inscriptions. Cold vapor drifted from the weapon with every movement, and the frozen ground beneath his boots cracked faintly beneath his weight.
Anastomus' gaze narrowed toward the insignia branded across the soldier's cloak.
He recognized it immediately.
A Dominion frontier enforcer.
One of the elite soldiers tasked with patrolling the Titan Grave Roads and exterminating threats within the Frostburn Frontier.
"I sensed the presence of a predator," the soldier said calmly, his voice deep enough to rumble through the storm itself. "It seems my instincts were correct."
The man slowly straightened from his strike, snow and ash rolling off the iron gauntlet as he fixed Anastomus with a cold, unwavering stare.
And for the first time since clawing his way out of the frozen grave, Anastomus felt genuine danger.
The hairs along his body rose instinctively.
This man was strong.
Unfortunately for Anastomus, it seemed fun had found him first.
The moment the killing intent flared behind him, his body reacted purely on instinct. He twisted sideways just as a massive iron-clad fist crashed into the spot where he had been crouching a heartbeat earlier.
The impact detonated against the frozen ground with explosive force.
Ice, ash, and shattered stone erupted outward as a violent shockwave tore through the surrounding boulders. The sheer force nearly threw Anastomus off balance, his boots skidding across the frost-covered earth before he finally steadied himself.
His eyes immediately snapped toward his attacker.
The man was enormous.
A towering soldier with a body built like a fortress wall, broad shoulders wrapped beneath the heavy white-gray military coat of the Boreal Dominion. Pale northern skin stretched across thick muscles scarred by countless battles, while old wounds carved jagged lines across his exposed face and shaved scalp.
Even standing still, the man radiated pressure.
Not ordinary strength.
Predatory strength.
His right arm was encased in a massive iron gauntlet layered with reinforced bronze plating and frost-etched inscriptions. Cold vapor drifted from the weapon with every movement, and the frozen ground beneath his boots cracked faintly beneath his weight.
Anastomus' gaze narrowed toward the insignia branded across the soldier's cloak.
He recognized it immediately.
A Dominion frontier enforcer.
One of the elite soldiers tasked with patrolling the Titan Grave Roads and exterminating threats within the Frostburn Frontier.
"I sensed the presence of a predator," the soldier said calmly, his voice deep enough to rumble through the storm itself. "It seems my instincts were correct."
The man slowly straightened from his strike, snow and ash rolling off the iron gauntlet as he fixed Anastomus with a cold, unwavering stare.
And for the first time since clawing his way out of the frozen grave, Anastomus felt genuine danger.
The hairs along his body rose instinctively.
This man was strong.