The snowfields of Aisengar stretched endlessly, desolate and barren, but here, like nowhere else, the earth itself seemed to open its mouth.

Descending the long staircase that followed the gaping hole, one would arrive at an underground fortress.

Frost Hollow, the maw of the icy plains. Once a den of magical beasts, it had been stained by the history of blood, steel, and slaughter, only to devolve into a sanctuary for humans.

The structure resembled an ant nest—chaotic and disorderly, a stark contrast to the meticulously organized Doomheim. It was a fitting dwelling for savages.

Even among those of the …