The Shard’s Call

The northern edge of the Silver Claw territory opened into the Frostfang Vale, a desolate expanse where the ground was a patchwork of frozen earth and jagged rock, dusted with a thin layer of gray snow that shimmered faintly under the midday sun, its pale light struggling to warm the frigid air, casting long, stark shadows across the landscape. The vale was framed by towering cliffs of dark granite, their surfaces slick with ice, veined with faint, glowing runes that pulsed a deep, ominous red, their light flickering like a dying heartbeat, a remnant of the Marrow Curse’s lingering power. Stunted pines clung to the cliffs, their needles a dull gray-green, coated in frost, their branches creaking in the biting wind that howled through the vale, carrying the scent of ash and the faint, metallic tang of blood, a whisper of the marrow god’s awakening. A frozen river cut through the vale, its surface cracked, revealing dark, still water beneath, reflecting the red runes in distorted, blood