Prokolev

In a land where memory rots and time folds like wet paper, something forgotten stirs beneath the veil of heaven.

Echoes of a dead empire linger in rusted bells and blood-lit chapels. The stars have gone quiet, but their gaze remains. Through frostbitten hills and crumbling manors, children vanish into stories never told-while the devout drink light, and the mad see the truth.

A sickness blooms where faith once stood. Dreams are contagious. So is guilt. And somewhere far below, behind locked doors and ancient hymns, something unspeakable is learning your name.

You were never meant to arrive.
You were never meant to remember.
But something is waiting for you anyway.