Beyond the borders of Eldrath, beyond the deepest mountain ranges and the highest reaches of magic, there existed a place where reality frayed. The sky hung in tatters of swirling crimson and ash, torn open by some ancient calamity. This was the Rift—a land forsaken by the gods, feared by mortals, and sealed off from the world.
At its heart stood a colossal obsidian fortress, its towers crooked like black fangs against the blood-hued sky. The Rift Castle.
Inside its dark halls, a long chamber stretched like the inside of a cathedral. Fire braziers flickered with sickly green flame, casting distorted shadows against stone walls etched with runes too old to be deciphered. At the far end of the hall, a throne sat atop a raised platform. It was a thing of jagged stone and bones—crude yet regal.
Seated there was the Demon King.
