Blight of the Frostfire Wyrm

In the Frostscar Wastes, where storms were born from dragon’s breath and snowflakes cut like glass, the Bone Wyrm Ignavok descended. His wings, vast as cathedral sails, churned the blizzard into a frenzy, while his molten veins pulsed with the essence of a thousand conquered souls. Below, the Last Legion of Valtoria raised their spears—a pitiful hedge against oblivion. Their armor, frosted and brittle, clattered as lightning seared the sky. Behind them, the capital’s spires burned, their flames swallowed by the storm. “Stand fast!” roared Captain Eryndor, though his voice drowned in the Wyrm’s roar. Ignavok’s jaws yawned wide, skeletal teeth dripping embers. The soldiers knew the tales: this dragon was no mere beast, but a curse—a general of the Old Necropolis, resurrected to erase kingdoms. Snow fused with ash. The legion charged. And the Wyrm, with a sound like mountains collapsing, exhaled