The nation of Cirazan was once a jewel among the lands, a beacon of artistry and cultural refinement. Its people, skilled in the crafts of architecture and sculpture, built cities of breathtaking beauty. Their trade with the elves of Thalassiril brought exotic goods, fine silks, and magical artifacts, creating a fusion of human ingenuity and elven grace.
But all that changed in a single, terrible moment.
On a day now known as the Black Collapse, every soul within Cirazan fell lifeless to the ground. From the bustling marketplaces to the serene temples, not a single heartbeat remained—except in one city. The kingdom was silenced in an instant, its splendor and legacy seemingly lost forever, save for Narc, the sole city left untouched.
Then came the being.
A force of unimaginable power, a presence that defied understanding. Records now only whisper the name Redacted . It ascended the throne of Cirazan, and with it rose an army of the dead. The once-proud citizens of the nation, now pale mockeries of their former selves, walked again—bound to the will of their new ruler. Ghouls of unspeakable horror prowled the empty streets, shadows stretched unnaturally against the moonlight, and whispers of forgotten voices echoed through the hollowed halls.
Yet, for all this dread, Cirazan’s terror remained contained.
The undead did not march beyond their borders. No kingdom was razed, no army sent to conquer. The lands of Cirazan simply stood, a grim and impenetrable fortress where no living thing entered and none who strayed too close returned. The nations surrounding it, once its closest allies, now watched in uneasy silence, fearing what might stir within those deathless lands.
And then, there was Narc. A city left untouched, standing amidst a nation of death. No one knows why it was spared. Was it a cruel experiment? A bargaining chip? Or was something darker at play? The people of Narc, though alive, are believed to live in perpetual fear, isolated in their unnatural exemption, watched always by the dead who linger just beyond their gates.
Some believe the Black Collapse was not a tragedy, but a ritual—a sacrifice that enabled Redacted to claim the land as its own. Others whisper that something far worse than an undead king slumbers in Cirazan, and that its people were taken to fuel a nightmare yet to awaken.
But none can say for certain.
For no living soul who steps within Cirazan’s borders ever tells their tale.