A vast and ancient forest known as the Heartwood dominates the centre of the known world — its paths shift with the seasons, its glades migrate, and no map stays true for long. Ringing it, the Aurean Empire grows wealthy on the rare amber, ironwood, and relics pulled from the forest's edge, its merchant guilds locked in quiet war over the trade. Deeper still, root-strangled portals open onto the Verdant Deep, a spirit-realm where the forest's heart beats and an ancient cult whispers secrets to the trees. Explorers, rebels, and exiles alike vanish into the shifting canopy, chasing the legend of what lies at the centre — and what it wants.
An immense, ancient forest whose trails rearrange with the seasons and whose glades never stay put — the beating heart of the continent, older than any empire.
The imperial heartland — rolling farmlands and hilltop fortress-towns where the merchant guilds hold court and the Aurean throne commands its legions.
The contested borderland where imperial outposts huddle against the Heartwood's edge — a thinning zone of woodcutters, smugglers, rebels, and the desperate.
The empire's seaward edge — harbour cities, shipwrights, and guild warehouses where the Heartwood's plunder is loaded onto merchant fleets bound for distant shores.
A spirit-realm beneath the Heartwood's roots — impossibly vast trees, luminescent fungi, and the soft pulse of an ancient consciousness older than mortal reckoning.
The Heartwood's paths do not merely change — they hunt. The Shifting is the forest's active, predatory rearrangement: trails that loop back on themselves eternally, glades that swallow camps overnight, landmarks that migrate to lead the lost deeper. Some say it is the Root's immune system; others, that the forest is dreaming and the unwary become its nightmares.
Deep in the Verdant Deep, something vast and ancient stirs — the Root, the forest's heart, a consciousness that has slumbered for millennia. Its dreams reshape the Heartwood above; its slow waking is felt as a pulse that ripples through root and soil. The Rootbound worship it. The empire dreads it. And no one knows what it will want when it finally opens its eyes.
A creeping sickness carried by Heartwood amber — at first, the infected wake speaking forgotten languages and scrabbling at doors toward the forest; within days, their bones begin to transmute into golden wood, their veins to sap, until they stand rooted,僵硬 vessels for something ancient that wears their faces like masks.
The restless ghost of the last independent king who ruled the Heartwood's edge before the Aurean conquest, his soul bound into an ironwood throne that the empire's ancestors shattered — he reassembles himself from splinters and sap, raising armies of twig-thin knights who hunger for the throne that was stolen from him.
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