Jagged sheets of rusted iron and engine parts are stacked into absurd, towering totems for no logical reason. No war was fought here, nor do they mark any treasure; they just sit there, as if a tribe of grots got bored and decided to build the world's most dangerous pile of junk.

A towering spire of black stone cuts into the gray sky. High above the windswept pass, its hollow eye stares endlessly across the valley, guarding a forgotten border against threats the empire has long since buried.