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IN THE TWILIGHT FORESTS OF THE NORTH, THE OLD STORIES ARE TRUE.

Do not drink from the silent stream, for its spirit will claim your soul. Do not follow the beautiful song into the woods, for it is a lure to your own disembowelment. Do not strike the ancient oak, for its roots will drag you down into the earth.

The people of the Baltic know these rules. They have lived by them for a thousand years, in a fragile harmony with the magic that saturates their world.

The crusaders know nothing.

They come as invaders, armed with a faith that has no power here. They march through sacred groves, they defile holy places, and they awaken things that should have been left to slumber. They are children, blundering through a dark and ancient house, unaware of the monstrous things that watch them from the shadows.

This is not the story of a war. It is the story of a reckoning. The story of what happens when men of iron and dogma trespass into a world of myth and magic. And the myths are angry.