It begins with invocation.

A whisper carried through frost-laced branches, a presence felt in the marrow before the eye. This is Kari, the Nordic pagan witch — forged in ritual, bound in myth, and silent as the snow she walks upon.

Her power isn’t loud — it lingers. In the braided hair of the old gods. In the soot-black drip of mourning warpaint. In the stillness before the storm. She does not ask for attention. She commands it — with nothing but her gaze and the chill of the northern dark at her back.

“Dark Winter” is not fantasy. It’s memory.
Ancient, unrelenting, and all too real.