The frost-bitten silence of the valley is broken only by the crunch of frozen earth beneath heavy boots. Nestled under a pale, haunting moonlight, the village of Stn Rige stands as a ghostly monument to a forgotten era. Weathered wooden houses lean precariously against the biting wind, their timber frames groaning under the weight of deep, pristine snow. Ancient tombstones rise like jagged teeth from the drifts, marking the resting places of those who once called this desolate sanctuary home. It is a landscape where time stands still, caught in a perpetual, crystalline slumber beneath the winter stars.