Yngmir sighed. His left wing was broken, his scales chipped, his reign was crushed, and his kin faced extinction; The World Eater wouldn't let them go. His brutal ascent was still inconceivable.  Oh, why didn't Yngmir see the signs? If he had just spotted humanity for what it was, but alas, it was long since too late. It was all over; the last stand was imminent.

On this southern pole of ice and frost, the last hope lied hidden. A hope too far fetched to soothe the bitterness of death, but alas, its unlikeliness was its only strength. Yngmir had mutilated their offspring to a point beyond recovery, some even beyond that, all for the sake of discretion. The legacy had to be protected. It had to escape.

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Soon, the wicked one would seal this place, channeling all its magic to his minion worlds. The prophecy of doom would envelop everything, shattering all fates but one. - The Rune formation. The wicked one would never find it, for it was shaped within this frozen continent itself. The World Eater would never expect this final defiance, not thousands of years later, not from an enemy extinct.

The slightest connection to the astral world was all there was needed. Just a strand of mana and the formation would fire. But what good was that when there was no one to disrupt the seal? Even if the formation activated, the legacy was doomed. How could it survive without a body? The future was dark.

With a shared nod, Yngmir and his brethren left their hope behind them, heading for the opposite pole. It was time to die.