The planet loomed in the void, a frozen titan bathed in pale cerulean light. Its surface was an endless expanse of ice and frost, cracked by ancient fissures that wove like veins through its glacial shell. A thin, ghostly mist clung to the frigid plains, whispering along the edges of abyssal crevasses that had swallowed explorers whole.
No oceans moved beneath its sky, no warmth dared linger in its grasp. This was a world of silence, of frozen tempests that howled across a desolate tundra, sculpting jagged spires of ice that reached toward the heavens like shattered monuments to forgotten gods. The only signs of life-if one could call them that-lay buried deep beneath the surface, in labyrinthine caverns where bioluminescent fungi clung to the frost-ridden stone, and strange, slithering things stirred in the darkness, waiting for the warmth of a visitor to breach their tomb.
It was a planet untamed by time, untouched by mercy. A graveyard of ancient civilizations? A cradle for horrors yet unknown? The truth lay hidden beneath the ice, waiting to be unearthed.
The planet shall be called Nyxara-a name whispered in the annals of lost starfarers, spoken with both reverence and dread.
Nyxara, the Frozen Veil. A world where time itself seems to slumber beneath layers of frost, where the sky holds no sun, only the distant glimmer of dying stars. The last records of those who dared to land upon its surface speak of strange echoes in the ice, of shadows moving where none should be. Some believe it to be the tomb of an ancient empire, its secrets locked away in glacial catacombs. Others claim it is a living entity, a world that watches, waits, and listens.
Few return from Nyxara. Those who do are never the same.
Visual by me in Blender, music from Envato Elements
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