Once the capital of Zelidia, Iirmos now stands empty, a wound in the jungle where the canopy refuses to close. The city's bone-white spires still rise above the treeline, visible for miles, but no Zelle has set foot there in centuries.
The High Priestesses do not speak of what happened. The jungle remembers.
What is known: the priestesses of Iirmos attempted a great blood-working, a ritual to permanently ward Zelidia from all outsiders. They sacrificed not individuals but entire villages of captives, channeling more blood than had ever been offered. Something answered, but it was not the jungle-spirits they knew.
The ritual tore open a passage to somewhere else. What came through consumed Iirmos in a single night. The survivors fled to what is now Glezamos, and the High Priestesses sealed the city behind wards of a different kind: wards meant to keep something in rather than keep things out.
The jungle has grown strange around Iirmos. Trees bend away from the ruins. Animals fall silent within a mile of its walls. Those who approach report hearing voices, welcoming rather than screaming. Inviting them inside. Promising they'll never need to leave.