WRAITH
Where identity is shadowed, loyalty is chosen, and the realm waits for your mark.
Order vs. Chaos
This isn’t good versus evil. It’s structure versus entropy.
Order seeks balance, restoration, and clarity. It operates in silence, precision, and pre-emptive force.
Chaos fuels disruption, emotional volatility, and unpredictability. It thrives on noise, decay, and raw instinct.
The battle lines are drawn — not by territory, but by loyalty. When you wear WRAITHX, you don’t just wear design. You wear a declaration.
Echoes of the Realm
WRAITHX is a high-concept, narrative-driven streetwear brand rooted in the mythos of the WraithRealm — a fractured, mist-cloaked dimension where the boundary between life and death has long been broken. Here, four rival factions fight for control, survival, and meaning in the shadow of an ancient force: The Noctvaris — an entity older than time, whose presence twists the very fabric of the realm.
Each faction answers to one of the Four Dark Wraiths — spectral champions bound to the Noctvaris by oath, curse, or chaos. They guide, guard, and sometimes betray their followers in the ongoing struggle known as the Echo War — a timeless conflict echoing across dimensions, carried forward by those who dare to wear their allegiance.
Every drop is a new chapter. Every garment holds a ghost.
These are not mass-produced designs — they are limited relics, marked by in-house, original artwork that will never return once gone.
When you wear WRAITHX, you’re not just dressing for the street — you’re stepping into the story.
Pick your faction.
Learn the lore.
Haunt the living.
WRAITH
PRESENTS: THE WRAITHREALM CHRONICLES
A BRIEF HISTORY OF EVERYTHING THAT WENT HORRIBLY WRONG
Once upon a broken timeline, in a space wedged between death and reception signal, the WraithRealm came into being. Not born. Not built. Just... glitched into existence like a corrupted file that nobody could quite delete. A dimension of mist, memory, and unexplainable fashion sense.
They say the Spiral birthed the Realm — a frequency so high it fractured itself. Realms split. Reality frayed. Souls fell out. Instead of sorting it out like adults, the remaining fragments did what all great civilisations do: formed rival factions and started haunting each other.
ORDER VS CHAOS: THE ECHO WARS BEGIN
At some point, someone drew a line (probably Spectral Command) and said, “We are Order.”
Cut Crew nodded. “Cool. Tactical.”
Grave Company and Rattle Pack, being the delightful disasters they are, just laughed and went full Chaos.
Thus began the Echo Wars — a realm-wide, never-quite-over battle of signals, sabotage, and stylish murder.
Factions clash in missions, territory raids, and psychic interference ops. Each side claiming they’re the firewall between The Noctvaris and complete dimensional collapse.
Spoiler: They’re both right. And wrong. And maybe already too late.
WHY YOU’RE INVOLVED
Every drop. Every design. Every piece of WRAITHX apparel carries this world in its thread. You don’t just wear the brand. You choose a side. You carry the story. And maybe — just maybe — you delay the end a little longer.
Original art. Limited runs. Once it's gone, it's gone forever.
Pick your faction.
Load your look.
Haunt the living.
Wraithborn Allegiances
The Wraithrealm is divided into four distinct factions — each born from different corners of the afterlife, each carrying its own legend, purpose, and code. From the calculated shadows of Spectral Command to the reckless noise of the Rattle Pack, these aren’t just groups — they’re identities.
Every design you wear marks allegiance. Every symbol tells a story.
Choose wisely — or wear them all and walk between worlds.
ENTER: THE NOCTVARIS
Lord of the Spiral Maw
Once, he was VEX — Cut Crew’s finest blade. Then he got all introspective and wandered into the Spiral’s Edge, seeking peace.
What came back wasn’t VEX. It was a storm in a cloak.
Now known as The Noctvaris, he’s a swirling mass of anti-light and broken reality. A vortex of ghost fragments and regret. He doesn’t want to rule the WraithRealm. He wants to consume it. And when he's done, he’ll breach the human world.
He’s already built the Spiral Maw — a void zone that folds space, eats hope, and mutes Spotify.
THE FOUR DARK WRAITHS
Born not by fate, but forged by The Noctvaris, the Four Dark Wraiths are his corrupted creations — shards of his former identity made sentient. They exist to extend his reach and enforce his will, each one carved from a trait he sacrificed.
EMBERMOURN — Wraith of Burned Precision
Embermourn is execution without emotion — the heat of a final breath, delivered with surgical grace. Cloaked in blackened ash and glowing with internal fire, they strike with the quiet finality of a flameless burn. Every swing of the Ashfang leaves behind no flames, just the memory of fire and the certainty of erasure. Embermourn doesn’t chase. Embermourn arrives. Their silence isn’t stealth — it’s judgment.
VANTHRAX — Wraith of Fractured Speed
Vanthrax is a glitch given form, a blade caught mid-frame. Time stutters in his presence — footsteps land before they’re taken, and wounds open before weapons are drawn. Wielding the Skipslash, a phase-shifting edge that slips between dimensions, he exists in fragments, seen only in the moments you’re already dying. Vanthrax doesn’t rush. He arrives before you know he’s gone.
MIRENIGHT — Wraith of Twisted Clarity
Mirenight sees too much — past, future, failure, and the slow rot of hope. Her voice distorts the truth into madness, lacing every word with layered screams from timelines that never happened. Draped in flickering veils and crowned in dripping glyphs, she wields the Weepglass, a staff that channels prophetic fog and despair. Her gaze cuts deeper than blades, and her presence turns certainty into chaos.
DREGHOLLOW — Wraith of Lost Control
Dreghollow is not sent — he is released. Chained at the edge of the Spiral Maw, this hulking storm of rage and ruin embodies collapse itself. When The Noctvaris calls for absolute destruction, Dreghollow is unshackled, dragging the Collapse Chain, a hammer forged from shattered reality. His roars cause cracks in space, and his steps shake the dead. There is no strategy, no grace — only devastation waiting to be uncontained.