The sea was steel that morning.
From horizon to horizon, the Northern fleet drifted like a swarm of iron birds across the frost-choked waters of Eridan's Bay. The waves were slow and tired each one dragging itself toward the shore as if mourning what it knew would come.
Noah stood at the prow of the lead airship, Eclipse. The biting wind tugged at his black coat, the silver insignia of the Northern crest glinting faintly beneath the clouds. His cane was anchored against the deck, his gloved hand tightening around it as he looked down at the distant coastline ahead white sand, jagged black rocks and the faint glimmer of ruined fortresses once belonging to Central.
They had arrived.
---
"Wind steady, pressure stable," came a crisp voice beside him.
Captain May.
