At the edge of the empire, where the jagged hills rose like broken bones beneath a colorless sky, the land bore no greenery—only dust, frost, and the silence of things long dead. Wind howled across the barren ridges, dry and sharp as glass, carrying with it the stench of iron, oil, and gunpowder.
And atop those cold, cold hills, spread out like a mechanical beast feasting on the earth, lay the imperial front—no mere camp, but a living, breathing war machine. A temporary city, forged in haste but run with precision, built not for comfort but for conquest.
Steel towers jabbed at the sky like spears. Iron platforms shuddered under the weight of mana-driven aircraft, hundreds of them docked in synchronized grids. Wings folded, engines purring, mana thrumming through their cores like caged lightning.
