The migrating caravan moved like a winding giant python, slowly advancing at the border between the tundra and the wilderness.
The sun in the sky silently cast its light, but seemed to have lost its warmth. The chill in the air became increasingly apparent, and one could see visible puffs of breath when exhaling.
Galos' Dragon Wings cut through the biting air currents. From high above, the land appeared as if it had been violently torn apart by the gods.
The dry yellow of the wilderness fiercely clashed with the pale white of the tundra here.
The southern wilds still echoed with the remnants of the rainy season. From the moist soil sprouted tender green shoots. Newly born grass buds stubbornly emerged from the cracked ground, gently swaying in the breeze. The low bushes donned new attire, with deep green leaves still adorned with sparkling water droplets, glinting under the sunlight.
However, when one gazes into the distance, looking northward, the situation changes drastically.
