The sun had long since vanished. In Northveil, a new moon rose, but it offered no light. There was only a thick, suffocating darkness, punctuated only by the flickering orange tongues of fire from the still-smoldering ruins.
To the west, thousands of feet trampled the snowy earth, closing in on Isafjord.
Night had fallen. And with the night, came blood.
23:00. Northveil.
Rianor stood at the command hill, his eyes fixed on the tactical map. Beside him, Hektor remained silent, waiting. Outside, shrouded in total darkness, the forces began to move.
Leofric's tanks advanced with their lights extinguished. Their steel treads ground through the rubble, but the sound was swallowed by the howling night wind. Beside Leofric, Gideon monitored the data, ensuring not a single variable deviated from the plan. Numbers flickered on his crystal tablet—velocity, distance, hydraulic pressure.
"Forward barricade, one hundred meters," Gideon whispered.
