The transition from the Northern Prefecture to the Western Desert was not gradual. It was a violent, jarring shift in reality, as if the world itself had been sliced in two by a god's blade. One moment, the air was crisp, biting, and filled with the scent of pine and snow; the next, the horizon bled into a shimmering, endless expanse of ochre and crimson.
The Tagor Desert. A land where the sun didn't just shine; it ruled with a tyrannical, scorching fist.
The sleek black flying shuttle Alaric piloted cut through the boundary layer, the sudden thermal updrafts buffeting the hull. Outside the protective barrier, the temperature skyrocketed. The air shimmered with heat haze, distorting the dunes below into fluid, moving waves of red sand.
Yun Lan stood on the deck, her hands gripping the railing. For the first time in decades, the Ice Master looked uncomfortable.
