The city of Mistglen was a contradiction carved into the frozen north. Encircled by endless, snow-choked forest, it stood as the last fortress of the Human Federation—half arcane citadel, half technological marvel. Fiber-optic cables ran beneath cobbled streets where glowing runes pulsed like veins. Towers of white steel clawed upward, crowned with wards that shimmered faintly against the eternal frost.
Above them all loomed a monolith of black stone: North Head Command. Its obsidian spire split the night sky, and at its peak, cold neon letters burned in electric blue.
On the 47th floor, the Strategic Overwatch Room simmered in the quiet monotony of the graveyard shift. A dozen screens cycled surveillance feeds from northern garrisons. The air reeked of stale coffee, the hum of cooling fans masking the fatigue of the few souls on duty. Their movements were slow, almost mechanical, keeping the rhythm of uneventful hours.
That rhythm shattered.
