The bitter, howling draft of the early polar shift swept down from the northern peaks, whistling through the iron-reinforced battlements of New Eden's outer ring.
Down at the secondary intake archways, the heavy atmosphere was thick with the stench of cheap wet fur, unwashed hide, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear.
Hundreds of beastfolk refugees—mostly herbivore clans, exhausted foxes, and bruised tigers who had fled the frozen northern tundra—were jammed into the narrow bottleneck.
The snow beneath their feet was packed hard, turned a dirty gray by thousands of trudging steps.
High above the registration plaza, six boar guards in heavy leather armor and high-tech chest plates stood along the elevated catwalks, their gloved hands resting nervously against the grips of their kinetic rifles.
