The sky over Northveil had long ceased to be a sky. It had been transmuted into a fractured canvas of leaden gray, strangled by the rising plumes of soot and the pulverized remains of a city that had once dreamed of the stars. In the heart of the urban ruins, a stagnant, heavy silence began to crawl between the jagged ribs of shattered buildings. The swarms of Crawler-Cyborgs and the infiltration units of the Junk-Cyborgs—once a virulent plague that had infested every alleyway—were now nothing more than smoking carcasses of twisted iron. With a coordination that bordered on the surgical, Sir Riven and Captain Thorne had successfully amputated the enemy's urban foothold. The narrow corridors that had once been lethal death-traps were now sanitized of the Empire's filth, allowing the remnants of the Sudrath infantry to execute a fighting retreat toward the coastline—toward the primary defensive bastion that guarded the North.
