The sky over Northveil no longer merely spat fire and iron; it unleashed a white curse. Within minutes, an extreme blizzard descended with an intensity that defied all meteorological logic, as if nature itself had been offended by the relentless flames of war. Visibility plummeted to less than three meters. The world was transformed into an opaque, swirling canvas of white desolation, where every sound was smothered by a wind that shrieked like the collective agony of ten thousand ghosts.
This was a total "Whiteout." For an ordinary soldier, it was certain death—a freezing, blinding tomb. But for the Iron Empire, it was a providential curtain, a veil of ice designed to mask the heavy, rhythmic thud of their steam-driven war machines.
The Western Shoreline (The Left Flank)
"SOLDIERS! HOLD YOUR GROUND! DO NOT LET YOUR GRIP SLACKEN ON YOUR WEAPONS!"
