The snow falling over Northveil was no longer white. It had turned a dismal, ashen gray, mingling with the soot from the Northern Fortress that Ben had just detonated. The atmosphere in the Central District was suffocating; the only sounds were the heavy, rhythmic thrum of steam engines, the hiss of overtaxed pistons, and the desperate cries of humans swallowed by the relentless blizzard. The fires burning at various corners of the city cast a haunting, hellish orange hue upon the thick steam fog that blanketed the asphalt streets.
On the main thoroughfare leading toward the City Hall, Sir Riven Sudrath stood tall, though his breath came in jagged, painful gasps. His heavy exoskeleton armor was marred by deep gouges and stained with black hydraulic oil. Emerging from the smog before him, a three-meter-tall iron titan strode forward, each footfall vibrating through the earth.
This was Martin, Commander of the 3rd Destruction Division of the Iron Empire.
