The northern wind howled through the jagged ruins of Northveil, a desolate mourning for a fallen city. It carried with it the suffocating stench of oxidized rust and the heavy, lingering pall of steam-driven soot. High atop an observation balcony that remained only half-finished—a skeleton of rebar and cold stone—General Rudigor stood like an immovable monument of steel.
His singular mechanical eye, a glowing orb of malevolent crimson, pulsed with a dim, rhythmic light. It whirred as it scanned the landscape below. What had once been a bustling hub of industry was now a blackened charcoal sketch, a sea of obsidian-hued debris stretching toward the horizon.
"They've truly committed to a scorched-earth policy, General," a voice drifted from behind him—cold, monotonous, and devoid of any organic inflection.
Rudigor didn't turn to acknowledge his adjutant. The man was a towering, spindly figure, more clockwork than flesh, with brass gears clicking behind his uniform.
