The violet sky of the Frost-Tide Empire shimmered with a predatory hunger. Inside the 50x time-dilation field, the sound of industry was a constant, low-frequency hum that vibrated through the very bedrock of the fused island.
While the outside world perceived only a few days of movement, the inhabitants of the Empire had lived through nearly a year of preparation. Cities had been retrofitted into barracks. Forges, powered by the core-heat of Iceland's volcanic vents and cooled by Aquabyss's abyssal currents, produced millions of sets of "Tide-Steel" plate armor.
Aegis stood at the center of the War Room, his eyes fixed on a massive holographic projection of the Southern Quadrant. The "Chains of Atlas" were no longer theoretical. On the map, glowing blue lines stretched out like the webs of a cosmic spider, physically tethering smaller, independent islands and dragging them toward the central mass of the Empire.
