Three more years later, and the mountains had finally bowed to their new master.
New Varnathian was no longer a collection of desperate tents and mud-slicked trenches. It had become a fortress-city of white stone, carved directly into the ribs of the Khursaga peaks. Great fire-fountains, fueled by the natural gases of the deep earth and ignited by Druvkaur blood, hissed in the central plazas, casting a constant, defiant amber glow against the snow.
