The flickering candlelight in the Redanian court cast long, dancing shadows against the stone walls as King Radovid V's advisors huddled in hushed, intense discussion. The Admiral's report had changed everything. They were no longer debating the ravings of a madman, but the strategic reality of a superior power.
"The sea is closed to us," one advisor whispered, his voice trembling. "We cannot defeat ships made of metal that move without the wind. And the land... the buffer zone is a death trap. No army can march through a forest of monsters and eternal snow."
Radovid sat on his throne, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, calculating light. He was a man who lived on the edge of a blade, and he was ready to make the ultimate gamble. He raised a hand, silencing the room, and barked a command to his guards.
Minutes later, a group of Redanian mages—those few who still remained under the crown's uneasy protection—were ushered into the hall. When Radovid revealed their mission—to penetrate the buffer zone and reach the hidden nation of the far north—the sorcerers recoiled in collective terror.
"Your Majesty, it is suicide," the lead mage stammered. "The chaotic energies in that forest are wild, and the beasts are beyond any we have faced. We beg you to reconsider."
Radovid leaned forward, his voice a low, terrifying rasp. "Reconsider? I have confirmed clues, sorcerer. My fleet has seen their docks of metal. They have seen their artificial light. There is a nation deeper in the ice than any map dares to show. They have stolen our labor and our wealth, and they have done so behind a wall of teeth and frost."
As the realization dawned on the mages that the King was not merely theorizing, but speaking from absolute certainty, their fear transformed into a grim, professional focus. They realized that Radovid truly needed them—not for a courtly whim, but for a mission that required the full extent of their power to survive the impossible.
"If such a nation exists," the lead mage said, bowing his head, "then the path must be forced. We will prepare."
The mages withdrew to their base, their minds already racing with the spells and protections needed for the trek. They would use their magic to shield a small, elite team from the monsters and the cold, attempting to slip through the buffer zone like ghosts. While the rest of the Northern Realms continued to crumble, Radovid V had placed his pieces on the board, ready to strike at the heart of the golden dragon.
******
The decision was made, but the weight of it hung heavy in the air of the Redanian mages' sanctuary. They gathered their most powerful—those capable of weaving shields against the biting frost and the relentless claws of the northern beasts. But as they finalized their preparations, the heavy iron doors of the hideout swung open unannounced.
Philippa Eilhart stepped into the candlelight, her presence commanding an immediate, fearful silence. She had been watching the crown's movements with her usual sharp-eyed suspicion, convinced that this mission was a elaborate conspiracy—a plan by Radovid V to lure the mages into a death trap and finally break the back of sorcerous power in the Northern Realms.
"The Lodge will join this trek," Philippa stated, her voice cold and absolute. "If the King speaks of a hidden nation, I will see it with my own eyes. And if this is merely a ruse to lead us to a slaughter in the snow, Radovid will find that the frost is the least of his concerns."
Fearing the King more than the sorceress, the Redanian mages had no choice but to accept. Soon, a combined force of the Lodge and the royal mages began the grueling trek toward the Far North.
As they breached the edge of the buffer zone, the mages were hit by a sensory shock. One among them, a sorcerer with a rare and potent tracking ability, dropped to his knees in the permafrost. He pressed his palms against the frozen earth, his eyes rolling back as he tapped into the residual aura of the land.
"The traces..." he gasped, his voice trembling. "Thousands of them. The auras of elves, dwarves, and gnomes—they are fresh. They moved through here in a massive, orderly tide. They are still moving north."
The group froze. For the first time, the reality of the situation surpassed their expectations. Philippa felt a surge of relief that settled her paranoia; this was no Redanian conspiracy. Radovid had been telling the truth. There was indeed something beyond the trees that had called the elder races away.
"It is real," Philippa whispered, her gaze fixed on the dark, monster-infested horizon. "They didn't die. They were taken—or they went willingly."
Her focus shifted instantly. The threat was no longer the King's madness, but the unknown power that had caused the total exodus of non-humans and left the Northern Realms to rot. With a wave of her hand, she signaled the group forward. They would no longer move as fearful scouts, but as hunters seeking the source of the mechanical light.
******
The air in the deeper reaches of the buffer zone grew thick with a scent no mage in the Northern Realms had ever encountered: a pungent, sharp mixture of ozone and processed oil. Philippa Eilhart raised a hand, signaling the group to halt. She felt a strange vibration in the air—a rhythmic thrumming that was not magical, but purely physical.
"Do not move closer," Philippa commanded, her eyes narrowing. "Something is out there that does not belong to the natural world."
To avoid detection, a sorceress of the Lodge stepped forward. She crafted a shimmering magical lens in the air, allowing the group to observe the valley from a distance without physically approaching. It proved to be a lifesaving decision. Through the magical magnification, they saw the Diesel Engineers.
The mages watched in stunned silence as a patrol of both imperial dh'oine (humans) and elven refugees moved through the snow. They were clad in heavy leather coats and utility belts, their movements synchronized and clinical.
"Look at their hands," a Redanian mage whispered. "They carry instruments that buzz and click."
The mages recognized the devices immediately—they were scanners. In the south, such things were rare, highly temperamental magical artifacts. But as the sorcerers reached out with their senses, they felt a chilling void. These scanners were purely non-magical, built of brass, glass, and steel, yet they worked with a terrifying, cold efficiency. Philippa realized that if they had stepped any closer, the sheer output of their magical presence would have likely triggered those sensors like a flare in the dark.
The mages observed as a pack of ice-trolls emerged from the crags. In the south, such a fight would have required a circle of mages or a battalion of knights. Here, it was a slaughter of logic. The elven Diesel Engineers unslung their long-barreled firearms.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The thunderous reports echoed through the valley as lead slugs tore through the trolls' thick hides. One human Engineer tossed a chemical grenade; it didn't explode with fire, but with a freezing gas that turned the monsters into brittle statues in seconds.
"The conversation," Philippa hissed. "Listen."
Through the scrying lens, the voices of the patrol drifted to them in common speech.
"Biological anomalies neutralized," a human Engineer noted, checking a brass dial on his wrist. "The technology in these new rounds is holding up well against the permafrost. Tell the labs to increase the magnesium content for the next batch."
"Confirmed," an elven Engineer replied, his voice devoid of the fear or bitterness usually found in his kin. "The buffer zone is 98% clear in this sector. We can begin laying the survey markers for the new rail-line by dusk."
The mages of the Northern Realms felt a wave of terror. They were looking at a force that treated the most dangerous monsters of the north as simple "anomalies" to be cleared for a construction project.
"They aren't just a nation," Philippa whispered, her face pale. "They have turned our kin into... whatever this is. This is not sorcery. It is something else entirely."