The northern skies were a deep shade of scarlet that morning—a rare, almost divine omen over the tundra.
The color came not from from the airship that cut across the heavens like a moving flame. Its massive hull bore the sigil of the Crimson Workshop, the pride of the Northern Empire—an organization sanctioned by the Council itself, specializing in magic engineering.
Noah stood at the forefront of the landing platform, his long coat fluttering as he watched the airship descend through the cold mist.
The sound of its engines was thunderous, echoing across the frozen peaks like a growl from some slumbering god. Soldiers and engineers halted their work, gazing in silent reverence as the flagship of the Workshop.
The Crimson Blimp No. 07 landed before him.
