Zephyr hovered in the high orbital view, his interface windows arrayed around him like a translucent halo.
The northern front was a grinding, agonizing stalemate. Maren's defense-in-depth strategy was working, but the cost was staggering. Vaelthyr's Cindermaw had turned the frozen tundra into a series of boiling mud lakes. The Imperium's infantry cohorts were fighting a slow, tactical retreat, poisoning the aquifers and collapsing the mountain passes behind them. They were buying time with blood and geography.
Zephyr checked the southern grid.
Nine years had passed since he dropped the Sea Serpent into the southern ocean. Nine years of absolute maritime supremacy.
