The valley below was no longer a part of the natural world; it had become a rhythmic, pulsing machine of cold efficiency. As the Aen Saevherne held the vision steady, the leaders of the Elder Races watched the arrival of the latest batches of staff and settlers. These newcomers did not walk with the hesitant gait of those afraid of the cold; instead, they were directed in orderly lines toward medical stations. There, each individual was administered a nanobot shot.
The silver fluid was injected directly into their veins, and the Sage watched as the microscopic machines flooded their bloodstreams. These nanobots were designed to fuse with the cells and DNA of the host, providing the Novanians with a synthetic resilience against any biohazard or contagion this planet could offer. As the machines integrated with their biology, they granted certain physical and sensory abilities, though these were not universal. Such enhancements had to be specifically downloaded into the host's DNA; while some basic strengths were granted to everyone, more advanced or specialized abilities remained strictly restricted to certain people within the Empire's hierarchy.
The scale of the industry was staggering. Within the basin, massive humanoid mining machines—colossal suits of articulated metal—were piloted by humans nestled deep within armored cockpits. These pilots were busy tearing into the frozen earth, extracting minerals that pulsed with an unnatural light. They harvested precious resources of every kind: elements that sat familiarly on the periodic table and mysterious ores that defied known classification, possessing properties that could not be mapped by any southern scholar.
Surrounding the central pits, the auxiliary teams worked with clinical detachment. The hunters were active across the tundra, using their technology to fell the local fauna. They were not merely hunting for edible meat; they were systematically extracting specific chemical elements from the corpses of the beasts they slew. Simultaneously, teams of gatherers moved through the terrain in specialized suits, stripping the land of all flora. Every root, leaf, and flower was collected to be processed into food or medicinal herbs, leaving the earth bare in their wake.
Dominating the skyline were the large humanoid building bots. These giants, also piloted by humans within, were in constant, thunderous motion. They were busy snapping modular sections together, building more facilities and housing complexes to accommodate the relentless waves of people arriving from the stars. The site was a frantic hive of industry, and the noise of construction echoed off the mountain peaks like a continuous storm.
The air soon vibrated with a bone-shaking roar as another spaceship appeared over the launch pad, thundering down through the clouds to deliver even more staff and settlers to the surface. The entire region was a blur of activity, a colony growing in real-time.
From their distant vantage point, the Elder Races watched everything. Thanks to the powers of the Aen Saevherne, they were able to observe the entire place and the intricate details of the activity happening outside without having to risk going too close to the perimeter. They saw the tireless machines, the strange, enhanced humans, and the endless construction. Most strikingly, they saw the black flag with the red dragon symbol flying high above the metal city, marking this land as the undisputed territory of the Nova Empire.
******
High above the valley floor, tucked into a crevice of jagged frost-rimed rock, the leaders of the exodus stood in stunned silence. The Aen Saevherne finally lowered his hands, the magical shimmer fading from his eyes, but the images remained burned into their minds.
"The needles," whispered Milo Thistle, his small hands trembling as he gripped his walking stick. "I saw them through the Sage's mist. Those humans... they didn't flinch. They stood there and let those metal arms drive silver liquid into their veins. What kind of people seek to turn their own blood into mercury?"
Brouver Hoog grunted, his breath hitching in the thin, freezing air. "It's not just the blood. Did you see those iron giants? Those artifacts... they moved like men, but they were the size of siege towers. And there were humans inside them, pulling levers as if they were riding a horse. They aren't just mining the mountain; they are hollowing it out like a rotten apple."
"And the flag," Filavandrel added, his voice tight with an old, familiar bitterness. "The black field with the crimson dragon. I have seen many banners in my centuries, but never one that flew over a city built in a single week. What are they doing here? This land was meant to be the end of the world—a place where no human could draw breath."
"They aren't just drawing breath," the Sage replied weakly. "They are bringing the sky down with them. That massive vehicle... that 'mountain of iron' that descended from the clouds... it brought hundreds more. They don't belong to this world's soil, yet they claim it as if they own the very air."
The group fell into a tense debate, wondering if these "star-men" were allies against the southern kings or a plague far worse. They spoke of the Gatherers who stripped the medicinal herbs and the Hunters who felled the great ice-beasts with beams of concentrated light. They wondered if there was any room left in the North for those who carried only swords and hope.
The conversation was abruptly cut short.
The snow behind them didn't crunch; it hissed. A sudden, sharp mechanical click echoed against the stone—a sound of cold metal sliding into place.
"Identify yourselves. State your intent and purpose for monitoring a restricted BSMG extraction zone."
The Elder Races spun around, their hands instinctively flying to the hilts of their swords and axes. Standing on the ridge above them was a squad of Hunters. They weren't dressed in the furs of the North, but in sleek, charcoal-grey tactical suits that hummed with a low electronic vibration.
Instead of bows or crossbows, they leveled conventional firearms—sleek, matte-black rifles with glowing red optics—directly at the observers. Their eyes, enhanced by the nanobots and protected by amber-tinted visors, showed no fear, only a clinical, predatory focus.
Filavandrel stepped forward, his elven pride warring with the realization that these weapons looked far more lethal than any Nilfgaardian bolt. The observers realized with a jolt of terror that the Sage's veil hadn't been enough. They had been found.
"Lower your steel," the lead Hunter commanded, his voice amplified and distorted by a helmet comms-unit. "You are trespassing on Nova Empire sovereign territory. State your origin. Are you local displaced persons, or are you hostiles?"
The Elder Races stood frozen. For the first time in their long history, they had no words for the kind of "humans" they were facing.