6:00 AM, Frostholm.
From Sylvergard, it took six hours to penetrate into the heart of this no-man's land, where the icy grip of winter had smothered any warmth from the sun.
As the helicopter approached Frostholm, they entered a realm where time seemed to stand still under a perpetual twilight, painting everything in hues of desolation and despair.
Northwest Frostholm!
The most isolated sector, a place seemingly at the edge of the world.
The landscape was a vast canvas of endless white, interrupted only by the ghostly dance of the Aurora Borealis.
These celestial lights wove through the dark sky in swathes of green and violet, casting an ethereal glow that did little to lift the gloom.
The bitter air was sharp enough to cut through bone, and the silence was deep, broken only by the occasional distant rumble of shifting ice—a reminder of the living, breathing nature of this frozen desert.
