The New Year's Eve festival at the Citadel of Blackfang was a sprawling, roaring manifestation of a world completely unchained. Twenty massive bonfires illuminated the Central Plaza, casting long, dancing orange reflections against the sheer basalt cliffs. The heavy, comforting scent of roasting elk, spiced winter ale, and hot mountain cider rolled through the crisp night air in a thick wave. Thousands of voices—human mechanics from the factory sectors and Lycan vanguards from the high ridges—mingled in a chaotic symphony of shared laughter and clinking wooden tankards. For the first time in ninety winters, the North was not calculating its survival; it was celebrating its life.
High above the carousing crowds, inside the dimly lit Grand Vestibule of the old imperial council hall, the atmosphere was drastically different.
