The highland winds howled like the ghosts of a forgotten world.
Prince Lancelot stood at the edge of a limestone ridge, his boots caked in red dust, his coat whipped by the wind. Before him stretched the inland plateau—untamed, vast, and cloaked in clouds. It had taken three weeks of rail through sheer granite and jungle to reach this height, and now the world opened up before them. Fertile valleys, glinting mineral ridges, and rivers that fed into distant, unmapped forests.
Juliette climbed up beside him, panting slightly, goggles around her neck, field notes tucked under one arm.
"This is it," she said, nodding at the view. "The Crown's Furnace."
Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "The name?"
She smiled faintly. "Heat, ore, and pressure. It's where empires are forged."
—
