The flying vessel slowed as it reached the upper airspace of the Morgain stronghold, its engines humming low as frost-laced wind swept across the hull. Below—or what should have been below—there was nothing but mist. Thick, endless fog swallowed the mountain's depths, hiding the ground entirely, as if the castle itself floated above the world rather than being carved into it.
Snow fell constantly here. Not in violent gusts, but in an unbroken descent, soft flakes catching in the air before settling against stone, metal, and cloak alike.
Alfred's ship descended through it all and touched down in the main landing courtyard.
The moment the ramp lowered, Trafalgar felt it.
Activity everywhere.
