The morning mist clung to the cobblestones of Azurefall, swirling around the ankles of the students gathered near the main gate. The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke, damp earth, and the lingering, metallic tang of ozone from the previous day's magic.
The rhythmic, grinding rumble of engines cut through the quiet. The Iron-Clad Academy was leaving.
Massive, six-legged Iron-Walkers hissed and clanked, their steam boilers building pressure for the long march back to the Northern encampment. They looked like dormant beasts waking up, shaking the ground with every mechanical shudder.
Squad 7 stood at the front of the crowd. It wasn't a requirement—most students were still sleeping off the banquet—but after the blood and bruises of the Proving Grounds, it felt necessary. A closing of the circle.
