The Siberian tundra stretched endless and white, a frozen graveyard where the wind carried the low moan of forgotten machines and the crunch of ice underfoot sounded like breaking bones. Temperatures hovered at minus forty-three Celsius, the kind of cold that burned lungs and turned exposed skin to leather in minutes. Elara Voss, bundled in scavenged thermal layers that still smelled faintly of Pacifica’s jasmine gardens, stared out the dropship’s frost-rimed viewport as Lian guided the craft down through swirling snow.
