A sleek, obsidian mana-cab hovered to a smooth halt just beyond the fortified checkpoint that marked the threshold into the Wind Clan's dominion—an edge of the Russian heartlands cloaked in midnight mist. Its flawless chassis gleamed like a blade under moonlight, casting rippling reflections of the glowing ward-lines embedded in the cobblestones beneath.
Arcane sensors mounted on curved pylons buzzed faintly, scanning the vehicle with pulses of pale blue mana that shimmered across its polished surface like waves on dark water.
Towering sentries flanked the barrier—guards clad in ceremonial armor etched with the swirling sigils of wind. Their helms bore crests of feather-like crystal, and their halberds crackled faintly with bound air mana.
They stood motionless as statues, the kind bred more for tradition than fear, yet the tension in their posture told of training too deep to be unlearned. Every breath of wind that passed them seemed to whisper discipline.
