The artificial sun of Midgard flickered, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the chrome-slicked streets of the mega-metropolis. In the district of Aethelgard, the warmth was a luxury bought with "Ymir’s Blood," a glowing fuel that hummed within the city's veins.
"The hospitals have ten minutes of reserve," her sister-in-arms, Astrid, crackled over the comms. "If we don't find a new source of Ymir's Blood, the lower levels won't survive the night."
As the sun began its artificial rise, Eir returned, the stolen fuel canisters glowing like embers in her hands. The dome flickered back to life. She was a warrior of the new age, a shield for the weak, and a maiden of the iron dawn.