𝕿he year is 1877 of the Victorian age, wars rage on from many fronts, Queen Victoria claims another crown to her name, the United States are recovering from a civil war and many areas suffer from the cold and hunger. Many problems remain to be solved, though the world is waking into a fine flower, bloodstained petal by petal blossoming with each passing month further.

The steeds of death cover land after land through mountains, forests and villages alike. No path is too narrow, no creek is too wide as the two figures from opposing sides of the world traverse with missions far too alike, one under the watchful face of the moon and a blanket of stars, the other in the glimmering illumination of thousands of golden fireflies, heavy hooves sending leaves flying, thick branches of trees nestling themselves above her head and keeping the night at bay. Though soon dawn will strike, and there will be no trees to part them any longer, for their destination is quite the same.