Kyreth's hull let out a long, exhausted groan as it descended through the cloud-veiled back of Vaeloris. The sky currents, ever-shifting around the floating armada, brushed against the sails like murmuring voices—soft, but watchful.
Below, the Fleet stretched across Vaeloris' vast spine like a mosaic stitched from starlight and the dreams of the past. Countless skyships—long since grounded—had been moored and repurposed, their hulls rising like temples and towers, fused into one colossal, floating sprawl. Bridges of radiant light and tethered aetherglass crisscrossed the air, connecting vessels and platforms that hovered gently with the pulse of Vaeloris beneath. Faint warmth radiated from crystalline pylons, and mist curled around the feet of robed figures who moved in silence or chant.
Windchimes of starlace turned with no wind, singing notes that shimmered with memory. From balconies of driftwood and boneglass, children with glimmering eyes watched passing skybeasts and dragons veered respectfully from the beast's sacred currents. Traders balanced crates of infused fruit and starstone, while sentinels in plated windweave armor strode the bridges with glaives at their backs. Runes older than written time still shimmered along ancient hulls, pulsing with breathless power—as though the ships themselves remembered when the sky was whole.
At the heart of it all, atop the grandest vessel-turned-citadel—the Skyhaven—a long pennant snapped once, then fell still. It was woven from living skyroot, a translucent bark-like fabric grown only in the breathfields of Astheria. The banner shimmered faintly, mirroring the skies above and below—marking not allegiance, but presence.
They had arrived.
As soon as Kyreth docked, they were greeted not with welcome, but urgency. A scribe in robes of dusk-gray met them on the platform, head bowed, hands gloved.
"The Council is already convened, Captain Sorsei." The scribe said, voice echoing strangely. "The skylog entry from your vessel arrived at the first Highglow. You are…expected."
Finn blinked. "Whatever that means, it's awesome!"
The scribe offered no answer, merely gestured for them to follow.
"Wait up!" Finn scrambled down first, practically bouncing with excitement.
Mira hesitated only a moment before climbing down after him, feeling the compass stir in her pocket—a faint thrum against her thigh.
Sorsei leaned on the rail, brow furrowed.
"Strange," she murmured to herself, checking a skypad. "We took paths that should've cut through the tidewinds—but the Fleet says two full Flows passed since we left the Southern Arc. Ath'lynn?"
Her gaze drifted upward, steps brisk and fluid. "No storms. No tanglewinds. Just… silence."
"Flows… You mean—two days have passed here in the Fleet?" Elias asked, following Sorsei down.
She glanced up at him, smirking. "Quick are we? Orya'raen, you're getting the hang of it."
"But it only took us hours to get here." Elias said as they landed, stumped.
Mira was already crouching low on the ground, tracing Vaeloris' smooth, iridescent scales with trembling fingers—utterly mesmerized by the warmth and power that pulsed beneath her touch.
Finn, bug-eyed with curiosity, was already asking questions to the scribe on the far end, who only offered a tight smile and darted his eyes toward Sorsei with a silent, desperate plea for rescue.
Elias leaned in and whispered, "Is a two-day distortion... bad?"
"No," Sorsei said. "Naer'thul. But it's not normal, either. Not when we basically took a shortcut."
She gave a quick nod to the relieved scribe. "Raghu, I see you are already acquainted with Finn."
He merely gave a reluctant smile and guided them towards the Skyhaven—the political and spiritual heart of the Skyborn Fleet, where the Windseers' Council gathered.
Its Grand Hall of Winds rose like the inside of a hollowed spire, ribbed with vaulting arches spun from skyroot and light-infused stone—open to the skies, yet impossibly contained. Runes shifted across the ceiling like drifting constellations and the air around them shimmered faintly, heavy with remembrance. Light flickered subtly through the dome, as if the atmosphere itself responded to thought.
Seven Windseers sat at a crescent crystalline dais, robes marked with flowing lines and colors representing their aligned course—core tenets of their tradition and identity, both mystical philosophy and structured path. They were old, young, masked, bare-faced.
From among them, a sharp voice rang clear.
"You arrive," intoned the eldest Windseer—Taren Vayl—with eyes like clouded silver. "After two Flows passed the Fleet."
Elias, Mira, and Finn stood at the center with Sorsei in front, flanked by quiet guards clad in veiled armor.
"It seemed so," Sorsei stepped forward. "We left the Skygate just Spirals ago. Ath'ruun khaar. How is that possible?"
"Thir'lynn. You passed over the Maelstrom Belt—Stormforge's territory," whispered an elder Windseer with braided hair wrapped in ribbons of pale silk, her voice a wavering breeze. The speaker was Vaelora the Threaded, her many braids bound in starlight cords.
A murmur rippled across the council. The windchimes that hung above whispered weak notes as if stirred by the tension in the room, not wind.
Sorsei bowed slightly, hesitant. "The path we took—unorthodox, yes—but still direct. I made sure we weren't spotted."
"I have a reason for such a move, I would've never done it otherwise. Lyth'naer." She added, glancing at the siblings. "With that said, our times should have not diverged that much."
The Windseers who have been eyeing them stared in silence.
"It wouldn't have," the youngest one in pale blue finally said, "but the Vault stirred."
Sorsei froze.
Another Windseer—a sharply-bearded man whose mantle bore the broken-circle of the Tideward, Kephren Alos—clicked his tongue. "A temporal drift had happened. You passed through stillwater while we endured rapids. The sky remembers things at different speeds."
"Like time's got whirlpools," Mira muttered to herself.
One of the robed figures—a slender young woman with an opalescent veil—spoke to Sorsei. "The Relay Node pulsed, even before they had crossed, Captain. Oth'rath. As the Vault listens, time has changed. By then, we heard the whispers again."
"What?" Finn scratched his head. "You knew we were coming?"
"The sky remembers deep events even before they occur, young one." Maereth Aelune, the veiled one, said.
Finn squinted. "Wait… the sky remembers before things happen?"
The Windseer only offered a thin, mysterious smile, almost hidden behind her veil.
"You. You carry it, don't you?" Vaelora turned her attention to Mira, gaze narrowing. "The compass. Ath'lynn? It hums against the old echoes."
Mira flinched but before she could respond, another voice rang—Seluin Mor, the youngest among the council, his eyes bright with anticipation.
"She bears the Starburn," he said. "The mark lies beneath the skin. She may not yet see it, but it flares like sunfire through the glass."
Mira shifted uneasily as she unconsciously closed her left hand in a fist. Elias glanced at her, frustrated.
The mute Windseer, Orin Shayr, signed aetherglyphs that burned in the air—blazing for a bit then gone.
"It says Mira's the one they saw," Sorsei whispered to the siblings, brows knitted in confusion. "Stormborne. Starburned. The Branded Seer?"
The silver-eyed Windseer scoffed from the opposite side. "Or she's just a child with a scar and a stolen relic. We place too much weight on ancient riddles."
"It is not riddles that bind the compass," Vaelora snapped, more because of Taren's remarks on the riddles.
The eldest Windseer stood, his mantle rippling. "If this Compass is truly bound to her, let it choose. I shall see with my own eyes, draen'khar!"
At this, Elias stepped forward, shielding his sister.
Hesitantly, Mira slowly removed the compass from her pocket. It pulsed softly, a cold azure glow—quiet but alive—tracing its ancient ring, as if recognizing the chamber.
She nudged Elias to step aside and offered it toward the dais.
The Seer extended his hand, reaching for it. The moment his fingers touched the metal's edge, the compass hissed and flared with blinding heat. He cried out and recoiled, his fingertips reddened, smoke curling between them.
Gasps echoed across the chamber.
Mira snatched it back instinctively. The light calmed as a low hum resonated through the stone beneath their feet.
"It burns those who do not listen," Maereth said, her soft voice hanging like a falling thread.
"It sings to her," she added as her veil glowed faintly, illuminating her shrouded features for a second.
"As I said, the Compass shall only stir for the one marked by the stormlight of the Broken Horn." Seluin murmured, "T'haelos'ki! She's the bearer."
The Tideward Windseer nodded once. "A tune lost to us. But not to her."
Whispers stirred among the remaining Windseers.
"This is folly," said Naerys Vex, Sorsei's mother, her voice edged with warning. "The Vault stirs. Khaar'thel. To bring her here is to draw kindling to the flame."
Another voice joined her. Vaelora again. "I have seen the unweaving. Threads of light swallowed in fire. Ith'rex! The shape of her in that vision. She's a fracture waiting to spread."
"And yet she came," Seluin shot back. "Without her, the compass would still be dormant."
"Without her, the Vault would still sleep," Orin Shayr, silently gesturing with one hand—a symbol of warning.
Silence fell. The tension cracked like frost underfoot.
Elias stepped forward toward the council, protective, his voice sharp. "Enough. If you're going to speak in riddles, then speak them to someone who has time. What do you see in Mira? What do you want from her?"
The Windseers didn't answer and rose one by one, quiet as mist.
"Stop! Where are you going?!" Elias shouted. "We're not done 'till you give us answers!"
Finn grabbed his arm, holding him back.
Mira had gone pale. The compass in her hand grew warm.
Then it pulsed.
Hard.
The Windseers halted motionless on their feet—all eyes on Mira.
A pulse, out of nowhere, surged outward—silent but full of weight. A beam of blue light burst upward from the compass, scattering runes like stardust into the dome above. Aetherglass panels around the room flickered violently—fractal patterns of Celestial Runes dancing, rearranging, reacting. The Relay Node across the Fleet ignited—deeply felt by the council, with cascading lines of light—glowing awake, unseen for generations.
Windchimes clattered in a frenzy, their glass and metal voices tangling in the wind like a chorus of anxious spirits. Everyone stumbled as the ground beneath them trembled weakly—Vaeloris shifted with a low, tumultuous groan, as if an ancient breath had stirred within the great beast's heart.
The chamber dimmed.
And then—
A voice, fragmented and layered, echoed through the chamber:
"The mark upon the sky returns… and the Horn listens…"
It didn't come from the Windseers.
Mira swayed. The compass dulled in her grasp as her knees buckled.
A final echo, broken but steady, shimmered through the glass above. "She bears the weight of what was broken. And the Vault begins again."
Mira cried out as her eyes rolled back and collapsed.
"Mira!" Elias caught her before she hit the floor, lowering her gently.
She wasn't unconscious—but somewhere between waking and something else. Her lips moved, but no words came.
Then silence.
"Taen'darun! She saw something," Kephren breathed. "We must listen."
Taren stood firm. "No. We must decide. She is either salvation... or spark to the next Catastrophe."
Elias turned to them and stepped forward, his tone harder. "Say what you mean. You keep rambling. If she's in danger, you tell us."
The braided elder Windseer walked back towards them. "She bears a mark tied to the awakening of the Horn. One not meant for mortal skin, ir'nar. And yet the compass—an artifact of celestial resonance—chooses her soul."
"She shouldn't be able to hold it," Seluin muttered.
"She shouldn't exist in the Relays' memory," added Kephren.
"And yet she does," Naerys said. "The Vault echoes her already."
Taren whispered, barely audible. "The compass never should have awoken. Zal'khor. Not until the last island fell."
Finn whispered, "What does that mean?"
No answer came.
"What does that mean?" Elias echoed, voice sharp with warning.
Before anyone could answer, Sorsei moved to his side and gently blocked his path. Her hand rested lightly against his shoulder, eyes not unkind.
Elias' breath caught. "Move."
"Let me speak with you," she said quietly. "Dral'then s'kahl. You deserve to know who stands before you."
"No," Elias took a half-step closer to Mira. "They knew something. The truth. I wanna know if she's in danger."
"Don't make the skies choose, boy." Sorsei's expression was calm, but her hand was on the hilt of the stormblade at her hip. Not threatening. Not yielding either.
"Lyth'naer. They're saying she's the danger. " She added, her voice was quiet.
"She's not a threat. She's my sister." He stared at her, fire rising in his chest—but so was fear. Not fear for his life but for his sister's. "I need to know."
Sorsei's gaze didn't waver. "And would it help to answer that now? When the Vault stirs and your sister's spirit flickers like skyfire?"
Elias clenched his fists. "So what—she's some kind of key, they said? Or bait?"
The compass, now glowing weakly, gave off a low thrum—as if still listening. The Windseers remained standing—unmoved, unreadable.
Sorsei stepped closer, her face leaning to his, dropping her voice. "Mira touched something old. She carries something that responds. And now the Relays—the sky-paths themselves—are shifting. Saer'eth, that's not nothing."
"But what does it mean, Sorsei?" Elias' voice cracked. "Just tell me she's going to be alright."
Sorsei said nothing for a long time, straightening herself.
"That's not a promise I can make."
Elias narrowed his gaze, his voice icy, "You said you're gonna get us to safety. You promised the Skyborn will not harm us."
The council was dispersing once again, silent shadows vanishing into their sanctum.
Finn knelt beside Mira, who now lay against the smooth, glassy floor of the Grand Hall. Her eyes fluttered beneath closed lids. Sweat beaded her brow, though the chamber was cold.
Elias still stood by Sorsei, sighing in defeat, his jaw clenched. The fire in him dwindled beneath the weight of helplessness.
"Mira?" Finn whispered, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek, eyes welling with tears as flashbacks from the lighthouse unfolded in his mind. "You alright?"
Her lips trembled. Her voice was barely audible.
"The sky remembers… but it doesn't forgive."
He blinked. "What?"
"They were... watching. Before the fall. Before the burn."
A gust of wind stirred the chamber—though the dome was sealed.
"She listens, still."
The whisper wasn't Mira's. It came from nowhere, from everywhere.
Finn was stunned. That voice... it followed him. A sound like thunder curled at the edges of thought.
Windseer Orin—barefoot, robes of layered mist-grey and flowing hair like seasilk—had been the last to leave. They halted in the archway. Their head turned sharply, as if caught by something unseen.
"Nyxthir…" they thought, breath hitched. "The storm... sees her."
They turned fully—eyes narrowed, lips parted—but did not step any further. Just stood, staring toward the girl and the boy before them, one hand tracing runes in the air.
Sorsei noticed Orin's gesture, and moved quickly. "Out. Now. The chamber's humming."
"What now?" Elias called.
But Sorsei was already lifting Mira gently from the ground. "Thir'lynn! It means the Vault Relay's not just stirred. Something else is listening back."
Finn's gaze flicked to the compass, still clutched weakly in Mira's hand.
It pulsed again.
Once.
Then went still.