Ardyn was tinkering with a Galegear—one of the aerial rigs powered by wind-infused Aerolith stones—coaxing a jammed stabilizer ring back into place. Then a sound like thunder rising from the depths cracked the air, and the world tilted.
"Airquake!" he shouted.
The mechanic shop shook beneath his feet as wind roared through the cracks, rattling the rafters and flinging tools across the floor. Shelves broke loose from their brackets.
Then came a deep groan, low and wrong, rising beneath his boots.
The floor split—followed by a shriek of tearing metal.
Ardyn stumbled back just in time as part of the front platform sheared away, dragged into open sky. Only a few thick suspension wires kept the torn section from falling entirely—the planks hung tilted in the air, swaying, creaking.
And on them—the Cirran—the owner of the Galegear Ardyn had been fixing.
The Cirran sprawled near the edge, clutching the rim of a cracked beam with one arm. His other hung limp at his side, twisted at an unnatural angle. The wind pulled at him, trying to drag him off.
The Galegear boot vibrated in Ardyn's hand. He looked down—the Aerolith was pulsing.
Ardyn blinked.
That wasn't possible.
He was standing at the edge of the collapsed dock. The Cirran—twelve, maybe fifteen feet below—still clung to the broken support beam. Yet the Aerolith, the core embedded in the boot, was glowing. It was only supposed to react when its wearer was within a few inches. Not twelve feet. Not like this.
The quake subsided with one last rumble—the howling wind dropped into a low moan, like a giant exhaling. But the damage was already done. The cargo wire holding the platform creaked, threads snapping one by one.
His gaze flicked to the Cirran, then back down at the glowing Galegear in his hand.
The man's face twisted in panic. "Kid! Don't—don't even think about it! Just call for help!"
The cargo wires groaned, creaking like stretched steel on the brink of snapping. There wasn't enough time to call for help—the wires would give way any second now, or the Cirran's grip would fail.
Ardyn dropped quickly to one knee, fumbling to fasten the Galegear to his right boot. The internal brace hissed to life, bolts snapping into place around his ankle like iron fingers clenching tight.
"Kid, no!" the Cirran shouted again as Ardyn stood at the edge.
And he jumped.
Ardyn screamed, plummeting downward—right foot stretched out first, left foot bent beneath him, both arms spread wide like wings desperate to catch the wind.
Then a sudden jolt shot through his leg as the Aerolith flared bright. With a sharp hiss of compressed air and a powerful kick, the Galegear boot fired—not just slowing his fall, but halting it entirely.
His breath came in sharp gasps, heart pounding like it was trying to tear through his chest. For a moment, all he could do was hang there—suspended midair—eyes wide, lungs straining, the rush of near-death still roaring in his ears.
Then his senses returned.
He glanced around—below him, an endless sea of clouds rolled like a frozen ocean, glowing softly in the fractured light. All around, at eye level and beyond, hovered the sky isles—some small as drifting stones, others sprawling with jagged cliffs, windmills, and silver-leaved trees. They floated at different distances, scattered across the horizon.
"Look up here, kid!" the Cirran shouted.
Ardyn glanced up—and only then realized he'd fallen just a few feet past the man, hovering slightly below the shattered platform.
"You're doing great," the Cirran called down, voice tight but steady. "Don't look below. Focus on your breathing. Feel the Aerolith—sync with it."
Ardyn tried to steady himself, but the moment he shifted his weight, the boot jolted—his body tilted hard to the side. He spun halfway, swaying awkwardly as the sky and clouds blurred in his vision. His arms flailed, reaching for balance as the Galegear hissed beneath him, struggling to respond.
Ardyn forced a breath through his clenched teeth, willing his racing heart to slow. Steady. Steady.
And then—he felt it.
A soft vibration thrummed from the Aerolith, subtle at first, then stronger—matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. Like it was listening. Like it was syncing.
He shifted again, more controlled this time. Arms stretched wider for balance. Instead of letting his left foot dangle, he placed it lightly against the right, like stepping onto invisible ground.
The Galegear responded.
With a low hiss and a push of air, he began to rise—gradually, smoothly. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a little, replaced with awe and focus.
He floated up, climbing past broken beams and frayed cables, the ruined edge of the dock drawing closer. The Cirran was watching, clinging tight, his expression a mix of pain and surprise.
When Ardyn reached just below his level, the Cirran gritted his teeth. "Kid, listen—my other arm's busted. So here's what we're gonna do."
He nodded toward Ardyn's still-extended arm. "You hold that out. I'm gonna let go with this one and fall toward you—don't grab, just brace. I'll swing my good hand to your shoulder to balance us out. Got it?"
Ardyn gave a short nod, his throat too tight for words. He adjusted his posture, centering his weight as best he could, arm stretched out and ready.
The Cirran drew a sharp breath. "Okay. Here it comes. One..."
Ardyn's muscles tensed.
"Two..."
A breath caught in his chest.
"Three!"
The Cirran released his grip.
He fell fast—faster than Ardyn expected. Wind rushed between them, and for a heartbeat, Ardyn thought he'd miss. But then—
Impact.
The Cirran's weight hit his outstretched arm like a swung hammer. Ardyn's body dipped from the force, the Galegear boot hissing to compensate. He braced, muscles locking, heart hammering again. The Cirran's good arm snapped out, gripping Ardyn's shoulder.
They swayed. Just slightly.
For a few long, breathless seconds, they hung there—suspended, steady, not falling.
"You got me, kid," the Cirran said, his voice low with disbelief.
Ardyn didn't answer. He was too busy breathing.
"Now," the Cirran said between breaths, "do exactly what you did before. Breathe. Feel the Aerolith. Let it match you."
Ardyn nodded faintly, focused inward. His heart still raced, but he steadied it—just enough. The vibration answered. The Galegear pulsed beneath him like a living thing.
He exhaled slowly. The boot gave a soft hiss.
They began to rise.
It was slower this time—weighted, uneven. The Galegear strained, the internal brace emitting a low whine. Ardyn clenched his jaw. His leg trembled under the strain, but still they climbed—inch by inch, air rushing around them, the ruined dock growing larger above.
"You're doing fine," the Cirran said. "Almost there."
The edge of the platform came into reach. Jagged planks. Frayed rope. Splintered beams.
"Alright," the Cirran said, voice firm now. "We're gonna drift forward. Lean slightly in the direction of the platform—subtle. Too much and the boot will overcompensate. Ready?"
Together, they shifted. A faint hiss. The Galegear responded, pushing them forward in a shallow glide. Wind pressed against them. The weight tugged at Ardyn's balance, but he adjusted, breath by breath, micro-movements in sync with the Aerolith's pulse.
Closer. Closer.
Their feet hit the edge awkwardly—Ardyn's first, then the Cirran's. It was too much.
They tumbled.
Ardyn crashed shoulder-first into the platform, the Cirran rolling off him in a heap. Dust and splinters flew. Tools clattered somewhere behind them.
Silence.
Then a sharp laugh from the Cirran as he lay flat on his back. "That… wasn't half bad."
Ardyn groaned, staring up at the fractured sky above. "I'm alive. Somehow."
"Yeah, kid. We both are."
* * *
Windmere wasn't just one sky isle—it was a scattered cluster of them, strung together like a constellation just beginning to form. At its heart floated the largest isle, often called Windmere Proper, where the main market, council tower, and windwright guildhouses stood. It loomed like a great, grounded ship in the clouds—wide, weathered, and bustling with skyfolk who came and went on tethered gliders or the aging windtram that groaned along its rail every morning.
But it was the smaller isles that gave Windmere its soul.
They hung at different elevations like drifting lanterns, some barely the size of a city square, others large enough to host a whole neighborhood. Rope-bridges, glide-lines, and suspended walkways stitched them together—swaying with the wind, creaking with footsteps, and shimmering faintly at night when lanterns lit up like stars. These isles had names: Tetherspire, Minnow's Leap, Driftrock. People called them villages, outposts, even "sky-streets." But they were all part of Windmere.
Ardyn lived with his grandfather on Brimthorn, one of the outermost isles. It was a narrow stretch of rock, just wide enough for a cluster of crooked homes. At the very edge, where the land sloped dangerously toward the open sky, sat a two-story mechanic shop cobbled together from salvaged parts and shipwrecked hulls. Pipes and exhaust vents poked out at odd angles, and a rusted turbine mounted on the roof whined faintly whenever the crosswinds rolled in.
Inside, it smelled of old oil, burnt copper, and salty wind. Gears ticked on wall-mounted racks, and a faded blueprint of an early Galegear prototype was pinned above the hearth. Half the ground floor was workspace, with lift platforms and magnetic clamps for repairing anything from gliders to breeze engines. The other half held a cluttered living area—mismatched chairs, a sagging couch, and shelves full of dusty model wings and Aerolith shards. The upper floor was their sleeping quarters, though Ardyn often crashed on the workbench when he got too deep into a project.
Maren, his grandfather, had once been a windwright of some renown—a fixer, flyer, and inventor. He'd lost most of his reputation and half the mobility in his left leg after a fall during a storm test flight. Since then, he'd settled into a quieter life, teaching Ardyn the craft and muttering old wariness about "idiot sky-racers and council types with no sense of torque."
Together, they ran the Brimthorn Workshop—patching up broken Galegear, tinkering with windhoppers, and doing the odd custom commission for anyone who could pay in coin, Aerolith, or food. It wasn't glamorous, but it was home.
That morning, however, felt different.
The usual breeze that swept through Windmere was sluggish, like even the winds hadn't quite woken up yet. A pale orange mist still clung to the hanging bridges, blurring the edges of the nearby isles and casting everything in a soft, surreal light. It smelled faintly of burnt ozone and cracked stone—the lingering scent of the airquake.
Ardyn had been up before dawn, boots crunching over the shards of glass still littering the shop floor. One of the upper struts had snapped loose during the airquake, collapsing part of the overhang that shielded their tool racks. He'd set it aside for now, focusing instead on sorting the salvageable parts from the ruined ones. Gears, tubing, Aerolith fragments… not everything could be saved, but most things, with enough patience, could be patched back together. That was the way of Brimthorn.
Maren emerged not long after, his long coat dusty and smudged, beard tangled from sleep. He didn't speak at first—just stooped beside Ardyn, picked up a bent wrench, and began hammering it straight again on a slab of metal.
"Airquake hit harder than we thought," Maren muttered eventually, squinting at a half-collapsed shelf of parts. "That top vent's toast. Might have to replace it."
Ardyn nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "We'll have to make a supply run to the Windmere Proper. Maybe trade off some of the Aerolith shards from that old compressor."
Maren gave a grunt of agreement but didn't look up. "No hurry. Everyone's picking up pieces. Sky Courier hasn't even flown since yesterday. Whole isle's limping."
Ardyn exhaled, glancing toward the hazy silhouettes of the bridges that stretched from Brimthorn toward the distant core of Windmere. The central isle—larger, more fortified—rose faintly through the morning mist like the crown of a drifting mountain. From this far out, its spires and windcatchers seemed untouched by the airquake. But the outer isles, including theirs, had borne the brunt of it. Swaying platforms, broken tethers, and trails of smoke told a quieter story of scattered damage and strained repairs.
It wasn't the first airquake they'd lived through—but this one had left a strange silence in its wake. Not the absence of noise, but a kind of stillness in the air itself, like something had shifted beneath the wind currents, just enough to be felt in the bones.
Far above, the low whir of propellers cut across the sky—a Sky-Gilder drone, its hull marked with the gold-and-indigo crest of Windmere's Council, was drifting toward Brimthorn with purpose.
The Sky-Gilder drew closer, its sleek body glinting with morning light as it hovered just above the edge of Brimthorn's landing platform. A sudden gust of wind spun its rotors in place, holding steady despite the uneven thermals still curling off the fractured isle.
Ardyn stepped out from beneath the workshop awning, shielding his eyes with a grease-streaked hand. Beside him, Maren limped to a stop, a coil of spare wiring slung over his shoulder.
"Official drone?" Maren squinted. "Looks like it came from the Windmere Council."
Ardyn nodded, uneasy. "Yeah. It's got a seal."
With a quiet hiss, the drone extended a narrow compartment from its underside. A metal scroll case clicked out and dropped lightly into a padded tray below it. Then, without ceremony, the drone pulled upward and vanished into the sky with the same speed it arrived—leaving only a swirl of wind and rising dust.
Ardyn approached the case slowly. It bore no markings besides the Council's insignia: a stylized vortex encircling a set of wings. The seal hadn't been broken.
He unclasped it, heart thudding a little faster than he liked. Inside was a folded sheet of vellum, edges crisp and official. The ink shimmered faintly, written in the formal script used only in high civic matters—usually reserved for invitations, promotions... or summons.
He read aloud:
To Ardyn Cale of Brimthorn Isle,
The Windmere Cirran Division hereby requests your immediate presence at the Skyrink Arena for a preliminary assessment. Your recent involvement in the recovery of an injured Cirran has been noted. Further details will be disclosed upon arrival.
By order of Captain Seris Dahn.
Ardyn blinked. "Assessment? For what?"
Maren let out a low whistle. "Looks like the Cirrans noticed more than you thought."
Ardyn stared at the letter. It was light in his hand—but heavy with what it meant.
* * *
The wind carried a rare stillness that morning.
No chimes, no distant hammering. Just the soft hiss of canvas tarps catching the breeze as Ardyn packed what little he owned into a weathered satchel.
He didn't have much—just a few tools and a set of grease-stained gloves. But his hands moved slower than usual, lingering on each item like they might suddenly convince him to stay.
Maren stood a few paces away, arms crossed and jaw set like stone. He hadn't said much after reading the invitation, just let the silence speak louder than any outburst.
"You don't have to do this," Maren finally muttered, voice rough. "They only want you because someone else broke their arm. You're not ready for their kind of skywork."
Ardyn didn't look up. "I know. But… I need to see it. I need to know what's out there."
Maren exhaled, slow and tight, then turned away. He didn't argue further—but he didn't offer a goodbye, either.
Ardyn slung the satchel over his shoulder and scanned what was left of the shop. A tangle of scorched metal, splintered wood, and the familiar shape of their old tool rack, half-buried under fallen beams. He bent down to clear the mess, not really expecting to salvage anything—just needing his hands to be busy.
That's when his fingers brushed something cold and smooth beneath a collapsed workbench.
A latch.
He paused, pushed aside the debris, and uncovered a small compartment—hidden so seamlessly into the bench's underside that even he hadn't noticed it before. With a creak and a soft click, it opened.
Inside lay a single Aerolith shard, no larger than a skipping stone. It flickered dimly, its pale blue light pulsing like a heartbeat beneath dust and grime.
Ardyn reached out slowly. And the moment his skin neared it, the Aerolith flared—bright and sudden, like lightning trapped in crystal.