By the time the third day of travel arrived, I had already begun to forget what life on the ground had felt like.
The airship swayed gently with the winds, and our cabin had grown into a space that felt almost… homelike. Books were stacked on the desk, my pistols rested within reach, and Lira's folded dresses occupied the corner chair like ornaments of color. In this little world suspended above the clouds, we had fallen into a rhythm of study, meals, and exploration.
Inside the cabin, Lira and I devoted most of our time to our respective pursuits. She poured over the tomes she had salvaged from the ruins, her golden eyes flicking quickly across lines of script, lips moving silently as she digested forgotten knowledge. She often muttered notes to herself, sometimes pausing to sketch a rune or diagram into her journal.
I, meanwhile, struggled through children's primers, sounding out letters, stringing syllables together, then triumphantly piecing words into meaning. Reading had gone from impenetrable mystery to a slow puzzle, one I could solve with enough patience.
Writing was trickier; too many words refused to obey the sounds they were built from. Still, each day my scrawl looked less like a farmer's scratch and more like something a scholar might begrudgingly accept.
My mana practice had come even further. I could now perceive the flow within nine minutes, down from the eternity it had once taken. Lira had predicted I would progress quickly, but even she admitted I was ahead of schedule.
The searing backlash of that first attempt had never returned, a fact I was both grateful and slightly disappointed by. With no excuse to play the invalid, I could no longer demand Lira's soft hands to soothe me under the guise of "nursing."
When we weren't in the room, we explored the ship. And in those wanderings, one thing became undeniable: I never wanted to be a poor farmer again.
Here, aboard this floating city, I could eat what I liked, walk where I pleased, and purchase tokens of beauty on a whim. Money was no longer a scarce lifeline, it was freedom itself.
Meals had become rituals. Breakfast was almost always smoked meat with eggs, toasted bread drizzled in honey or slathered with fruit jam. Back on the farm, we'd have called that a feast fit for a festival day; now, it was simply "morning." I wondered how I had ever endured watery porridge or bitter vegetable stew before.
Lunch was lighter, often something portable, a meat pie, a skewer of grilled fish, a pocket of spiced rice wrapped in leaves. We carried these back to our cabin, eating side by side while working, crumbs scattering across parchment or pistol steel.
Dinner, however, was an event. Every evening, Lira laid out an outfit for me, insisting I dress "appropriately." I never knew what counted as stylish, but she swore I looked the part. She herself abandoned the leathers of our first meeting in favor of flowing gowns that hugged her tanned curves and shimmered under lantern light.
We always chose one of the finer restaurants. Lira pushed me to fill my plate with foods I'd never tried: creamy soups, roasted duck glazed with orange, noodles tangled with herbs, sauces both fiery and sweet. I discovered pasta was a gift from the gods, roasted meats were joy itself, and vegetables, when seasoned properly, could make me forget every bland boiled carrot of my childhood.
By the end of each meal, I leaned back stuffed and dazed, while Lira smiled knowingly, her own plate clean.
Now, on the third afternoon, I sat on the sofa in our cabin, pistol in hand, focusing on the slow rhythm of mana flowing from my chest, through the steel, and back again. My breathing deepened, each cycle easier than the last.
Beside me, Lira reclined with her head in my lap, one of the ruin's journals open across her chest. Strands of her silver hair spilled like moonlight over my thighs.
"Max," she asked suddenly, her voice carrying the lilt of curiosity, "do you think you'll keep using those pistols? Or are you interested in something else?"
I blinked, breaking concentration. One hand set the pistol aside, while the other absently traced the soft curve of her stomach. "Until I know what my aptitudes are, I'll stick with them. I trained with one long before I met you. Why?"
Her eyes glowed with excitement. "Because I've been reading these texts. That ruin wasn't just any ruin, it was the Arcane Marksman's Lair. He wasn't merely a collector; he was an innovator. Some of his journals are personal, but others…" She tapped the open page. "Designs. Schematics. Theories for new types of mana pistols, and even stranger devices. I have a colleague at the academy who specializes in arcane engineering. If I pass these notes to her, she could reproduce them."
She looked up at me, her lips curling into a sly smile. "Would you test them for me? Be my first official research assistant?"
I chuckled, circling my hand gently on her belly. "So this is how you rope me in. Very well, my first assignment accepted."
"Good." Her eyes sparkled. "Because I think I've just stumbled on a project that could change everything."
I opened my mouth to reply when the world erupted.
A thunderous bang shook the airship, so loud and sharp it echoed through the walls. It was a sound I recognized, the violent roar of my pistol amplified a hundredfold.
Then came the voice, magically projected and resonating through every corridor:
"ATTENTION! INCOMING DEVIL WAVE! ALL PASSENGERS TO THEIR CABINS! ALL AVAILABLE SKYFARERS TO THE DECK!"
The words chilled me. Lira's reaction was instant. She bolted upright, her book tumbling forgotten to the floor.
"Let's go!" she barked, already halfway to the door. "A wave is too much for the ship's escort to handle alone!"
Adrenaline surged through me. I shoved the pistol into its holster, threw on my coat, and sprinted after her. The corridor outside had transformed from quiet to chaos, passengers stumbling for their rooms, crew shouting orders, lanterns flaring to life.
We had to make it to the deck.
Together, we ran.