The taller they stacked Aethelgard, the louder the LowWorld's desperate cries became. I wasn't supposed to be
prowling about tonight—my lungs still felt like they'd
tangoed with a cactus after the Sun-Garden check-up,
and the violet embers in my eyes were blazing like a
feverish bonfire. Yet, there it was—those sirens blaring in
the Sector 7 slums, a deep, ominous hum signaling that a
Gravity Anchor was on the fritz.
If one of those bad boys snapped, the floating island
wouldn't just plummet—it would play a deadly game of tilt-awhirl, squashing millions of Walkers under an avalanche of
marble and gold.
I plunged through the Iron Veil, the thick smog soothing
my fevered skin like a cool balm. As I descended, my
wings ignited like a neon sign, bathing the rusted pipes of
the underbelly in indigo light. I was a phantom on a mission,
and the clock was ticking down fast.
21.
The anchor station was a cathedral of rust. Giant chains, each
link the size of a house, hummed with a violent, magnetic energy.
White-hot sparks showered the ground as the gears ground
against each other, unable to hold the weight of the
"heaven"
above.
The Walker engineers were scrambling, their faces black with
grease, their eyes wide with terror. They knew they were the
first to die if the ceiling came down.
"The secondary piston is jammed!"
a lead engineer screamed. "We
can't reach the manual override! It's too high!"
I landed on a catwalk above them, the metal screeching under
my boots. The heat was immense—200°C at least—enough to sear
the feathers off any Elite scout. But my wings weren't
feathers. They were biological membranes, tough and heatresistant.
"Get back!" I shouted, my voice distorted by my respirator.
22
I didn't wait for their permission. I snapped my wings and
launched into the center of the magnetic storm.
The gravity-warps tugged at my body, trying to pull my wings
from my back. It felt like flying through thick, invisible molasses.
I reached the jammed piston—a massive iron rod that had been
bent by the shifting weight of Aethelgard.
I grabbed the iron with my bare hands, the heat blistering my
palms through my gloves. I braced my feet against the vibrating
wall and pushed. My indigo wings beat with a desperate, frantic
power, their hum drowning out the roar of the machines.
Crack.
The piston groaned. I pushed harder, my violet veins glowing so
brightly they began to bleed light through my skin. With a final,
agonizing surge of strength, the iron snapped back into place.
23
The sirens finally zipped their lips, and the floor's wild
dance mellowed into a calm hum. The anchor was doing its
job like a champ. I slouched against the piston, with my
vision doing the cha-cha-cha. I felt like a deflated balloon,
my heart pounding out a lopsided drum solo, and that
coppery taste of blood was having a party in my mouth.
Down below, the Walkers were throwing a celebratory
shindig, all eyes on me—the violet-winged superheroine who
had just saved their bacon. But their cheers sounded like
whispers from another dimension. My soundtrack was the
jagged symphony of my own breath.
"Look!"
someone yelped. "She's hurt!"
I gave standing a whirl, but my legs turned into jelly, and I
started sliding off the narrow ledge, heading for the
whirling gears below. I shut my eyes, too pooped to flap,
too exhausted to give a hoot.
24
I missed the gears entirely.
Suddenly, I was scooped up by a pair of brawny, armored
arms. The chill of silver and the whisper of white feathers told
me exactly who it was.
Lake had swooped down like an avenging angel, his immaculate
wings now singed, and his face smudged with soot, making him
look almost, dare I say, human. Forget the hero vibe; he was
smoldering with rage. His grip on my waist was like a vise,
uncomfortably tight.
"You reckless fool,
" he hissed, barely audible over the swirling
steam. "You'd risk your life for people who don't even know
your name?"
No time for chit-chat or rebuttals. With a snap of those mighty
wings, he defied gravity, whisking me away from the chaos and
back toward the gilded cage of Aethelgard. He didn't hand me
over or let me plummet. Instead, he just held me close in the
gloom, like a disgruntled vulture carrying its battered trophy
home.
25