The Sky Isles of Lioaratheia

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. 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.