Indiana side —
Aranya stood on the forward deck. Wind tore at his dark cloak, carrying sparks from the wreckage below. Many flying ships bled smoke, their rune-panels cracked and flickering. Others drifted in slow circles while engineers and spirit-priests worked to keep their levitation cores alive.
Aranya's copper pendant—shaped like a bird with wings of flame—hung heavy against his chest. He touched it once, a silent prayer to the gods of sky and storm. His face showed nothing: calm eyes, hair tied tight, beard trimmed as always.
"Sky Commander," his first officer said, bowing low. "Casualty count from the first assault. Thirty-three ships lost. Beast riders scattered. But the fleet stands."
Aranya nodded. "We hold the sky. That is enough."
The officer's jaw tightened. "Their iron birds cut faster than lightning. We struck many, but their numbers grow."
He felt the weight but let no sign reach his face.
