Aera stood barefoot on the edge of the floating cliff, arms spread wide like wings, hair whipped into the wind. The sky sang beneath his toes — a low, endless hum only the Islanders seemed to hear. Below him, the clouds rippled like an ocean made of silk, and somewhere far below that ocean, the earth churned far out of reach.
But Aera didn't care about the world below.
He lived among the wind.
The breeze curled gently around his fingers, tugging at his loose sleeves, playfully lifting the edge of his tunic. The twin iron fans tucked into his sash clinked together as he shifted his weight. He closed his eyes.
Aera exhaled — not to push the air away, but to invite it in.
He leapt.
The wind caught him.
He spun once in the air, body twisting in a controlled arc, then landed on a curved stone platform that jutted out from the cliff's side like a crescent moon. His feet hit with a gentle thrum. Aera laughed, the sound carried away by the wind like a child's kite.
Behind him, the Sky Islands spread in every direction — dozens of floating landmasses, some no larger than a cottage, others wide enough to hold entire forests. Bridges made of rope, stone, and pure light crisscrossed between them like threads of an enormous tapestry. In the center of it all stood the Skyheart Spire — a vertical column of wind-carved rock that housed the oldest shrine and the highest dwellings.
He could see children gliding down wide kites from the mid-level terraces, old wind-priests in long robes watching them from the balconies, and traders in windboats coasting between skyharbors with colorful sails.
This place — these heights — were home.
Aera took another breath. The air here always smelled like something ancient and pure. Windgrass. Skyflowers. A hint of ozone. "What do you think?" he asked aloud.
The wind offered no answer, only a swirl of petals from a blossom tree behind him.
He looked over his shoulder.
The petals weren't falling. They were spiraling — upward.
He tilted his head. "Huh…"
He returned to his usual path, following a trail of glowing windstones up a spiraling incline that curved along the cliffs. His destination was a quiet spot called Whisperfall, where a gentle stream of skywater flowed from one island to another like a hanging ribbon. It wasn't a place most people visited anymore — too far out, too close to the edge of the drift. But that made it perfect for thinking, and dreaming.
And Aera dreamed often.
He dreamed of where the wind went when it disappeared over the edge of the world. He dreamed of finding a sky island no one had charted. He dreamed of why the wind whispered things only he seemed to hear.
But mostly, he dreamed of doing something that mattered.
At the top of the trail, he paused at a small shrine built of pale stone. Vines had overgrown it, but he knew the symbol carved in its center: a swirling spiral, half faded by time.
He placed his hand gently on the carving.
"Guide my steps, Keeper of Air," he murmured. "And don't let me fall off anything stupid."
A laugh fluttered in his chest as he moved on.
The view from Whisperfall was always breathtaking. Wisps of white and silver cloud drifted lazily below, while the skywater ribbon arced gracefully between two floating crags. Its surface shimmered like glass, reflecting not the sky, but the stars, as if it remembered night even in the daylight.
Aera sat on the edge and pulled out one of his fans. It was folded — a simple iron and bamboo weave etched with flowing glyphs — but when he flicked it open, the air around him shifted. A soft gust lifted the edge of his hair. The leaves stirred.
He smiled.
With a sharp motion, he sliced the fan forward. Wind whipped outward in a focused burst, parting the mist like a curtain.
Still got it, he thought.
He leaned back on his hands, letting the fan rest in his lap, and gazed upward. A few skyhawks circled the higher peaks, riding thermal currents with ease.
He envied them — but only a little.
Because Aera could fly in his own way.
Just as he closed his eyes to listen again — to that distant hum beneath the wind — he heard something else.
A flutter. Like wings.
He turned.
Perched on a stone pillar nearby was a white bird — sleek, long-tailed, and unfamiliar. Its feathers shimmered faintly with blue light, and its eyes met Aera's with an intelligence that startled him.
"Hey there," he whispered.
The bird didn't move.
Aera stood slowly. The wind was still. Too still.
Then the bird opened its beak — not to sing, but to speak.
Not in words. Not in voice. But something pressed into Aera's mind like a memory he didn't own:
"The wind forgets nothing. And neither will you."
The bird took flight.
And as it vanished into the sky, a single feather drifted down, glowing like starlight.
Aera caught the feather before it could vanish into the wind.
It was warm. Not in temperature, but in presence — like it held a memory that wasn't his. The glow faded quickly, but even when the light was gone, he couldn't bring himself to let go.
He tucked it into a hidden inner pocket of his tunic and stood still for a long while, staring at the horizon.
The bird had vanished beyond the Skyheart Spire. But something had changed. The wind wasn't playful anymore. It had gone… quiet.
Too quiet.
By the time Aera returned to the village tiers, the lull in the air had passed, but a subtle unease lingered. He didn't speak of the bird — not yet. The elders always said some things were best kept between you and the wind.
Instead, he wandered the market paths, exchanging grins with the traders and snagging a fruit bun from a friend's stall without paying. The air buzzed again — not with magic, but with life.
Children chased one another down winding bridges with gliders strapped to their arms. Windpriests chanted blessings at the Temple of Breath, ribbons dancing in tune with their hands. Sky-whales moaned far off in the drift, their long fins gliding through currents high above.
It was all normal. Everything he'd grown up loving.
But normal didn't feel quite right anymore.
Later that evening, Aera returned home — a round structure built into the cliffside with a curved, shell-like roof and soft wind chimes lining the windows. His older sister, Naeli, was inside, braiding her long silver hair as she listened to news being shared over the wind-radio orb.
"—another surge reported near the southern archipelago. Winds are fluctuating in dangerous patterns, and the Stormwardens have been dispatched—"
Naeli flicked the orb off.
"You're late," she said without looking.
"I was dancing with birds."
Naeli raised an eyebrow.
"The talking kind," Aera added.
Now she turned. "Seriously?"
He shrugged and flopped down beside her, laying his fans across his knees. "Not talking talking. But you know. Wind stuff. Whispery vibes. Mystical warnings."
"Great," she muttered. "You found a hallucination with feathers."
He grinned. "I missed you, too."
Naeli rolled her eyes, but he caught the twitch of a smile she tried to hide.
That night, Aera stood outside under a canopy of stars. The Sky Islands drifted slowly in the dark, their lights twinkling like distant ships. Wind blew gently, and he let it carry him into sleep as he leaned against the outer railing.
But just before he closed his eyes completely… he heard something.
Not the wind. Not the chimes. Not even the deep whale songs in the drift.
A faint, barely audible crack.
Like stone being split… far away.
And beneath it… a whisper that didn't belong to the wind:
"One thread has snapped."
He opened his eyes — but there was nothing there.
Far above Whisperfall — higher than the Spire's crown, higher than most dared to climb — a small sky ledge jutted out from a jagged island peak. The wind was thinner here, sharper. The stars seemed closer.
A figure stood on the ledge, cloak fluttering like a second skin.
They leaned on a tall staff, its top shaped like a spiral of gently curving metal — nothing ornate, but marked with tiny carvings that pulsed faintly with windlight. Their face was hidden beneath a loose hood, shadowed in the moon's pale wash. Only their smile was visible — soft, amused.
They watched Aera.
Not through binoculars. Not through magic.
Just… watched. As if they had known where to find him all along.
Below, the boy leaned over the railing of his home, staring into the stars with quiet curiosity.
The figure's staff pulsed once.
"He's light on his feet already," they whispered to the wind. "Good. We'll need him dancing when the storm begins."
A gust curled around them like a laugh.
Then, in a blink, the figure was gone.
Down in the village, Aera blinked, sensing something.
He turned slowly. The wind had shifted.
Only a little.
But it had shifted.
It blew colder than before — not chilling, not threatening, but new. Like a stranger's breath on the back of your neck.
He shook off the thought and glanced toward the peak of Skyheart.
Nothing.
No sign of movement.
Still, he made a mental note of the strange breeze and stepped back inside, fingers brushing the folded fan at his hip. Not because he expected trouble — he rarely did — but because something told him...
Tomorrow would not be the same.
The next morning, the air felt different.
Not in any way most Islanders would notice — the sky was clear, the clouds soft and low, and the driftwinds calm — but to Aera, something underneath the breeze felt off-pitch. Like the air was humming in a different key.
Still, he tried to shrug it off.
He spent most of the day helping repair a glider wing with Naeli, dodging chores, laughing with his friends, and racing a hawk-glider across one of the smaller island drifts. The wind kept him aloft like it always had. It whispered the familiar patterns.
But when he found himself alone again that evening — perched on the edge of the Windveil Bridge, fan in hand — the world quieted.
He unfurled the fan, slow and steady.
The breeze didn't rise to meet it.
Instead, the wind stilled completely.
Then—
A shiver raced across his spine as a powerful gust surged from above, not in a natural stream, but more like a pulse — like the beat of a massive wing or the crack of thunder in reverse.
He staggered back as the gust tore petals from nearby vines and scattered them into the clouds.
From the corner of his eye, he saw something fall from the sky.
No — someone.
They landed on a high ledge near the old shrine ruins, cloak billowing behind them.
Not a priest. Not a villager. Not a trader.
The stranger stood tall, face visible beneath the hood — pale skin kissed with silver light, a few strands of white hair loose around angular features. Their eyes were distant, unreadable. Violet, he thought.
Aera narrowed his eyes.
He didn't recognize them.
But something about their posture — calm, calculating, almost melancholic — made Aera pause. They held no weapon. They didn't move. Just stared across the divide, watching.
Aera lifted a hand.
"Hey!"
The figure didn't wave back. They simply tilted their head — and for a flicker of a moment, it seemed like they were looking through him.
Then, as quickly as they'd arrived, the figure turned… and vanished over the ledge, the wind swallowing their cloak.
Aera stood frozen.
No imprint. No trace. No signature on the wind.
Not natural, he thought.
He looked down at the fan still in his hand — and noticed something strange. The metal etching along the edge of the fan… had begun to glow. Just faintly.
A pulse.
A breath.
He quickly folded the fan and looked to the sky.
The clouds were darker than before.