Before the sky split open, the world was smaller.
The old books say it was once a land-world, dry and green, ruled by stars and gods who walked in bodies of flesh. But that was long before the Leviathans fell. Before the sky cracked. Before the sea swallowed everything.
Now there is only ocean.
And the things that drift upon it.
The Reef-Cities—fractured human hives built atop the bones of the dead. They float on the backs of fallen whales, titanic god-creatures whose corpses still drift, bloated and humming with residual power. Cities anchor to them, like barnacles clinging to history. They mine flesh for fuel. Carve bone for shelter. Burn fat for light. Tattoo their names into the ribs of long-dead divinity.
A city might last ten generations on a single Leviathan.
If it rots slow enough.
If no other city tries to steal it.
If the parasites don't hatch.
If the whale is actually dead.
The people call it salvage.
The priests call it sacrilege.
The young call it survival.
But all agree on one thing:
When a new whale falls from the sky—
you run to it.
Because it means fresh bone. New oil. Salvage rights. Salvation.
Or extinction.
They call these events Whalefalls.
Rare. Sudden. Glorious.
The old ones say whales don't scream when they die.
They simply dream… until something wakes them.