They slipped beneath a sky that stretched infinitely before them, the harbour lights shrinking behind like families blinking farewell in the distance. The north retreated with a deceptive slowness: the Veythriel moved swiftly, but Serenya's eyes lingered on every line of snow, every crack in the ice, like one memorizing a face she knew she would never see the same way again. For her, leaving the familiar geometry of the Citadel was like stepping out of a cage into a sky without fences, a leap with no visible net, only will.
During the first days, the snowbound expanses beyond the windows followed one another like a single monotonous chant of white and steel grey. The ship's interior settled into its own rhythm: the constant hum of the rings, muffled footsteps on the deck, the coordinated breathing of crew members who did not wish to break the spell of the voyage. Serenya walked the Veythriel's corridors as if she were learning a new language, reading every vibration and every shift of light.
Taelthorn, true to his nature, devoted his hours to reviewing maps, trajectories, and contingencies. He spoke with Calwen about alternate routes, expected turbulence, and what to do if some neighbour chose to interpret the Veythriel's passage. Yet even he fell silent, staring at the metal surfaces that reflected a whitish nothingness, as though he were seeking in that monotony some sign older than any written accord.
At dawn on the fourth day of the journey, something changed. The snowy stretches beyond the windows dissolved into a rippling veil of gold and azure, as if the sky itself suddenly remembered it could be something other than gray. It was the first blush of a summer morning, filtering through layers of cloud that, until then, had held closed like a fist.
Serenya's pulse quickened, her heart beating with an excitement that seemed to echo, amplified, the vibration of the ship's rings. She stepped closer to one of the viewing panels, fingers raised without touching, as she drank in the overwhelming scene unfolding before her. Ahead lay Aelestara—the city she had dreamed of ever since she heard Eryndor's account. A place of wonders and magic that had held her imagination captive for years, drawn again and again in her mind like an unreachable map.
The sight stopped her like a physical blow. She brought both hands to her chest, her breathing shallow, the ship's air suddenly insufficient. The Veythriel's crew murmured as floating terraces and bridges revealed themselves in the distance, as though emerging from light itself. One sailor let a rope fall without noticing; another broke his silent prayer halfway through.
Taelthorn, who had seen much in his life and bore on his shoulders the stories of war and conquest, fell silent. He stood rigid at her side. His eyes, trained to measure military value and strategic use, could not help surrendering, for a moment, to the sheer aesthetics of what rose before them.
"There it is," he said to Serenya, his voice soft so as not to break its spell on her; he feared the city might dissipate if he spoke too loudly. "Do not let its beauty be your ruin. This citadel enchants and seduces, but what it gives is only agony."
Serenya did not answer at once. She felt the warning like a blade running parallel to the marvel, but her eyes remained trapped by the horizon. Beneath her feet, the Veythriel quickened slightly, and the line between realms became a thin membrane that a single breath was sufficient to cross.
The short crossing to the city was brief, like a breath held too long. Yet it felt as if it stretched into eternity, a taut thread between who Serenya had been before seeing Aelestara and who she would be afterward. Then the world around them transformed, and Aelestara emerged from behind the clouds like a mirage that refused to fade.
Its vast platforms of crystal and stone, linked by bridges of light, flashed, and pulsed with a gentle radiance, as though they breathed to the rhythm of an invisible heart deep within the city. The surrounding sky filled with reflections: every surface caught the sunrise and cast it back multiplied until the Veythriel seemed to sail among fragments of dawn.
Serenya felt as though she were stepping into a poem. Every element of the citadel sang to her senses: the lines of its terraces, the curves of its bridges, the way light filtered between levels. She tried to catalogue the marvels in her mind like a scholar, naming materials, structures, and possible enchantments. But everything circled back to a single, small, burning thought, stubborn as an ember.
If Aelestara could take shape in suspended crystal and stone, could artisans carve a similar citadel from rock and snow in the Northern Peaks?
The question lodged within her, not yet as a plan, but as an unceasing drumbeat marking a future cadence. She raised her hand and placed her palm against the metal surface beside the window, as if she wanted to carry Aelestara's touch with her.
Below, winged creatures the size of galleons glided in wide arcs, their scales scattering the sun into a thousand colours. The creatures looked to be made of pure light and shadow, their forms shifting and flowing like clouds, their wings beating in slow, powerful strokes that produced not a roar but a deep murmur, almost musical.
A child among the crew pointed with shameless delight, his eyes wide, reflecting the sky beasts.
"They ride the currents as if the clouds were water," he breathed. He was seeing sky beasts for the first time. Never had birds or flying creatures visited the Northern Peaks with such domesticated grace. Aside from the occasional goats and wild leopards on the crags, his homeland was plain most of the year.
Calwen, as a commander, watched the flying beast like a new weapon, assessing its strength and the true purpose of its domestication.
"They are useful allies," he murmured, more to Taelthorn than to the child. "Aware of their weight, and of the danger such enemies would pose in the wrong hands."
The air was warm, fragrant, alive, filled with the scent of exotic flowers and the faint trace of attar that reached even up to the Veythriel's height. Serenya felt an aura of wonder and awe wash over her, as if she had entered a dream world where the laws of reality no longer fully applied. The city seemed alive, its essence throbbing with charm and vigour, each terrace like a held note in a song too vast to comprehend all at once.
She drank it in like a light intoxication. The scent alone—spice and heady honey—seemed to rewrite what the Peaks had taught her. There, the air was dry and harsh — a blade that cut. Here, the air was a dense fabric, caressing the skin and clinging to the lungs. For the first time in years, she experienced a world that was not stoic, not austere, but exuberant. That feeling did not comfort her; instead, it burned, as though such abundance were a silent reproach to her homeland's sobriety.
As the Veythriel drew closer to the city, Serenya felt apprehension mix with excitement. The journey had been arduous, if comfortable aboard the vessel; the promise of adventure had driven her onward, and now she stood at the threshold of a new world. She had expected pomp; she had not expected a liturgy of beauty.
The upper platforms of Aelestara opened like outstretched hands to receive them. Docking runes flared, answering the Veythriel's rings with coordinated flashes. The ship descended in a measured spiral, and the song of the rings diminished to a whisper as the hull aligned with the Sky Gate.
Serenya released the breath she had not known she was holding. Her hands, until then clamped on the rail, relaxed their grip. For a moment, before anyone traced the first word of welcome, before politics and courtesy reclaimed their place, she allowed herself to feel just one thing: that she was crossing a threshold that would split even her own self in two.
Taelthorn gazed at the edge of the platform awaiting them, Aelestara's banners waving with measured elegance. In his eyes, besides caution, flickered a spark of something like respect. A city capable of such a display of order and wonder was a city to be taken seriously.
"Remember," he murmured, as though finishing a thought that had begun days before, "a city that can sing like this can also scream. And its screams are rarely forgotten."
Serenya did not look away from the shining terraces.
"Then," she whispered, "we will listen carefully."
The Veythriel finally touched the prepared surface, and the rings fell silent. It was a brief silence, dense, heavy with unspoken promises.
In that silence, just before the gates opened and Aelestara's figures fully revealed themselves, Taelthorn's warning rose again, sharpened, in Serenya's mind: do not let its beauty be your ruin.
And yet, as the Sky Gate's golden light poured into the ship's interior, she knew there was no turning back: she had already allowed herself to be touched by that beauty, and now it remained to be seen what price it would claim.