The uphill battle was always a sluggish, self-inflicted ordeal.
Leaving the cozy, thick air of the Low-World felt like being
yanked from a hot tub and tossed into outer space. My wings,
once a powerhouse in the smog, started feeling like lead
weights. The indigo glow flickered as my blood struggled to play
oxygen delivery. By the six-thousand-foot mark, altitude sickness
jabbed me right in the chest.
I coughed, and the inside of my respirator got a new paint job
with violet-speckled blood.
Above, the floating spires of Aethelgard taunted me with their
golden glow, looking as serene and saintly as ever. But I knew
behind those ivory fortresses, the Council was stirring, ready
to tally up their
"
pure
" flock.
Suddenly, the sky was filled with the dreaded thwack-thwackthwack of a Sky-Patrol. My heart did a cartwheel.
11
I dove behind a massive, moss-covered gravity-anchor—one of the giant
stone pillars that kept the islands afloat. I pressed my back against the cold
rock, pulling my lead-lined cloak tight to kill the indigo glow.
Through a crack in the stone, I saw them. Three Elite scouts, their white
feathered wings catching the moonlight as they dived in formation. They
were carrying silver lances—weapons designed to pierce the membranes of
"
unpure
" fliers.
"I saw a flare,
"
one of the scouts called out, his voice echoing in the thin air.
"A purple heat-signature near the Iron Veil. It's the Ghost again."
"Focus,
" the lead scout replied. "If it's down there, let it rot. Nothing survives
the smog for long. We stay above the line."
They were right above me. If I moved, the sound of my biological wings—
which hummed like a motor compared to their silent feathers—would give
me away instantly.
12
Then, a shadow fell over the scouts.
A massive, bone-white figure descended from the higher peaks.
It was Lake. He didn't fly like the scouts; he drifted, his wings
spread so wide they seemed to blot out the moon. He looked
less like a man and more like a celestial predator.
"Commander!" the scouts shouted, snapping into a mid-air salute.
Lake didn't return the gesture. He hovered in place, his face a
mask of cold, unyielding iron. He turned his head slowly, his eyes
scanning the very pillar I was hiding behind. I held my breath, my
lungs screaming for air, my heart hammering against my ribs so
hard I was sure he could hear it.
"Return to your sector,
" Lake commanded. His voice was a low
growl that vibrated in my own bones. "There is nothing here but
shadows and shifting gas."
13
But sir, the signature—"
"I said return,
" Lake snapped. The feathers on his wings
sharpened, glowing with a faint, lethal silver light. "Unless you wish
to explain to the High Council why you are wasting energy
chasing ghosts in the Iron Veil instead of guarding the Spire."
The scouts didn't argue. They banked hard and shot upward,
disappearing into the golden mist of the High-City.
Lake stayed.
He drifted closer to my pillar, his wings beating slowly,
rhythmically. He was only ten feet away now. I could see the
individual barbs on his feathers. I clutched my cloak, my eyes
wide with terror. This was it. He was going to reach around the
stone, grab me by the throat, and drag me to the Clipping
Square.
"You are becoming careless, Rofu,
" he said to the empty air. He
didn't look at my hiding spot, but he knew. He always knew.
14
I held my breath, paralyzed and motionless.
"The smog won't conceal your scent forever,
" Lake
continued, his voice void of warmth. It resonated like a judge
delivering a verdict. "Every time you descend, you carry
back the filth of the Walkers. It clings to your skin and
lingers in your eyes. You believe you are saving them, but in
reality, you are hastening your own demise."
He finally shifted his gaze toward the pillar. For a brief
moment, our eyes met through the enveloping darkness. His
piercing blue eyes were cold and analytical, devoid of any
pity.
"Stay in the light, little bird,
" he whispered, his words a threat
veiled as advice. "Otherwise, the next time the scouts find
you, I will be the one wielding the lance."
With a powerful flap of his wings, he ascended swiftly,
blurring the air around him. In his wake, he left a single
pristine white feather that drifted down and landed
delicately on the ledge beside me.
I picked it up, my hands trembling with emotion. I loathed him—
for his relentless pursuit, for his mockery of my
struggles, and for his lofty perch of purity while I bled for
the people below. He wasn't protecting me; he was merely
observing his prey, waiting until I was ripe for the harvest.
15.