The Aether Straits stretched like shattered glass across the heavens.

Floating slabs of stone, strung together by invisible veins of magic, arced into the distance where the green shimmer of another realm pulsed like a drowned lantern — the Mire of Mandral. Beneath the broken bridge swirled a storm abyss, lightning carving the void in furious streaks.

Every step was a gamble. The stones shifted when they landed, groaning as though they resented mortal weight. Sira forced her breathing steady, but her fingers clenched white around her staff. Beneath her cloak, the shard throbbed faintly, its light pushing against its wrappings.

Lakvenor strode first, storm-staff sparking as if eager to challenge the void. Rael walked behind Sira, each movement controlled, silent, protective.

Halfway across, the wind began to scream.

Raiders of the Skies

A shadow rose from the clouds — sails, stitched with crystal filaments, snapped open to catch the aether wind. A sky-barge loomed above, its hull carved from darkwood and copper, engines humming with azure fire. Cannons jutted from its flanks, runes glimmering like angry eyes.

Figures swung down on crystal-thread ropes, their glider-harnesses spread wide like iron wings. They landed on the floating stones with the confidence of those who lived above the clouds, blades flashing.

“Sky-pirates,” Lakvenor muttered, raising his staff.

The lead raider grinned through gold teeth. “Three lambs on the Straits, unguarded and unwise. Tell me — are your bones worth more than your coin?”

More laughter followed, the pirates circling closer. Sira’s breath hitched, and the shard pulsed against her ribs.

Then the laughter died.

The Marauder Arrives

A booming voice shook the Straits.

“Bones? Coins? Fools, have you forgotten the skies demand more than scraps?”

The speaker did not climb down ropes. He vaulted — leaping from the skyship as though the gulf itself offered him purchase. He soared higher than any mortal, his body outlined against the sun, and landed in a crouch that cracked the stone beneath him. The pirates staggered back instinctively.

The figure rose, taller and broader than the rest, his skin bronze, his hair a wild mane streaked with copper and bound with gold rings. His eyes glowed faintly, molten amber rimmed with stormlight. And behind him — unmistakable — a long, sinewy tail swayed with feline grace.

Across his back rested a massive cudgel of iron and crystal, its surface etched with shifting runes. When his hand brushed its haft, the air hummed as though the Straits themselves remembered his strength.

The pirates murmured, bowing their heads.

“Captain Veyrahan.”

He waved their reverence aside, his grin flashing like a challenge.

A Voice That Knows

Veyrahan strode toward Rael and Sira, tail flicking, boots cracking stone. His gaze swept the three of them, lingering with curiosity, mischief, and something sharper.

“Well, well. A sun-born exile, a storm-cub too quick to strike, and…” He paused before Sira. His grin faded, just slightly, his head tilting as though he listened to something no one else could hear. “…and the earth’s hidden daughter, carrying a shard that should not sing this side of the world.”

Sira froze, her heart pounding. No one should know.

Lakvenor snarled, stepping between them, staff crackling. “How do you know what she carries?”

Veyrahan laughed, loud and sudden, though his eyes never left Sira’s. “Storm-cub, the skies whisper more than thunder if you listen. And I have listened longer than most.”

Rael’s hand brushed the hilt of his sword. “If you know of the shards, then you know the danger they bring. Why block our path?”

Veyrahan tilted his head, grin returning like the flash of lightning before rain. “Because the danger does not walk behind you.” He jabbed a finger past Rael’s shoulder, toward the far cliff.

The Ashborn stood there. Silent. Ember-eyes glowing across the gulf. Watching. Waiting.

The pirates cursed, some crossing themselves, others backing away from the edge.

But Veyrahan only chuckled, low and pleased. “Ah. I thought I smelled ash on the wind.”

The Measure of Them

He circled them now, slow, deliberate, his cudgel humming faintly with each step. “Do you know what follows you, little heirs of sun and storm? Do you think the Ashborn kneel because they fear you?”

Rael held his ground. “They follow because of the shards. Because of what they seek.”

“Wrong,” Veyrahan said sharply. His grin dropped; his voice became iron. “They follow because they remember. They are remnants of the last world to fall. And the shards?” He tapped the cudgel against the stone, sparks flying. “They are not relics. They are prison keys. Keys to the Codex. Keys to the fate you pretend you do not yet carry.”

Sira’s chest tightened. “You speak as if you’ve seen them before.”

Veyrahan’s grin returned, but softer now, almost sad. “Child, I carried one once. Long before your mother bound your blood with Gaia’s essence. It sang to me, as it sings to you now. And I cast it into the abyss before it devoured me whole.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the pirates shifted uneasily, as if they had overheard something not meant for them.

Lakvenor broke it with a growl. “Then why stand here? If you care nothing for the shards, let us pass.”

“Because,” Veyrahan said, stepping close, “the Straits demand a toll. Not of coin. Of worth.”

An Invitation Written in Storm

The cudgel slammed into the stone, shattering a fragment into the void. Sparks leapt, a hum rippling across the bridge as if the Aether itself bent to his will. The pirates gasped.

Veyrahan’s grin widened, wild and bright. “Walk with me. Share your truths, and perhaps I will share mine. Perhaps I will lend you strength the Ashborn themselves fear. Or perhaps I will take your measure and cast you down.”

His gaze locked with Rael’s, then with Sira’s. For the briefest moment, his grin faltered, and his voice dropped low, a whisper wrapped in thunder.

“The Ember Throne will not be won by blades. It will be won by those who can bear its fire without burning. You…” His eyes flicked to Sira. “…you may yet burn brighter than any of us.”

And just as suddenly, his laughter returned, booming across the gulf. He offered a hand the size of a spade.

“Come, little exiles! Let us see if the skies wish you alive.”