The training flight over Veltridge Field had left a mark—not just in the air, but on the team itself. Something shifted between Ardyn and the rest of the Cirrans that day. Sedge and Kael, once aloof and skeptical, no longer looked at him like a clumsy tagalong.
Since that day, the team had grown tighter. Their routines became more fluid, their formations sharper, and even the teasing turned good-natured. Training became a rhythm they all moved to—exhausting, relentless, but somehow energizing. Ardyn found himself pulled into it fully, no longer on the outside looking in.
Over the next month, he trained alongside the others in full-team sessions, but also began rotating through personal drills with the veterans. With Sedge, it was precision—tight turns, speed control, striking angles, and reading wind shifts mid-dash. Sedge rarely praised, but occasionally muttered a terse, "Not bad," which felt like a medal.
Kael was different—rough around the edges, and absolutely merciless in combat drills. But Ardyn didn't mind the bruises. Kael taught him how to handle pressure with grit and how to stay up when someone's trying to knock the wind out of your chestplate. More than once, Ardyn was left gasping on the ground, grinning through the ache.
Time blurred in wind and sweat, and just like that, a month passed.
Now, with the sun hovering lower each day and the wind turning sharper, the Skytest loomed only a week away.
Ardyn sat near the overlook just beyond the hangar, a folded note in his hands and a Sky-Glider Drone idling beside him. He'd written and rewritten the letter at least five times, unsure of what to say. In the end, he kept it simple—thanking Maren, telling him the Skytest was near, and that he hoped to return with something to be proud of.
He'd thought about visiting the old man in person. But part of him feared Maren would just wave him off again. And the other part… the other part wasn't sure he could say goodbye without making it harder to leave.
He placed the letter in the drone's delivery slot and sealed the latch. A soft hum filled the air as the glider's wings caught the breeze, lifting it into the late afternoon sky—small, steady, and drifting toward home.
"You sure you don't want to visit Maren before we go?" Captain Seris asked.
Ardyn brushed his hair back and shook his head in reply.
Seris studied him for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Is it your first time leaving Windmere?"
"Yeah," Ardyn said. "I've never been to another isle before."
"Then rest well tonight," Seris said. "We leave early tomorrow."
He shifted the pack off his shoulder and held it out to Ardyn.
Ardyn blinked, taking the bag with a furrowed brow. "What's this?"
"Open it," Seris said, smiling.
Unfastening the latches, Ardyn lifted the flap—and froze.
Inside was a fresh set of Galegear: sleek, polished, and unmistakably new. The metal had a faint silver-blue sheen, and the shoulder harness was etched with the Windmere crest. He carefully pulled one of the gauntlets free, noting how light it felt in his hands—and then he saw it. Embedded in the core was an Aerolith pulsing with a cool, vibrant blue.
"That's not Roe's old Galegear," Seris said, folding his arms. "Those are custom-made. And take a guess about the Aeroliths."
Ardyn leaned closer, fingers brushing over the glowing stone. "Is this… Pap's Aerolith?"
"Exactly," Seris said. "The stone was too large to embed as-is, so we had it split and recut. One shard for each core."
Ardyn stared at it, the familiar energy already tugging at something inside him.
"Start syncing with it," Seris said. "But I don't think you'll have a hard time. That one's already reacting to you."
* * *
Dawn broke in pale grey layers, the sky still heavy with sleep as the Windmere Cirran team gathered at the departure docks.
A massive airship hovered at the edge of the platform, its hull gleaming faintly in the soft morning light. It wasn't a ship built for stealth or speed—it was built to carry. Wide, reinforced wings curved from its sides like glider fins, gently adjusting with the wind currents. A series of wind rotors along its spine hummed steadily, casting faint ripples in the mist around it. The hull was matte steel with streaks of deep navy, and the name "The Loria" was etched in sweeping script along the bow.
Ardyn followed behind the others as they approached the ship, their boots clicking against the long arched stairway that stretched from the platform to the main deck. It wasn't a ladder, but a floating gangway—woven from struts of windsteel and held in place by tension cables that hummed faintly with stored wind energy. The crew stood waiting near the top, checking names and hauling gear as the Cirran team stepped aboard one by one.
When Ardyn's boots met the deck, he turned for a brief second to look back.
A dockhand unlatched the gangway, and with a practiced hiss and clank, the stairway began folding in on itself, retracting into the side of the ship. A final clunk signaled it had sealed.
A minute passed in silence.
Then the ship groaned—low and deep—and began to rise.
Wind caught beneath its frame, and with a steady lift, the Loria began to drift away from the Windmere docks. Ardyn felt the tug in his chest, like something stretching—not breaking, but not whole either.
His emotions were split down the middle. A bubbling excitement stirred inside him for what lay ahead—for the Skytest, for flying over new isles, for proving he belonged. But a quiet ache gnawed beneath it all. He hadn't seen Maren. Not really. Not face to face. He had left without a proper goodbye.
As the ship climbed higher, Windmere's clustered isles pulled back into view. The morning fog clung to their edges, soft and unmoving. Here and there, clusters of warm lights still glowed from homes and towers—flickering softly like lanterns floating in a bowl of grey.
The wind shifted around the hull as the ship picked up speed, and Windmere began to fall behind.
Ardyn gripped the railing, watching his home shrink, until it was no more than a quiet shape fading into the clouds.
"Have you heard the story of Old Man Aerun?" a familiar voice came from behind.
Ardyn turned—and smiled. "Roe. No, I don't think I've heard that one."
He took a step closer, then paused, eyeing Roe's right hand. "Hey… you're not wearing the bandage anymore. I didn't even notice earlier."
Roe held up his arm and flexed his fingers slowly. "Yeah. I can move it better now. Still not that strong, but it's getting there."
"That's great to hear," Ardyn said, genuinely. "So… Old Man Aerun?"
Roe grinned faintly and leaned against the railing beside him, eyes drifting down toward the endless stretch of clouds below.
"My great-grandfather used to tell me stories about Old Man Aerun," he said. "He was Windmere's most daring glider back in his day. One time, while flying over Veltridge Field, a sudden gust—just like the one you rode—caught his glider and tore it off course. Sent him spiraling straight down." Roe pointed toward the churning mist far beneath them. "They say he vanished into the clouds. Gone."
Ardyn's eyes widened. "And…?"
"A few weeks later," Roe continued, "Aerun came back. Walked into Windmere like nothing happened. But he never spoke again. Not a word. Instead, he started drawing—sketches of places no one had ever seen before. A vast, endless water, with one gigantic island rising out of it."
"Endless water?" Ardyn asked, brow furrowed.
Roe nodded. "Yeah. Imagine the clouds below us—but it's all water. Just water stretching forever."
Ardyn stared down again, the swirling greys suddenly heavier. "But… the winds below the clouds are too violent. That's what I read. If anything passes through, it gets pulled down—crushed or torn apart. Even the biggest airships won't risk going near."
"Exactly," Roe said. "That's why most folks say Old Man Aerun was lying. Just a cracked old glider spinning stories. But…" He shrugged. "We may never really know."
"Let's go inside," Roe said, pushing off the railing. "Breakfast might be ready."
Ardyn gave the clouds one last glance, the story of Old Man Aerun still circling in his thoughts. He wasn't sure if he believed it—but a part of him hoped it was true. That there was more waiting below the sky than anyone dared to imagine.
He turned and followed Roe across the deck, the chill of dawn easing as the ship's interior doors slid open with a soft hiss. The scent of something warm—eggs, maybe bread—drifted out to meet them.
* * *
Ardyn blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the ship's side porthole. His limbs were stiff from sleep, and his thoughts sluggish, but the distant hum of the engines and the sway of the vessel beneath his bunk reminded him exactly where he was.
It had been three days since they left Windmere. Three days since the only home he'd ever known faded into the clouds.
He sat up and moved toward the nearest viewing bay, still rubbing sleep from his eyes—then paused. Far ahead, rising like carved monuments from the cloud sea, were three massive landmasses drifting in slow harmony.
Caldrith Vale.
The central isle loomed largest, its silhouette sharp and alive. Virellan, the heart of the Vale, buzzed with motion even from this distance. Towering structures—sleek spires of stone and metal—pierced the sky, stitched together by suspended skybridges and aerial lifts. Ardyn could already see the flow of smaller airships weaving in and out like birds around a cliffside. It was a city that never settled, never slept.
To the right floated Corith, quieter but no less grand. Its layout was graceful—terraced with gleaming rooftops and open courtyards, where the morning sun caught on glass and marble. He could just make out the shapes of domed halls and long academic buildings, their architecture more traditional, less aggressive than Virellan's. This, he guessed, was where the scholars and strategists of Caldrith Vale made their mark.
And to the far left, Thalren. The forest isle. It sat heavier in the sky, shrouded in mist and silence, dense green canopy and tangled ridges. Mist curled along its edges, and no signs of settlement were immediately visible. Trees stretched high enough to catch the upper winds, and something about the isle's quiet stillness made it feel older—less touched, more sacred.
A few hours later, their skyship finally docked at the main platform just outside Corith's transit ring. Wind-guided rails and gravity-defying pathways extended from the platform like branches, connecting to various districts of the isle. A sleek, open-air transport—gliding silently on curved runners and suspended by magnetic flow—waited nearby. It wasn't quite a bus, not quite a tram, but something in between.
The Cirran team boarded with the rest of the arrivals, the vehicle humming as it pulled away from the dock and slipped into the flow of skyway traffic. Ardyn sat by the edge, watching as Corith's polished streets, layered terraces, and vine-wrapped archways passed by in a blur. Compared to Windmere's sunbaked roofs and workshop alleys, Corith looked like it had been painted with elegance and precision—stone walkways swept clean by ever-present breeze, buildings carved like art, and little glider birds trailing overhead.
They arrived at Corith Inn, a multi-level structure built into a slope, with wide balconies overlooking the lower tier of the city. The walls were shaped in sweeping curves, adorned with soft-hued banners, and ringed by small gardens stirred gently by the wind.
Lunch was already prepared in the inn's dining hall—steamed roots, seasoned graincakes, and chilled windfruit slices. Ardyn ate quickly, his appetite finally catching up with him after the day's travel. The others retreated to their rooms, most choosing rest or unpacking.
But Ardyn couldn't sit still.
He stepped out of the inn with his jacket slung lazily over one shoulder. The afternoon breeze ruffled his hair as he descended the gentle steps into Corith's lower promenade. The sky above was wide and pale, drifting with slow clouds, while below, the world opened up to stone bridges, elevated gardens, and spiraling roads that vanished between rooftops.
He wasn't entirely sure where he was going. But after three days of confined travel and polite silence, he just wanted to walk. To get lost in the city—and maybe, find something interesting.
Ardyn wandered deeper into the district, letting the gentle curves of the streets guide him. The city's quiet grace was nothing like the dust and clatter of Windmere. Stone walkways looped over gliding canals, and open courtyards spilled with soft greenery and wind sculptures that spun like dandelions caught in breeze.
He turned a corner into a shaded plaza lined with hanging lanterns and paused by a canal that shimmered with soft blue light.
Then he saw it.
Up above—soaring across the sky like a drifting kite—was a creature unlike anything he'd ever seen. Winged, massive, but not mechanical. Its feathers shimmered like metal, long tail trailing sparks of color as it coasted between the isles. It let out a low, flute-like cry that echoed gently between the rooftops.
Ardyn's mouth fell slightly open. "Whoa…"
He stepped forward for a better look, eyes still fixed on the sky—and his foot caught the edge of the canal.
"Ah—!"
A sharp splash cracked through the peaceful plaza.
Cold water slammed around him. He flailed up with a gasp, sputtering and soaked, arms flopping wildly as he scrambled back to the edge. Just as he clambered out, he slipped again—sending a second spray of canal water over the stone walkway.
He froze when he heard a soft gasp—followed by a quiet, wet patter.
Dripping and crouched awkwardly on the stones, Ardyn looked up.
A girl stood a few paces away, mid-step, her coat now streaked with fresh droplets. She must've just turned the corner at the wrong moment—and caught the aftermath of his flailing escape.
She looked around his age. Her long black hair shimmered with streaks of deep violet, crimson, and cobalt, now damp and sticking to her cheek. Her expression was unreadable at first—caught between shock and some very pointed judgment.
"Seriously?" she said, flat as stone.
Ardyn, still crouched like a startled frog, blinked up at her. "I—uh—saw a thing. With wings. Really big. Feathery."
"So you dove into the canal to get a closer look?"
"No! I mean—maybe. Sort of. I was looking up. The ground betrayed me." Ardyn replied.
She stared, unimpressed, then brushed water from her coat sleeve and stepped around him.
"Thanks for the shower, splash boy," she muttered.
Ardyn flinched. "Not my proudest moment…"
But she was already walking off, boots tapping briskly on the stone path, leaving a very wet and very embarrassed Ardyn behind.
Later that day, the plaza had grown livelier—market stalls opened, aromas drifted from food carts, and voices rose in chatter. Ardyn's stomach had been growling for the better part of an hour, and after wandering through side streets (and definitely getting lost twice), he finally spotted a row of food vendors near a shady square.
A long line stretched from the busiest stall—some kind of crispy, wind-roasted wrap with spiced greens and thin-sliced meat. Ardyn weaved his way past the crowd, eyes locked on the skewers sizzling above a slow fan of heat.
Just as he stepped into what looked like a gap in the line—
"You again?"
Ardyn flinches and turns slowly.
Standing just behind him—dripping no longer, but looking no less annoyed—was the same girl from the canal.
"Of all the food lines…" she crossed her arms. "Splash Boy shows up to cut mine."
Ardyn raises his hands. "Wait—I didn't mean to cut! I thought this was the back."
"You also thought canals were sidewalks." she said.
The vendor called out, "Next!"
Ardyn hesitates, then steps aside. "After you…"
The girl walked past him—no gloating, just a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was sinking fast when Ardyn realized—he had no idea how to get back to the Corith Inn.
"You're lost, aren't you?" came a dry voice behind him.
Ardyn turned—and blinked.
There she was. The girl from earlier. Pastry in one hand, the other adjusting a bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair caught the light—dark, but streaked with vivid colors that shimmered like sunset on water.
"Oh… hey," Ardyn said, trying not to look too guilty. "Yeah. Maybe. Kinda?"
"Definitely," she said, already walking past him.
He jogged a few steps to catch up.
"Okay but seriously—which way is the Corith Inn?"
She slowed, gave him a long look—half amused, half tired. Then she let out a short breath and pointed downhill.
"Past the glider fountain, left at the bakery with the cloud-shaped bread. It's tucked beside a lift-station. Big sloped roof."
"Thanks," Ardyn said, genuinely grateful. "Really. I've been looping around for an hour."
She turned back to the road and walked.
"Then I guess I saved your life."
Ardyn hesitated, then fell into step beside her.
"You're headed that way too?"
"Unfortunately," she muttered.
They walked in silence for a beat.
"Hey," Ardyn said, glancing sideways, "about earlier—splashing you. Sorry. Truly."
She didn't look at him.
They reached a curve in the walkway. The sky opened wide beyond the railing, a distant isle drifting beneath afternoon clouds.
"I never caught your name," Ardyn said.
"I never gave it," she replied.
"Right. Cool. Great," he said.
She walked ahead a few steps.
"It's Mirae," she said, without turning.
"Ardyn."
"Figures," she said.
He blinked. "Figures?"
"You just look like an Ardyn."
She gave him a sideways glance.
"You know—slightly lost. Constantly apologizing."
"Harsh. But… accurate," Ardyn admitted.
They reached the inn—wind-polished stone, soft-lit archways, and banners fluttering along the rails.
"Thanks again," Ardyn said, slowing as she stepped toward the stairs.
"Try not to fall into anything, Splash Boy," Mirae said, starting up.
She vanished through the front doors.
Ardyn stood there for a moment—tired, unsure what just happened—before smiling faintly.
"Splash Boy… seriously?"