Chapter 1 – The Fractured Sky

The limestone edge of the island fractures beneath my boots, spider-webbing outward in a spray of white dust. I don’t look down at the eternal cloud sea churning a mile below. I throw myself off the crumbling ledge.

Wind shrieks past my ears, biting like ice, tearing the breath from my lungs. Ten feet below the perimeter of the floating city, the gravity seam is glowing a diseased, volatile purple. It is tearing apart, the natural buoyancy of the island’s stolen heart-scale failing against the immense pressure of the sky.

My right hand reaches out into the empty air, fingers curling as if grabbing a physical rope. I pull. I stitch the invisible, fraying threads of gravity back into the bedrock. The magic demands its toll instantly, brutally. A sickening, hollow ache blooms deep inside the marrow of my left forearm. The bone dissolves, turning to brittle, weightless glass to pay for the mass I am transferring to the stone. The agony is a sharp, white-hot line traveling from my wrist to my elbow, but I lock my jaw. If I let go, the residential district above me drops into the star-sea.

Above me, a massive shadow eclipses the harsh sunlight.

Rovan.

He is a tempest of obsidian feathers and lethal, coiled muscle, a storm-dragon forced into the humiliating shape of a military mount. The iron bridle is bolted ruthlessly across his scaled jaw. Command-runes are etched deep into the metal, glowing with a harsh, unyielding white light that pulses in time with his racing heartbeat. The weight of his burden is not metaphorical. I can see the exact numerical toll on the atmospheric gauge built into the heavy saddle iron—every hundred tons of the city pulling against the magic in his blood. The bridle forces his massive, feathered wings to beat in a synchronized, agonizing rhythm, fighting the descent of the cracking stone. He is a prisoner made of lightning, tethered by cold imperial iron.

I push the stitch harder. The island requires more mass than I anticipated.

A sharp, deafening crack echoes, vibrating not in the air, but inside my own arm.

The hollowed bone in my forearm gives way. My wrist snaps backward, useless. My grip on the gravity thread shatters into nothing.

I drop.

The wind steals my scream. The star-sea rushes up to swallow me, an abyss of roiling grey clouds and jagged static electricity. I brace for the terminal velocity, the air pressure crushing against my ribs.

Then, a violent deceleration.

Talons the size of broadswords close around my waist. The impact knocks the remaining air from my lungs in a violent rush. Rovan’s claws are careful not to pierce my skin, but the sheer physical force of his dive is brutal. He banks hard, fighting his own massive downward momentum, his wings snapping open like storm sails. The command-runes on his bridle flare with blinding, punitive intensity. The iron bands sear into his scales, punishing him for altering his mandated flight path to catch a falling soldier. A low, rumbling groan of pain vibrates through his chest, traveling straight through his talons into my spine.

A sickening crunch reverberates from the island above.

Stone turning to dust.

The sound buries itself in my skull, bypassing thought entirely. It is the exact, unmistakable grind of the border garrison collapsing three years ago. The sound of the earth giving way beneath my squad. The echoing screams cut short by the void.

My throat tightens. My lungs refuse to expand. The phantom taste of pulverized rock coats my tongue. I thrash in Rovan’s grip, forcing my good right hand against the slick, hard scales of his leg. I channel every ounce of remaining strength I have, desperate to pull more gravity, to pour my own mass into the failing island so it won’t fall like the last one. My magic sparks wildly, aimlessly, fueled by pure panic.

Rovan hits the military landing platform with earth-shattering force. The stone cracks beneath his immense weight.

Instantly, the military bridle retracts. The gears grind, the iron bands shrieking against his feathers, choking him, forcing his proud head down into a posture of absolute submission. He fights it with every muscle in his neck, the iron biting deep enough to draw a thin line of glowing, electrified blood. The air crackles with ozone and pure, unadulterated rage.

He doesn’t look at the commanding officers running toward us across the tarmac. His massive, reptilian eye—swirling with silver lightning—locks onto me.

The beast leans in, the heat of his breath washing over my face, smelling of rain and impending violence. The jaws part, inches from my throat, vibrating with a low, bone-rattling snarl.

The bridle groans under the strain of his tightening jaw.