Chapter 9

  The planks were slick beneath Paola’s feet, dark wood soaked through by weeks of rain. Each step gave a soft, hollow thump, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the fog. They were high—she knew that much—but the clouds erased any sense of scale. Up, down, distance, consequence. All of it blurred into damp air and drifting white.

  It felt like walking into a dream someone else was still having.

  The fog wasn’t passive. It moved. Rolled in slow sheets across the bridges, coiling around posts and ropes, thinning just enough to reveal another stretch of walkway before closing again. Rain fell steadily from somewhere above the clouds, cool droplets streaking through the haze and dotting Paola’s shoulders and hair. The world smelled like salt and wet timber, like a harbor that had forgotten where the sea was.

  Evan walked beside her, careful with each step despite not technically needing to be. His cloak clung to his bones, rain beading and sliding off fabric that had never been designed for weather like this.

  “You know,” he said, peering over the side where the fog swallowed everything, “OSHA would have an absolute meltdown over this.”

  Paola snorted. “OSHA didn’t have to deal with flying boats, either.”

  Ahead of them, Yucca and Ayla moved with purpose. Yucca navigated by memory and spatial instinct, her glass wings tucked tight to avoid catching ropes or railings. Ayla walked like the ground beneath her was solid and unquestionable, one hand occasionally brushing a post or guide rope, more out of habit than need. She knew this place. Or at least knew the man who did.

  Behind Paola and Evan, the rest of the group followed in a loose cluster. Poca stepped lightly despite the slick surface, skirts gathered, eyes drifting between the fog and the faint glow of lanterns strung along the bridge. Yasmin bounced on her heels, restless energy barely contained, glass wings twitching every time the wind shifted. Selene brought up the rear, quiet as ever, her gaze scanning the empty air beyond the railings like she half-expected something to climb out of it.

  The architecture around them leaned hard into the maritime. Thick ropes ran along the bridges as handrails. Lanterns hung from curved wooden arms like mast fixtures. Even the posts felt shipborn, their surfaces worn smooth by hands and weather. It was less a skyway and more a harbor that had drifted too high and refused to come back down.

  The bridge widened gradually, planks spreading until the fog thinned just enough for Paola to see shapes ahead.

  A dock.

  Or something pretending to be one.

  The structure stretched out like a half-bridge, half-pier, its far end disappearing into cloud. And moored along its sides were ships.

  Actual ships.

  They floated there as if resting on water, hulls gently rocking despite the absence of any visible surface. Ropes creaked softly. Sails were furled and dark with rain. Lanterns glowed along their sides, reflected faintly in nothing at all.

  Paola’s ears perked, tail flicking behind her. “Oh wow,” she breathed. She didn’t even try to hide the grin spreading across her face. Since arriving in Valarian, she’d stared up at the skydocks every chance she got. From below, they’d looked impossible. From here, they felt unreal.

  The ships looked old-fashioned, all broad hulls and proud lines. Wooden giants that could have sailed ancient seas if the seas had decided to rise into the sky. One in particular caught her eye, its silhouette unmistakably reminiscent of Earth’s old exploration vessels. The Santa Maria, maybe. Or something that wanted to be.

  “Tell me we’re getting on one of those,” she said.

  Ayla slowed, then stopped beside a ship moored near the center of the dock. It wasn’t the largest, but it carried itself with quiet confidence. Clean lines. Well-maintained rigging. No unnecessary ornamentation.

  She rested a hand against the hull, rain-darkened wood warm beneath her palm.

  “This is it,” Ayla said.

  The rain tapped softly against the hull, a steady rhythm, like the ship was already breathing. For a moment, no one moved.

  Then a head leaned over the railing above them.

  The crewman was bundled in oilskin and wool, rain dripping from the brim of his cap as he squinted down through the fog. “You folks lost?” he called. “Or you plannin’ on standin’ there starin’ all night?”

  Ayla looked up. “We’re expected.”

  The crewman opened his mouth to ask something else, then paused as he took her in properly. Recognition flickered, faint but real. “Hang on,” he muttered, disappearing from view. “Cap’n!”

  There was a muffled exchange above them. Boots on wet planks. A heavier set of footsteps, unhurried but purposeful.

  Then the captain appeared at the top of the gangplank.

  He was broad and weathered, shoulders still strong beneath a long, dark coat that had seen better decades. His hair was iron-grey, pulled back into a loose tie, and his beard was trimmed more out of habit than vanity. His face looked like it had been carved by wind and sun, deep lines etched in places that spoke of squinting into distant horizons and laughing through bad weather.

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  His eyes, sharp and steady, settled on Ayla.

  “Well,” he said, voice rough as a rope burn and just as familiar. “I’ll be damned.”

  Ayla’s posture shifted without her meaning to, something old and instinctive surfacing. “Captain Roric.”

  “Don’t you ‘captain’ me like that,” he grumbled, already making his way down the gangplank. “Makes me feel ancient.”

  He stopped in front of her, looked her up and down with a critical eye that softened almost immediately. “You got taller,” he decided. “Or maybe I just got shorter.”

  Ayla huffed out a quiet laugh. She offered her hand. “It’s good to see you.”

  Roric ignored it entirely and pulled her into a crushing hug, rain and all. His arms were solid, unyielding, and warm in a way that had nothing to do with the weather.

  “You don’t shake hands with family,” he muttered, releasing her at last. “You still carry yourself like you’re bracin’ for a charge.”

  “Old habits,” Ayla said, her voice steady, though something gentler flickered behind her eyes.

  For a brief, distant moment, she remembered being small, standing on a dock like this one, watching Roric stride aboard his ship. She’d wanted to fly the skies then. To learn the ropes and read the wind the way he did. That dream hadn’t survived her first sword lesson. Steel had claimed her instead.

  Roric turned his attention to the rest of the group, his gaze sweeping over them with a practiced assessment. He lingered a second longer on Selene, then Yucca, then Paola’s ears and tail, before nodding once, satisfied.

  “These yours?” he asked Ayla.

  “My problem,” she replied dryly. “Our journey.”

  Roric snorted. “Good. Been bored.”

  Introductions followed, names traded over the sound of rain and creaking rigging.

  Paola gave a quick, cheerful wave. Poca smiled warmly. Yasmin offered a grin that promised trouble. Selene inclined her head, nothing more. Yucca introduced herself with precise politeness.

  Evan stayed a step back, hood pulled low, gloves and boots hiding bone and joint. When his turn came, he dipped his head. “Evan,” he said simply.

  Roric studied him for half a second longer than the others, then shrugged. “Long as you don’t fall overboard, we’ll get along fine.”

  He clapped his hands together once. “Alright. That’s enough standin’ around catchin’ pneumonia. Get aboard. I’ll have you meet the crew, stow your gear, and we’ll get you settled.”

  He turned and started back up the gangplank, already assuming they’d follow.

  The ship loomed above them, lanterns glowing warmly through the fog.

  Paola’s grin returned as she stepped forward.

  Flying boats.

  Finally.

  The jungle did not announce her.

  It only made room.

  Vines shuddered as something moved through them, leaves brushing aside with a sound like breath held too long. The light in Virelya was always dimmer than Helios, filtered and heavy, but when she stepped into it, the crystal-veined roots at her feet caught the glow and bent it softly around her form.

  Elythra. Or to the lesser known extent of Ely.

  But mostly, Medusa.

  She moved with calm precision, moss-green hair spilling in thick, untamed waves down her back, clinging faintly to her shoulders as if the jungle itself recognized her. Pale blue eyes tracked motion rather than faces, measuring distance, weight, intent. There was no hurry in her stride. No hesitation either.

  Her boots struck the wet ground with quiet authority. Elegant, gothic things, calf-high and open-toed, reinforced at the heel and arch, dark leather etched with faint sigils dulled by age and use. They were made for traction, for balance, for standing her ground when the world tried to move her.

  The shield came with her like a second shadow.

  Ancient. Scarred. Heavy enough that most men would need two hands just to lift it. Guardian sigils and petrification runes crawled across its surface, some cracked, none broken. The metal had a dull, lived-in sheen, like it had absorbed too much blood to ever shine again.

  The bandits didn’t notice her at first.

  They were too busy circling the traders—a small family, a wagon half-buried in mud, the father trying to stand between steel and screaming. The men were loud, sloppy, emboldened by numbers and the belief that nothing here could stop them.

  “Come on,” one of them laughed, nudging another. “Little place like this? Barely worth the trip.”

  Then one of them turned.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he said, grin widening. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ out here?”

  Another chuckled. “You lost, girl? This ain’t Helios. No guards to cry to.”

  Elythra did not answer.

  She stepped forward, shield lifting, her stance settling low and grounded. The world narrowed to angles and momentum.

  The first bandit lunged.

  The shield met him with a thunderous crack.

  He went flying backward, boots leaving the ground as if he’d tripped over the air itself, slamming into a tree hard enough to knock crystal dust from the bark.

  “What the—”

  The second man swung wide, blade aimed high. Elythra stepped into it, shield turning just enough to deflect, the edge screeching uselessly across rune-etched metal. She pivoted and drove the shield forward, not a bash but a controlled shove that folded him over and sent him skidding across the wet soil.

  “Feisty!” one of them barked, staggering to his feet. “Bet she thinks she’s some kinda hero!”

  She closed the distance in three strides.

  A punch followed the shield—short, brutal, precise—driving into his ribs with enough force to knock the breath and the words out of him. He dropped, gasping.

  Another tried to flank her.

  The shield came down like a wall.

  The impact cracked the ground beneath his feet, glass pebbles skittering as he bounced off and collapsed in a heap. He laughed through blood, still trying to sneer.

  “Crazy bitch,” he wheezed. “Defendin’ a whole village by herself—”

  The shield slammed into his jaw.

  Silence.

  The last two broke.

  “Fall back!” one shouted, fear finally cutting through bravado.

  They ran, slipping and scrambling into the deeper jungle, curses trailing behind them like torn banners.

  Elythra did not pursue.

  She lowered the shield slowly, breath steady, rain sliding down her arms and bare midriff, tracing faded scars that spoke of years rather than battles. Her pale blue eyes followed the bandits until the jungle swallowed them whole.

  Behind her, the traders stood frozen.

  The father took a step forward. “Thank you,” he said, voice shaking. “You saved us.”

  His wife grabbed his arm hard enough to stop him.

  “No,” she hissed, eyes fixed on Elythra with something like fear. “Don’t. You know who she is.”

  “She just—”

  “Please,” the woman whispered. “We shouldn’t.”

  Elythra heard only fragments. She always did.

  She turned away before they finished.

  The shield settled back against her arm, its weight familiar, comforting in its permanence. She walked past them, past the wagon, past the edge of the village where roots broke stone and the broken shrine leaned in quiet ruin.

  No thanks.

  No curses.

  Just the space people left behind when she passed.

  This was how it always was.

  As she disappeared back into the jungle’s dim light, Elythra paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

  More of them lately, she thought.

  More passing through.

  Something was stirring beyond Helios’s borders.

  And Medusa would be there when it reached Virelya.