The next morning, Ardyn was up before the sun cleared the horizon. The Skyrink Arena was quiet, save for the wind brushing over its wide, open platforms.
He stood at the edge of the launch deck, the sky stretching endlessly before him, painted in soft streaks of gold and violet.
This was where it all began.
His gaze dropped to the spot where he had first taken flight with Galegears. He remembered the rush of air, the weight of the gear, and how foreign it all had felt then. Now, the wind responded to him differently.
He turned and checked the glider he had taken from the hangar. He ran his fingers along its frame, testing the tension of the sail. Satisfied, he slung it over his shoulders.
Without another thought, he ran.
His boots hit the deck in steady rhythm. Then the edge came, and Ardyn leapt.
The glider caught the wind. He dipped, then rose, the lift steady and strong. The world beneath him opened up, clouds curling around the distant isles like pale rivers. Windmere Proper receded behind him as he banked toward the southeast.
Flying in a glider felt strange now. Slower. Quieter. There were no thrumming Aeroliths, no sudden bursts of power through his limbs—just the wind and the subtle shift of wings responding to his movements.
His mind flickered back to that first time—soaring nervously toward the Skyrink. But now, he was flying in the opposite direction.
Not toward Windmere Proper.
But toward home.
The flight was quiet, the wind steady as he passed familiar isles that stirred old memories. With each one, his thoughts wandered deeper—back to the boy he was, and the path that had led him here.
Eventually, the Brimthorn loomed ahead, still and silent in the morning haze. Ardyn angled the glider downward and let it ride the wind a moment longer before dipping low and touching down. The landing was soft, quiet.
He stood, looking over the quiet curves of the isle he called home.
Nothing had changed.
The same winding path through the tall grass. The same low-roofed houses with tin chimneys puffing faint trails of smoke. And there—just past the bend—their mechanic shop.
"Ardyn? Is that you?"
The voice came from a small yard nearby. One of the old women from the neighborhood stood at her gate, broom in hand, sweeping away leaves.
Ardyn turned and offered a polite nod, a small smile forming.
"Oh, you've changed a lot, son," she said, leaning on her broom with a grin. "I almost didn't recognize you."
"Do you know if Pops is here?" Ardyn asked.
"I haven't seen him leave this morning," she replied. "So I'd guess he's there."
Ardyn gave another nod. "Thanks."
He started toward the mechanic shop, boots crunching softly against the gravel path.
When he reached the door, he paused. Exhaled. Then knocked.
No answer.
A memory surfaced. He turned and walked around the side of the shop, toward the row of potted plants by the wall.
He crouched, lifted one of the old ceramic pots, still chipped on the side, and there it was. A small rusted key tucked beneath.
"Pops still hides it here," he murmured with a smile.
He took the key, returned to the front, and unlocked the door.
It creaked open, and he stepped inside, closing it behind him with a soft thud.
"Pops!" he called out.
Ardyn stepped deeper into the shop, his boots echoing softly against the floor. The lights were off, only thin rays of morning sun slipping through the windows.
Something felt… off.
He frowned, worry starting to creep in. He moved through the workshop, past the cluttered benches and shelves lined with old parts, and made his way toward the back. Toward his room.
He pushed the door open.
There, lying on the bed, was Maren. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, and a half-damp cloth rested on his forehead. The blanket was drawn high, but even then, Ardyn could see the tremble in his fingers.
"Pops…" he said quietly.
Maren stirred. His eyes opened slowly, blinking against the light. "Ardyn?" His voice was hoarse, and he coughed into his sleeve.
"Yes, it's me."
Ardyn crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Maren muttered, though the sweat on his brow and the rasp in his voice said otherwise.
"When did you arrive?"
"Yesterday," Ardyn said.
"I'll make a request from the Windmere Council," he added. "They could provide a better place for you to stay—or move you to the Medic Hall."
At that, Maren gave him a look—sharp, stubborn. The same look Ardyn had seen a hundred times.
Ardyn sighed. "Fine. Of course you don't want to leave the shop."
"I'll be here for a month," he said after a pause. "Until the Skytest finals."
"You know you could die out there in that dangerous game?" Maren said, his voice rough but steady.
Ardyn didn't answer right away. He looked down, hands resting on his knees.
"Pops…" he began, hesitation in his voice. "I… want to tell you something."
"I know," Maren said quietly. "You took the hidden Aerolith."
Ardyn lowered his head. "I'm very sorry, Pops."
"You don't need to," Maren said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"It's yours in the first place."
Ardyn looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Do you still remember where you and your parents used to live?" Maren asked.
Ardyn shook his head.
"We lived in the western isles back then," Maren said quietly. "Your father found that Aerolith during one of his flights. You were around three when he brought it home."
He smiled faintly. "You loved that stone. Wouldn't go anywhere without it."
"When you cried, your mother would just hand you the Aerolith, and you'd stop. Just like that."
A small chuckle escaped Maren's throat at the memory.
"I was watching over you the day it happened. You were five then… your parents never made it back from that summit flight."
His voice dropped. "When the news came, I found you in the corner of the house. Holding the Aerolith."
"But you were crying. And the wind… it was moving strange. Stirring around you."
He swallowed. "The Aerolith in your hands was glowing red."
"I panicked. Took it from you."
"I didn't know what it was doing to you. I thought maybe it was dangerous. I even thought of discarding it—or selling it."
"But it reminded me of your father. And I knew... that stone was yours."
"So I hid it."
Ardyn stared at him, eyes wide, disbelief flickering across his face.
Maren sighed. "You know I don't believe in that old talk anymore. I haven't whispered to the wind in years."
He leaned back, voice softer now.
"But now I wonder… maybe your father didn't just find that Aerolith."
"Maybe it was never his to begin with."
He looked at Ardyn.
"Maybe that Aerolith was finding you."