The lands grew wider again.
After hours of hopping across narrow pieces of earth and holding their breath at every jump, the warriors finally stepped onto a stretch of soft, green ground. The air here was mild, sweet with the scent of clouds, and the endless sky reflected on dew-dotted grass like shattered glass.
Lyra took a deep breath.
"It's quiet," she whispered.
Rowen nodded. "Too quiet."
The place was strange, though peaceful. All around them drifted other lands—some small, some large—but most were covered with white sheep. Hundreds of them grazed in silence, floating gently with the breeze, their wool glowing faintly against the sunlight.
No farmhouse, no herdsman. Just sheep, clouds, and sky.
Harkon grunted. "Who feeds them? Spirits?"
"Perhaps they feed on the wind," Elian said, half joking.
Lyra smiled. "Maybe they belong to the sky itself."
They found a wide patch where they could rest. Rowen laid down his pack, scanning the horizon. The lands shifted slowly, pulling apart and coming closer again, like the sky was breathing.
"We'll camp here before the next drift," he said. "The winds grow impatient at dusk."
Lyra wandered while they set up the small campfire. A few sheep watched her curiously, their ears twitching. One of them, smaller and pinkish around the muzzle, nudged her hand. She giggled and tore a piece of bread from her pouch.
"There. Don't tell your friends," she whispered.
The sheep blinked slowly, then walked away, as if satisfied with the trade.
Elian poked the fire with a stick. "I still can't believe how you run across those lands like it's nothing," he said to Harkon.
"Balance," Harkon replied with a grin. "You listen to the wind. It tells you when to jump."
"The wind doesn't talk to me."
"Then you're not listening right."
Lyra sat beside Rowen as the flames crackled.
"Do you ever miss home?" she asked quietly.
Rowen looked at the stars beginning to form above them.
"I do," he said after a pause. "But the lands move. If we try to go back, the path is never the same."
"So no one ever returns?"
"Only in stories."
They sat in silence for a while. The wind hummed like a song between the floating meadows. A few sheep drifted across to other lands, their hooves barely touching the grass as they leapt through the mist.
When night deepened, the group lay near the fire.
Lyra watched clouds glide under their island, dimly lit by starlight. She thought of the Bone Dragon—the creature of wind and bones that had haunted their tales since childhood. She couldn't imagine how something that lived in the same sky could be so cruel.
A low gust swept across them, bending the grass. The sound changed—the calm hum turned sharper.
Rowen's eyes opened instantly. "The wind," he said. "It's shifting."
Harkon sat up, frowning. "A storm?"
"Not yet. But soon."
Lyra shivered though the air wasn't cold. Somewhere in the distance, one of the floating meadows tilted slightly, and a few sheep drifted off the edge, disappearing into white clouds below.
The silence after that was heavy.
The group tightened their packs, and Rowen pushed the fire out with his boot.
"Rest while you can," he said. "We move at dawn. The sky changes when it wants to."
Lyra nodded, staring into the pale horizon, where thin streaks of light curled like ribbons. The sky had grown restless. The world itself seemed to be waiting for something.
And far away, unseen by them, the wind began to circle—slow and steady—gathering for what was to come.