The wind sang softly that morning. Wisps of mist drifted through the air, curling around the edges of the floating lands like ribbons of silk. The sun cast its glow on the emerald surfaces below, each fragment of land hovering gently in the sky, glimmering like shards of a broken paradise.
The four travelers stood at the edge of one such isle. Below them stretched nothing but clouds and the far-off shimmer of the horizon. The gaps between the isles were narrow but deep—one slip, and they would fall into the unknown.
Lyra leaned forward, her eyes bright. "It looks like a dance floor," she said. "Just… without the floor."
Rowen chuckled. "Try not to dance on it then, Your Highness."
The princess ignored him, gathering her dress to her knees. Without warning, she hopped to the next isle, landing neatly on both feet. "Easy!" she called, grinning. A pink rabbit bounded past her toes, and she gasped. "And look—our audience approves!"
"Lyra!" barked Harkon, the broad-shouldered Viking. "Do not wander off. One gust and you'll be a story told to the clouds."
But she was already chasing the rabbit, laughing as it leapt from isle to isle, a blur of pink against the green. The boy, Elian, ran after her, arms flailing. "Wait for me! I want to see it too!"
Rowen sighed but followed, balancing easily as he hopped across. His boots touched the mossy ground with the grace of someone who had done this a hundred times. Even Harkon's heavy steps were sure, though the isles shuddered slightly under his weight.
The lands here were small—some barely wide enough for one person to stand on. They moved in a slow, lazy rhythm, drifting in and out of alignment. Timing mattered. To jump too soon or too late was to vanish forever. But none of them hesitated. Their bodies had learned the rhythm of the skies.
When Lyra reached the farthest isle, she bent to pick up the rabbit—but it vanished into thin air, dissolving like mist. She blinked. "Did you see that?"
Rowen landed beside her. "They do that sometimes," he said. "Rabbits of the wind. Not quite alive, not quite gone."
Lyra tilted her head, watching another flicker of pink appear and vanish again in the distance. "They're beautiful."
Harkon grunted as he landed behind them. "Beautiful things here often lead to danger."
"Or wonder," Lyra replied softly, staring into the clouds below.
The group rested for a while on a large fragment of land, surrounded by flowers that swayed without wind. From there, they could see the floating castle far behind them—small and shimmering against the sky. Ahead, the path of drifting lands led toward darker skies.
Rowen adjusted his pack. "The air feels colder here," he murmured.
Harkon nodded. "We're heading north. Toward the dragon's wake."
Elian kicked a pebble off the edge and watched it vanish into the mist. "Do you think we'll really find it?"
"We will," said Rowen. "And when we do… we'll end what it started."
Lyra looked up at him, her voice barely a whisper. "Even if it costs us another piece of ourselves?"
He didn't answer. The clouds below shifted, revealing faint shadows that moved like waves beneath them—vast and unseen.
Somewhere far below, something stirred.
The wind changed direction. The floating lands creaked and drifted closer together, as if holding their breath.
And above them, the first whisper of thunder rolled across the horizon.