The storm had passed, but the sky was still restless. Thin silver clouds drifted lazily around the broken horizon, glowing faintly in the pale light of dawn. The four travelers stood quietly, their cloaks fluttering in the cold wind, looking over what remained of the greenlands.
The air smelled of rain and ash. Pieces of grassland floated by like forgotten ships, turning slowly in the sunlight. Somewhere far below, a faint roar echoed — the dragon's voice, fading into distance.
For a long time, no one spoke.
Lyra sat down first, exhausted. Her hair clung to her face, damp with mist. "It's gone," she said softly. "For now."
Rowen nodded, though his eyes were still fixed on the far-off clouds. "It never really goes. It just circles, waiting."
Harkon dropped his heavy bag beside him and sat cross-legged. "Then we wait too," he said simply, rubbing his sore shoulders. "Let the winds carry us where they will."
Elian looked around until he spotted a piece of land nearby — wide, gentle, moving in the same current as theirs. "That one drifts east," he said. "If we're lucky, east will lead us to the dragon's path."
They tied their small island to the larger one with rope, and when the two lands bumped gently together, they crossed over. The new island was peaceful, covered in soft moss and tiny blue flowers. A few pink rabbits hopped among the blooms, blinking curiously at the new visitors.
Lyra smiled faintly as one of the rabbits approached her. She reached out a hand, and it sniffed her fingers before darting away, its fur glowing in the light. "They're everywhere," she murmured. "Like guardians."
"More like troublemakers," Harkon said, though even he smiled when another rabbit tugged at his bootlace.
The group settled under a crooked tree whose roots curled through the air like ribbons. Elian unpacked what remained of their supplies: half a loaf of bread, a handful of dried fruit, and one waterskin nearly empty. "This won't last more than a day," he said.
"Then we make it last two," Rowen replied. He tore the bread into even pieces and handed them out. "The dragon's close. I can feel it. Once we find it, this ends."
Lyra bit gently into her share, gazing across the endless sea of clouds. "And if it doesn't end?"
Rowen didn't answer. His eyes were somewhere far away, tracing the horizon where the floating lands shimmered like scattered emeralds.
The quiet stretched on — the kind that wasn't empty but alive with small sounds: the rustle of grass, the hum of drifting air, the occasional squeak of a rabbit hopping too near. For the first time since the storm, the four of them breathed without fear.
Lyra lay back on the grass, looking up at the sky above the sky — a world upside down, where islands hung like stars. "Do you ever wonder," she said dreamily, "what's beneath the clouds? What if there's another world down there, just like ours?"
Elian chuckled. "Then I hope their sheep are less dramatic."
Even Rowen laughed softly. "Maybe one day we'll find out."
"Not today," Harkon said, stretching his arms behind his head. "Today, we rest."
The land drifted onward, slow and steady. The wind carried the scent of distant rain, the soft music of the clouds brushing past. The rabbits followed beside them, hopping from one floating patch to another like gentle spirits of the sky.
As the sun began to sink, the group gathered near the edge to watch it. The horizon burned gold and rose, reflecting in their eyes. For a brief, fragile moment, the world was beautiful and whole.
Lyra whispered, "Do you think the dragon ever watches sunsets?"
Rowen turned to her. "If it does," he said quietly, "maybe it remembers what it was before it turned to bone."
No one answered. They simply watched as the light faded, carrying with it the weight of their losses — and the fragile hope that tomorrow, they would still be together.