There's a special kind of panic that hits when your stolen skyship malfunctions mid-flight.
Mine was somewhere between oh no and we're going to die as a fireball with excellent altitude.
The Zephyrian flyer — a sleek little glider I'd borrowed from a guy who definitely did not need it anymore (read: he was unconscious) — was tearing itself apart in a wind spiral the locals call a "howler."
Because, you know, it howls. And shreds ships like angry origami.
"Stupid," I muttered, yanking the rudder. "Stupid airships, stupid storms, stupid sigils—"
A gust slammed the hull sideways. I lost the rudder. Then the main sail tore loose with a very dramatic WHOOMP, which I feel was excessive. Sparks showered from the controls. Something exploded.
And then I was falling.
Not "this is fine" falling. I mean spinning, fiery, physics-abandoning doom. My stomach tried to evacuate. I clung to the control stick, but the skyship had clearly decided it hated me.
That's when I saw the girl.
She stood on the edge of a cliff just ahead, watching my death spiral like it was mildly interesting. Wind whipped her white-blond braids behind her, and a storm cloak billowed like it had its own attitude.
She didn't look scared.
She looked... annoyed.
And then she jumped.
Just — launched herself into the air. Like it was a normal Tuesday activity.
What.
She landed on my burning skyship with the kind of casual confidence I reserve for lying to adults. She slid across the collapsing deck, kicked open a compartment, pulled a glowing stone out, slapped it against a panel, and yelled, "Bind."
Wind surged. The ship groaned. For half a second, we leveled out.
Then the rest of the hull disintegrated and we plummeted.
We crashed through a net canopy strung between cliff peaks, then hit a patchwork landing platform made of rope and wood and a prayer. I blacked out for three seconds, woke up to the taste of blood, and a boot nudging my ribs.
"Nice landing," she said. Her voice was dry as sun-bleached sand. "For someone clearly trying to die."
I groaned. "Trust me, it was not my first choice."
She offered a hand. I took it before realizing I was now officially surrounded — three other sky-dancers circled the wreckage, weapons out, eyes wary.
"Cassien Vale," I said, trying to smile. "Definitely not a threat. Just a guy falling out of the sky."
"No one falls into Zephyra by accident," she said.
She narrowed her eyes. They were pale gold, stormlit. Her coat had a sigil stitched across the chest — a whirlwind with a dagger through it.
I knew that symbol. Everyone did.
Windbound. Sky-tribe enforcers.
Yikes.
"Name's Yara," she said. "You just dropped a flaming wreck onto my tribe's main dock during Stormwatch. So either you're very stupid, very unlucky... or very interesting."
I gave her a crooked grin. "Why not all three?"