Stories
The world below had long since become a memory—a patchwork of rusted rails, cracked highways, and cities that whispered their own demise into the wind. Above it all, suspended on currents of ionized vapor and ancient magnetic fields, drifted a place few had ever seen and fewer still believed could exist: the City of Aetheria.
The storm had no sound in Nareth Hollow that night—only a terrible stillness, as if even thunder feared to disturb the old workshop at the end of the crooked lane. There, behind warped shutters and smoke-blackened panes, the Clockmaster worked.
The stairs spiraled upward like a question Mara could never answer. One hundred and forty-seven steps, worn smooth by decades of footfalls—hers now, her brother’s before, their father’s before that. Each evening she climbed them, hand trailing the iron rail, gulls crying their accusations beyond the salt-streaked windows. The wind pressed against the tower’s stones, a sound like breathing, like the sea itself had lungs.