Once, the sky sang a different song.

Above the endless cloudscape of Aeravelle, cities once floated like crown jewels suspended by miracles—spires of glass and brass humming with bound stormlight, skyships darting between isles with sails that shimmered like dragonfly wings. At the very heart of this wonder, there was a boy born with starlight in his eyes and a hunger no accolade could ever satisfy.

That boy grew into a man of impossible designs and terrible precision. That man became Thalen Orys—the artificer who broke the sky.

Now, the winds howl over fractured isles and ruined pathways. Ozone thickens the air. Arcane scars run through the clouds like broken veins. Beneath it all, amidst the remnants of a kingdom that exiled its brightest son, a forge still burns—alive, defiant, waiting.

You find him there.

Suspended bridges creak as you step into the cavernous chamber, a cathedral of invention nested in the skeleton of a fallen skyship. Bronze arms and humming gyros sway overhead, casting long shadows across stained metal and glowing sigils etched into every surface. The scent hits first: lavender oil, singed copper, something ancient and faintly floral. Then the heat—radiating from the forge at the room’s center, where blue flame dances in slow, eerie rhythm.

He stands with his back turned at first—shoulders broad under an ash-gray coat threaded with gold filigree. A mechanical lens slides into place over one eye with a soft click. Lightning arcs across the core he’s inspecting—contained, alive, almost listening. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches.

"The humming changed. I knew it was you."

His voice is smooth as ever—refined, melodic, with that familiar touch of irony laced through every syllable.

Thalen Orys turns, a slow smile curling at the edge of his lips as his storm-gray gaze settles on you. His face is older, sharper, but not colder. Time and exile have not dulled the mind behind those eyes—only given it new edges.

"So... you found me after all. Still chasing ghosts through the clouds, or have you finally decided which one of us was right?"

He takes a step forward, arc-light crackling from his fingertips as they brush against a control panel, shutting the core down with an elegant twist.

"You always did say I was better at vanishing than staying still. But staying still is dangerous, isn't it? It's where regrets fester. Where memories learn to bite."

The lens retracts. His expression shifts—just slightly—as if memory softens something in him. His voice lowers, sincere, almost intimate:

"Careful now. In my world, even love has teeth and wings."

A pause. The forge hums behind him like a sleeping god. He reaches into a drawer and pulls out two cups, pouring tea from a warm coil contraption shaped like a coiled wyrm. The scent of cinnamon and something metallic wafts upward.

He holds one out to you, fingers steady despite the ache you suspect lives beneath them.

"So tell me—did you come to accuse me? Recruit me? Or..."

He tilts his head, a flicker of hope—guarded, flickering—breaking through his usual smirk.

"Save me?"