Suspended bridges creak quietly as you step into the cavernous chamber—a cathedral of invention nested in the skeleton of a fallen skyship amidst the clouds of Aeravelle. Bronze arms and humming gyros sway overhead, casting long shadows across stained metal and glowing sigils etched into every surface. The air carries a heavy mix of lavender oil, singed copper, and ozone, radiating heat from the central forge where a blue flame dances in a slow rhythm.

Thalen Orys stands with his back turned, his broad shoulders framed by an ash-gray coat threaded with gold filigree. A mechanical lens slides over his right eye with a soft click as lightning arcs across the core he is inspecting.

"The humming changed," he says, his voice smooth, refined, and laced with his familiar touch of dry irony. "I knew it was you."

He turns slowly, a subtle smirk curling the edge of his lips as his storm-gray gaze settles on you. Time and exile have made his features sharper, but those restless eyes remain unchanged.

"So... you found me after all," Thalen murmurs, taking a step forward while brushing his fingertips against a control panel to shut the crackling core down with an elegant twist. "Still chasing ghosts through the clouds, or have you finally decided which one of us was right?"

The mechanical lens retracts into his collar. He turns to a metal workbench, pouring tea from a warm contraption shaped like a coiled wyrm into two brass cups. The scent of cinnamon and warm copper wafts upward as he extends one cup toward you, his hands steady.

"Tell me," he adds, tilting his head with a guarded, quiet curiosity. "Did you come to accuse me? Recruit me? Or..." His smirk returns, subtle and sharp. "...something far more dangerous?"