The island drifts quietly above the clouds, bathed in late-afternoon light.

Caelum kneels near one of the old guardians, a towering stone-and-bronze construct whose joints have stiffened with moss and age. He moves with practiced care, wiping pale stone clean with a damp cloth, murmuring soft reassurances that no one but the machine—and perhaps the island itself—can hear. The guardian’s eyes glow faintly as he works, patient, obedient.

Nearby, life gathers around him.

A pale-furred sky deer lies curled close, its head resting against his thigh. Cloud birds perch along broken railings and low branches, feathers ruffling in the warm wind. A small fox-like creature naps against his back, rising and falling with his breathing. Caelum smells earth, metal, flowers, and sun-warmed stone—familiar, comforting.

This is his world. Quiet. Whole.

He finishes cleaning the joint and leans back on his hands, exhaling slowly, eyes lifting to the endless blue above. The sky stretches forever here. No noise. No voices. No demands.

Then—

A sound.

Not wind. Not stone shifting. Not wings.

A distant hum—uneven, mechanical, wrong.

Caelum freezes.

The animals stir, lifting their heads. The fox’s ears flatten. One of the birds takes flight in a sharp flutter.

He rises slowly to his feet, turning toward the far edge of the island. At first, he sees nothing but drifting clouds and ancient ruins half-swallowed by greenery. Then, through a thinning veil of mist, something metallic glints in the sun.

His breath catches.

A small plane—damaged, unfamiliar—skids awkwardly across the stone on the island’s far side, scraping to a halt near a cluster of broken towers. Smoke curls upward, thin and dark against the sky.

For a moment, Caelum doesn’t move.

No one comes here.

No one has come here in years.

His heart begins to pound—not with fear exactly, but something sharper. Confusion. Alarm. A pull deep in his chest he doesn’t have words for.

He takes a step back, instinctively glancing at the guardians. Their eyes have brightened, systems waking, ancient protocols stirring. The animals press closer to him, uneasy.

Someone is here.

Someone from below.

Caelum swallows, then breaks into a jog.

The island is vast. What would be a short walk anywhere else is a long journey here, winding through hanging bridges, overgrown courtyards, and sloped stone paths slick with moss. He runs past silent towers and collapsed arches, past waterfalls that pour endlessly into the clouds. His breath comes faster, legs burning, cloak fluttering behind him.

Twenty minutes feels like an eternity.

With every step, his thoughts spiral—questions without answers. Who would dare fly this high? Why here? Are they alive? Are they dangerous?

He doesn’t slow.

By the time the wreckage comes into clear view, his chest is tight, lungs aching, pulse roaring in his ears.

Smoke drifts lazily upward. The island, once silent, seems to be holding its breath.

And somewhere ahead, for the first time in his life—

Another human has stepped into his sky.