Jett returned to Skia, the Stormcloud Dukedom's capital. He quietly parked his carriage in a secluded spot where commoners wouldn't notice it and donned casual clothes before heading out for a stroll. Since he desired a bit of solitude, none of his maids accompanied him today.
He drifted through the battered capital alone, hood drawn low over a plain canvas coat.
Skia's once‑perfect avenues now curved around heaps of shattered marble and blackened ironwork. Wind‑funnels—sleek copper towers that once tuned breezes into song—stood dented and mute.
Overhead, layers of puffy cumulus churned like fleece in a washtub, yet shafts of gold always found their way through, gilding the wreckage with stubborn warmth.
On the horizon, a lattice of windmills spun at uneven speeds. Some wore new turbine blades of turquoise‑veined copper, others clattered with broken spars wrapped in canvas patches. Azure motes popped around the gears where storm‑mages whispered repair sigils.
