Even from the clouds, the World Tree loomed.
The thick shimmer of its upper canopy could be seen through breaks in the sky-layer, a crown of a plethora of vibrant, almost mystical-looking colors that refused to be named or measured. The trunk was hidden somewhere beyond the horizon, wider than cities, older than stars. It reached high enough to fracture wind patterns and reshape the seasons of every nation built in its shadow. Flow, the lifeblood of this age, drifted from it in steady passing, invisible to the eye but not to the body. Some people said they could feel it in their bones. Others claimed they dreamed of leaves every night, whether they remembered or not.
Whatever it was, it affected us all deeply.
The airship "Grand Marrowlight" floated just beneath the upper sky-streams, its outer plates stained copper and sea-glass blue. Steam hissed quietly from vents along the belly, casting brief shadows across the deck. Gears rotated in rhythm with the propellers. Long cables lined the ship like sinew, tense and purposeful.
Sorrin stood at the upper railing near the stern. He wasn't hidden, but he wasn't in the way either. His well-kept revolver hung from his side. A craftsman's weapon. Its barrel had small notches where the plating met the grip, perhaps marks of modification or merely signs of age. The holster itself had been mended more than once, the stitching too careful to be factory-made.
He studied the horizon. A pale bluish-green shimmer hung low over the earth. The charts called it root-fog, concentrated flow that gathered near old branches buried under landmasses. Dangerous in high doses. People often spoke of ships lost mid-flight, their brass veins overgrown with flora by the time rescue came.
Behind him, footsteps climbed the stairwell.
Renn appeared, a long coat thrown over one shoulder, a cracked ceramic cup of spiced broth in hand. His eyes were pale and without focus, the pupils cloudy and unfixed, though he navigated the space with precision. The blind often moved like they were guessing. Renn moved like he had already seen where everything was, weeks ago.
"You're early," he said.
"Didn't sleep," Sorrin replied.
Renn sipped his drink, then leaned against the railing beside him.
"Figured. The air's strange today."
"It is."
"It tastes like moss, old moss. The kind that grows in places it shouldn't."
"Mhm."
They watched the sky for a while. Wind curled through the support beams above, and below them, the crew shifted through morning routines: checking boiler pressure, tightening rigging, logging travel distances with brass compasses and ink that smelled like smoke.
Renn lowered his cup slightly. "I had the dream again. The black bark. The one with the music beneath it."
"What kind of music?"
"I guess it would be more accurate to call it rhythmic vibration. Like something large breathing through soil. It never changes. Just deepens."
Sorrin kept his eyes on the bluish-green shimmer.
"Seems like a stupid dream."
"You ever wonder if we're not supposed to be out here?" Renn asked, his voice low. "I mean, not just us. I mean anyone. Man wasn't born in the branches. He climbed into them. That has a price."
"Everything does."
"Mm. Spoken like someone who keeps a ledger."
Sorrin looked at him for a moment. Renn didn't return the glance, of course. But there was a smile curling at the edge of his mouth.
Footsteps again, lighter this time. Calda, the quartermaster, approached with a wrapped parchment tucked under her arm and a telescope case strapped to her belt.
"Captain wants both of you in the navigation room. We've reached the edge of the drift zone."
"Anything on the radars?" Renn asked.
"Residual flow activity. Low pulses. Might be ruins or might be something under them. We'll know more once we drop."
"And the Council?" Sorrin asked.
"They haven't said a word since our last check-in. Just the coordinates. No rationale."
Sorrin nodded. That was expected. The Council rarely offered explanations. They had their patterns, their long views. The crew of the Marrowlight weren't soldiers or scholars. They were contractors, paid well to retrieve items or verify anomalies. But this particular trip had more weight than the last few. There were whispers of "sealed doors" and "relics buried deep within the surface".
But most of it felt like the generic spooky crap that people always whisper about.
Sorrin followed Calda down into the ship's inner deck. Renn came behind, one hand grazing the rail lightly.
The navigation room smelled of old paper and machine oil. Charts were laid out across a central table, weighed at the corners by iron markers etched with rune-like coordinates. A large flow-calibrator ticked softly in the corner, reading ambient energy. The needles had been rising since morning.
Captain Arven stood over the maps, arms crossed. His coat was military-cut but faded. Scars lined his neck. No one ever asked where they had come from.
"We make the drop in three hours," he said without looking up. "The structure beneath us is pretty old, I'd say ancient. Older than most settlements east of the Spindle Chain. According to the scans, it has three layers. The medium layer is the one we want."
"What do we know about the site?" Renn asked.
"Nothing documented. Not officially. But something about it made the Council open their vault and authorize deployment."
"Must be fairly important then."
Sorrin tapped the chart lightly. "There. That ridge. If the wind permits, we can use it as a landing zone."
Arven nodded. "Already accounted for. Your team will go in with primary survey gear. Calda will stay on comms and monitor flow stability. If anything spikes, we pull. No delays."
The preparations continued.
Hours later, as the Marrowlight slowed above a broken canopy of greywood trees, Sorrin stood by the boarding lift and checked his revolver once more. The cartridge spun cleanly. His fingers brushed the worn leather at the grip, where something small was carved.
A seed. Barely visible.
He closed the chamber, stepped aboard the lift, and descended into the branches below.
The first thing he noticed was the scent. Not of rot or age, but something more unfamiliar. Somewhere deep below, roots were stirring.