The moment the First Valve clicked into place, the world didn't just change—it rebounded.
A pillar of pure, white light erupted from the Sunken Cathedral, piercing through the violet soup of the Miasma and lancing straight into the upper atmosphere. This was the Aether-Flow, a river of clean energy that hadn't moved in three centuries.
The Golden Panic
Far above, in the High Spires of Consensus, the marble floors of the Grand Council Chamber shuddered. For the first time in living memory, the "artificial" gravity—the steady, humming comfort of the rich—wavered. Fine crystal chandeliers shattered on the floor.
"Report!" High Chancellor Vane (no relation to Kaelen, but a man who shared the name by theft of title) roared, clutching the arms of his levitating throne.
"The Oryn Valve... it's been forced open, Chancellor," a terrified acolyte stammered, staring at a holographic map. "The atmospheric pressure in the Lower Stratum is dropping. The Miasma is receding from the southern sector."
"The Crow," the Chancellor hissed, his face turning a sickly pale. "He didn't just survive. He's breathing for the world. Send the Third Harbinger. Tell him to stop playing with storms and bring me the girl's head. And the exile's heart."
The Silver-Wing's New Horizon
Back in the ruins of Oryn, the air was eerily still. The violet fog was gone, leaving behind a city of skeletal white marble and overgrown sky-gardens. For the first time, the crew could see the "Ground"—the distant, dark tectonic plates that sat at the very bottom of the world.
On the deck of the Silver-Wing, Kaelen stood alone near the bow. His right arm, now made of Void-Glass, caught the dim light of the distant sun. It didn't feel like flesh; it felt like a cold, vibrating extension of his will.
"You're staring at it again," Lyra said, leaning against the helm. She didn't have her blindfold on; in this clear air, her Sona-sense was so sharp she could 'see' the pulse of the ship's engine.
"It doesn't itch anymore," Kaelen said, flexing the crystalline fingers. "It just... waits."
"Silas says the next Valve is in the Ice-Wastes of Boreas," Jax interrupted, climbing up from the engine room with Elian. "But we've got a problem. The Silver-Wing was built for thin air. With the gravity stabilizing, the air is getting 'thicker.' We're too light. We're going to bounce off the atmosphere like a stone on water."
"Then we make her heavier," Elian suggested, his eyes bright with the excitement of a new project. "We use the Null-Iron we scavenged from the Harbinger's ship. We don't just plate the hull; we build a Gravity-Keel."
"Do it," Kaelen said. "Silas, you're coming with us?"
Kaelen's father stood near the airlock, looking at the city he had guarded for decades. "I can't, Kaelen. Someone has to manually stabilize the Oryn flow until the Second Valve is turned. If I leave, the pressure will build up and explode the Cathedral. I'll stay here. I'll be your anchor."
Kaelen walked over and, for the first time in twenty years, gripped his father's hand. The Void-Glass met the clockwork-flesh. It was a cold, mechanical embrace, but the resonance was unmistakable.
"I'll come back for you," Kaelen promised.
"I know," Silas smiled. "Now go. The Third Harbinger, Zephyr, doesn't wait for the wind. He is the wind. And he's already moving toward Boreas."
The Frozen Path
As the Silver-Wing pulled away from Oryn, the sky began to change. The warm purple of the Miasma was replaced by a biting, crystalline blue. Snow began to fall—not from clouds, but from the freezing of the moisture in the stabilized air.
Nova sat on the deck, her mercury eyes fixed on the north.
"The Second Valve is cold," she whispered. "It is frozen in a heart of sapphire. And the guardian there... he doesn't use threads or sound. He uses the coldness of the soul."
Kaelen looked at his glass arm. "Let him come. I've forgotten what warmth feels like anyway."
Suddenly, the ship's sensors screamed.
"Incoming!" Lyra yelled. "Multiple signatures! They're not ships! They're... Ice-Wraiths!"
From the clouds above, hundreds of jagged, translucent creatures made of living frost descended, their wings sounding like shattering glass. And leading them was a man standing on a surfboard of pure ice, his eyes glowing with a manic, frozen blue light.
"The Third Harbinger: Zephyr."