Elara snapped the chest lid shut, the small, heavy box suddenly feeling like a bomb in her arms. The silver light of the Aether-Crystal, though now contained, still seemed to warm the dark wood. She didn't need to look at the massive derelict of the Wind-Dancer to know that the schematic she now clutched was the only thing standing between her family's ruin and an unbelievable future.
But unbelievable futures rarely waited for a convenient time.
The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of well-heeled boots echoed sharply down the metal causeway leading into Hangar Seven, announcing an unwanted arrival. Elara didn't need to see the visitor to know who it was. Only one person in Aetheria had the self-important gait of a land-bound peacock: Theron Finch.
Finch was the proposed souvenir vendor, a man whose ambition was as sharp as his tailored coat lapels. His goal was simple: to tear down the historic failure of the Keldons' hangar and install his gaudy, crystal-themed tourist trap.
"Elara Keldon!" Finch's voice was high-pitched and oiled, bouncing off the ceiling girders. "I trust the 'sentimental clutter' is nearly cleared? I have my crews ready to begin measurements for the installation of the Lumina-Boutique signage immediately."
Elara flattened herself against the thick, cold hull of the Wind-Dancer, clutching the heavy wooden chest like a newborn shield. She was surrounded by three decades of genuine, irreplaceable skyfaring history, and Finch wanted to replace it all with cheap trinkets.
"Almost, Mr. Finch," she called out, trying to sound breezy despite the panic seizing her chest. "Just finishing the final inspection before we call the haulers for the—the heavy scrap!"
"Nonsense. Your father assured me this morning you'd be done by midday," Finch said, stepping into the dusty cone of sunlight. He was a man obsessed with polish: his boots gleamed, his silver hair was precisely slicked back, and a large, overly bright Aether-Crystal imitation was pinned to his cravat. He wrinkled his nose at the hangar's ambiance. "Frankly, Keldon, the air in here smells of mold and bad decisions. It's an unsuitable environment for commerce."
He glanced pointedly at the enormous, skeletal airship. "I'm sorry for your family's loss, of course, but the age of daring exploration is over. It is now the age of merchandising. The faster we turn this historical embarrassment into a profitable landmark, the better for the entire district."
His words, usually just annoying background noise, now stung Elara deeply. Finch wasn't just criticizing the Wind-Dancer; he was criticizing the legacy of the man who had built the very technology she held in her arms.
"It's not an embarrassment," Elara muttered under her breath.
"What was that, Keldon?" Finch took a step closer, his eyes scanning the cleared area near the hangar door. "I need to see the full floor plan cleared. Where is all this 'heavy scrap' you mentioned?"
Elara's mind raced. If Finch saw the small, unique chest, he might dismiss it, but if he saw the roll of blueprints—especially one depicting a completely new, revolutionary ship design—he was sharp enough to realize its value, or at least recognize it as proprietary Keldon work. She knew Finch would use any leverage to secure the lease, even if it meant stealing intellectual property.
She darted her eyes around her hiding spot. The area she had been clearing was right next to the Wind-Dancer's enormous, hollow main rudder assembly.
"The heaviest part is right here, sir," she said, gesturing vaguely towards the immense rudder base. "It's that old cargo winch. I've just finished disconnecting it. We'll need a crane tomorrow."
Finch grumbled, but the sight of heavy, immobile machinery seemed to placate him slightly. He hated manual labor.
"Very well. I shall return in the morning. See to it that this entire area," he swept his hand dramatically across the vast floor, "is sterilized. I expect to see polished concrete, not your grandfather's mildewed fantasies."
With one final, disgusted sigh, Finch turned and his rhythmic clack-clack-clack faded back toward the city's upper levels.
Elara didn't move until the silence of the hangar returned, thick and absolute. She waited a full minute, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against the hard wood of the chest.
Sterilized. Mildewed fantasies. Finch had sealed his own fate. Elara would not let him take this space.
She looked down at the schematic. The drawing depicted a small port on the underbelly of the hangar, one that led to the sheer cliff face overlooking the Cloud Sea. This port was rarely used, only for maintenance inspections. Her grandfather's final invention, according to the notes on the drawing, was designed to be launched from there.
The Orb of Aetherial Flight needed to be connected to the Wind-Dancer's remains. Specifically, to the main power conduit which, according to the blueprint, was still intact despite the ship's decay.
Elara knew the hangar intimately. She scrambled to her feet, chest still gripped tight. The main conduit led from the decaying engine room, located deep within the belly of the ship's hull, and fed power to the now-useless lift mechanisms. It was dark, cramped, and full of bats.
But first, she had to hide the key and the plan.
She crawled deeper into the structure of the rudder, finding a small, triangular void behind a thick support beam. She wrapped the chest in a layer of old, moldy sailcloth, pushed it into the void, and secured it with a length of the salt-crusted rope she'd found earlier. It was crude, but it would hold until nightfall.
She emerged, covered in dust and sweat, and headed straight for the engine room hatch—a heavy, brass circle set into the hangar floor.
The Path is Above.
Elara pushed the hatch open, revealing a drop into utter darkness. She had always been terrified of the engine room. It was where her grandfather was last seen, before he vanished. It was where the Wind-Dancer died. It was the place her mother forbade her to ever enter.
She found a flickering oil lamp hanging precariously on a nearby beam and dropped down into the black abyss. The engine room was a suffocating mess of oil, broken gauges, and thick, vine-like wiring. But there, running like a scarred vein up the primary central strut, was the conduit her grandfather had marked on the schematic—a thick, braided copper cable.
As she traced the line with the lamp, Elara felt the first genuine shiver of excitement. It wasn't the fear of darkness, but the realization of purpose. Finch might take the floor, but he wouldn't take the heart of the ship.
The copper cable led up, up, and out of the hull's structure, disappearing into the cliffside wall of the hangar. It ran directly towards the old, abandoned maintenance port—the ship's secret exit.
Elara smiled, a slow, determined curve of her lips in the darkness. She was no longer clearing out her past; she was wiring her future.
The vow was made: Theron Finch would not be opening his Lumina-Boutique in Hangar Seven. She, the apprentice mapmaker, was going to make this hangar a launchpad again.