The air in the Keldon map shop, situated high up in the bustling commercial district of Aetheria, was a comforting contrast to the dusty gloom of Hangar Seven. Here, it smelled of parchment, beeswax, and the faint, sweet scent of polished brass.
It was late afternoon, and Elara was supposed to be assisting her mother with inventory, but her focus was locked on a very specific item: the name of a man she'd seen only once in the shop's outdated ledger of historical ship maintenance.
Joren Valen. Master Mechanic. Grounded five years before Captain Jax Keldon vanished.
"Elara, are you certain you've accounted for all the Sky-Current Charts from the 90s?" Mariam Keldon asked, her voice laced with the fatigue of a woman juggling bills and a failing business. "We need to move those outdated ones to the back shelf. No one wants to see the older maps when the current has changed."
"Yes, Mama," Elara replied, stacking the charts haphazardly. Mariam had no idea just how much the current had really changed.
After an hour of feigned effort, Elara managed to slip away, claiming she needed specialized tracing paper from the back of her father's workshop.
Her destination was the Lower Docks, a forgotten stretch of Aetheria where the cliffs met the permanent, smoggy layer of the Low Clouds. No tourists came here. It was the land of discarded parts, decommissioned lifters, and the handful of old-timers who refused to leave the industry that had abandoned them.
Joren Valen's workshop was exactly where the ledger said it would be: a rusted, windowless shed tucked beneath a massive, immovable cargo crane. It bore the sign, hand-painted and peeling: VALEN'S REPAIRS: NO AIRSHIPS. NO CHECKS. NO QUESTIONS.
Elara hesitated, wiping her damp palms on her trousers. Joren Valen was known for his sharp tongue and even sharper temper.
She knocked on the steel door. No answer. She tried again, louder.
A moment later, the door slid open with a screech that sounded like grinding metal, revealing a man who looked like he'd been forged in a shipyard furnace. Joren Valen was short, powerfully built, and surrounded by a permanent haze of pipe smoke and engine oil. His hands were vast and gnarled, and his eyes, set deep in a weathered face, were the color of tarnished silver—and they were fixed on Elara with suspicion.
"You're lost, girl," Joren growled, his voice gravelly. "I fix motors, not maps. Go back to the tourist traps."
"Master Valen, I'm Elara Keldon," she started, trying to sound authoritative despite the tremor in her voice. "Jax Keldon was my grandfather."
The name hung in the oil-heavy air like a dust mote catching the light. Joren Valen's expression, which had been hostile, curdled into something far worse: a profound, cold bitterness.
"Get out," he said, starting to push the door closed. "I have nothing to say about Jax Keldon. Not then. Not ever."
Elara jammed her foot in the gap, wincing as the heavy door nudged her boot. "Wait! It's not about memory, sir. It's about a repair. A very specific repair on the Wind-Dancer's primary power conduit."
She knew she couldn't mention the Orb or the Aether-Crystal. But mentioning the Wind-Dancer—and a component only a true mechanic would know—was the key.
Joren stopped pushing. He opened the door just wide enough to reveal one silver eye. "The Wind-Dancer? That rotting coffin hasn't had a functioning conduit in thirty years. Even if it did, why should I care?"
"Because," Elara said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "the power line runs from the main engine room out to the maintenance port. My grandfather's schematics show it was designed to accept a surge of high-yield Aetherial power. And I have the power source."
That was enough. Valen stared at her, not with suspicion, but with a sudden, intense focus that was almost frightening. He slowly pulled the door open, waving his hand toward the inner gloom.
"Come in, Mapmaker. And start talking from the very beginning. Don't leave out a single gear."
The workshop was a chaotic paradise of tools, disassembled engines, and half-finished projects. Joren didn't offer a chair; he merely leaned against a workbench covered in oily rags, crossing his arms.
Elara recounted her discovery: the specific location of the chest, the dissolution of the iron lock, the blueprint titled "The Orb of Aetherial Flight," and finally, the softball-sized Aether-Crystal. She did not, however, reveal the crystal's exact location.
When she finished, Joren was silent for a long moment, puffing slowly on his pipe.
"I warned Jax," Joren finally rasped, shaking his head. "Warned him that system was too volatile. The Orb was his obsession. A crazy dream. He was trying to bypass the need for enormous, inefficient sails by channeling pure, uncut Aether-Crystal energy through a focused magnetic field. He was calling it his 'Jump Drive.'"
"A Jump Drive?" Elara breathed.
"Yes. A way to sail through the currents, not on them. But the surge needed to start the reaction... it would fry any standard regulator. It needed a custom connector," Joren said, pointing a finger thick as a wrench handle at Elara. "And that, little Keldon, is where the grudge comes in."
Joren straightened up, his eyes flashing with old resentment. "I designed the connector. It was a masterpiece of insulated copper and ceramic braiding. Expensive. Took me six months. When Jax disappeared, the city council blamed me. Said I sold him faulty equipment. They grounded me. Closed my shop. Destroyed my reputation."
He paused, the bitterness palpable. "Your grandfather never paid me a single coin for that connector. The city took everything."
Elara felt a wave of shame. "I… I am truly sorry, Master Valen. But the schematic is real. The crystal is real. If the Jump Drive worked, if your connector is what made it possible, then you would be vindicated. We could prove the city council wrong."
Joren looked away, back toward the stacks of rusty gears. "Vindication doesn't buy me back those years. And it certainly won't help you. The connector is long gone. Probably thrown into the sea."
"Then we have to build a new one," Elara insisted, her desperation mounting. "I have the blueprint, but I don't know the tolerances, the alloys, or the wiring. You do, Master Valen. Please. Theron Finch is moving in tomorrow. This is our only chance to save Hangar Seven, and Jax's legacy."
Joren sighed, the sound like steam escaping a boiler. He looked at Elara—at the grit in her eyes, the dust on her clothes, the fierce determination that reminded him, painfully, of her grandfather.
He slowly walked over to a high, dust-covered shelf and pulled down a heavy, leather-bound volume. It wasn't a logbook; it was a personal journal.
"I kept everything, Mapmaker," Joren said, his voice softer now. "Every calculation. Every failure. Every design for the connector. But it is not a repair I make, it is a risk. I will help you, Keldon. But my price is not coin."
He fixed his silver eyes on her. "My price is that when you make your Jump Drive work, when you prove the old man wasn't a fool, you publicly admit I designed the connector. I get my name back. Do we have a deal?"
Elara didn't hesitate. "We have a deal, Master Valen. And we start tonight."