In the nation of Crownstorm, the ground was a suggestion, not a requirement.
The empire was built on a series of jagged, ascending plateaus in the North West, where the architecture seemed to defy gravity. Every merchant's estate was a fortress of ivory stone, connected by suspension bridges that swayed in the high-altitude winds. Below, the commoners tended to the sky-gardens; above, the wealthy looked at the Obsidian Wall and saw a nuisance that blocked the morning light.
Chris Ceaser stood on the edge of his father's private landing pad, his boots buffed to a mirror shine that reflected the bruised purple of the early dawn.
"The caravan to Flare leaves in an hour, Chris," his father's voice echoed from the hall. It was a voice used to weighing gold and buying silence. "The High Counselor expects the shipment of Grade-4 Rex Orbs personally. Don't be late. And for the love of the gods, don't take that beast of yours higher than the Second Tier."
Chris didn't answer. He ran a hand over the muscular, silver-white flank of Storm. The Pegasus let out a low, melodic nicker, his large, intelligent eyes tracking a hawk circling a thousand feet below.
"He thinks the Wall is the end of the world, Storm," Chris whispered, tightening the cinch on the saddle. "He thinks as long as the gold flows in and the orbs flow out, we're free."
He looked toward the horizon. The Obsidian Wall sat there like a scar across the sky, 3,000 feet of sheer, black glass. To the merchants of Crownstorm, it was a safety net. To Chris, it was the bars of a cage.
With a sharp whistle, Chris vaulted into the saddle. Storm's wings—vast, shimmering spans of feathered muscle—unfurled with a sound like a snapping sail. With a single, powerful leap, they were airborne.
The ascent was a slow crawl into a dying world.
As they left the lush, temperate air of the Crownstorm plateaus, the "Golden Empire" began to shrink. The marble spires became toothpicks. The waterfalls became silver threads. By 1,500 feet, the air lost its sweetness, replaced by a biting, sterile cold that tasted of nothing.
"Come on, Storm. Just to the lip. I need to see it once," Chris urged.
The Pegasus hesitated. At 2,000 feet, the wind didn't blow; it tore. Storm's wings beat with a frantic, heavy rhythm. The silver feathers were now tipped with rime-frost, crackling with every stroke. Chris pulled his silk scarf tighter, but the fabric was useless against the "Death Zone" chill.
They hit 2,500 feet. The sky turned a terrifying, abyssal black-violet. Chris's lungs felt like they were collapsing, sucking in air that had no life in it. His vision blurred, the edges of the world fraying into gray static.
"Just... one... look," he wheezed.
Storm gave a final, agonizing heave, his hooves skidding onto the absolute summit of the Obsidian Wall.
Chris dragged himself from the saddle, crawling on hands and knees across the 3,000-foot-high rim. He looked over the outer edge, expecting the "Grey Mist" he'd heard of in stories.
Instead, he saw a landscape of impossible geometry. Rivers of black sludge that pulsed like veins. Things the size of mountains that moved with a slow, sickening grace. It wasn't a wasteland; it was a living, breathing horror that made the Hollow look like a child's nursery.
Then, the oxygen vanished completely.
Chris tried to scream at the sight, but his throat seized. The extreme cold—so intense it felt like boiling water—instantly fused his eyelids shut. His heart skipped a beat, then another.
He slipped.
The 3,000-foot drop claimed him.
The rush of air was a roar that turned into a whistle, then a sudden, jarring silence.
CRUNCH.
It wasn't the ground. It was the sound of a massive, leathery wing snapping shut.
Chris felt a heat so intense it scorched the frost off his cheeks. A set of talons, thick as tree trunks and hot as a forge, hooked into the back of his reinforced merchant's tunic.
"Easy, Blaze! Don't shred him!"
Chris was slammed down onto a jagged outcropping of stone—a hidden ledge at the 2,400-foot mark, tucked into a fold of the obsidian. He coughed, a violent, rattling sound that brought a spray of red to the snow.
He looked up, blinking through the stinging salt of his tears.
Standing before him was a dragon. But it wasn't the majestic beast from the Flare tapestries. Blaze was a dying god. His golden scales were peeling away, revealing grey, weeping sores that smelled of sulfur and rot. The dragon's breath came in wet, labored gasps, a black fluid dripping from its nostrils.
"You've got a lot of nerve, Crownstorm," a girl's voice spat.
Lyra Flare stood over him, her crimson-and-gold riding silks tattered by the wind. She looked at him with amber eyes that held a mixture of fury and a deep, hidden exhaustion.
"The summit is forbidden to everyone," she said, her voice a low hiss that cut through the wind. "My father's guards would have let you fall. Why shouldn't I?"
Chris struggled to sit up, his lungs finally catching a bit of oxygen. "Because... the dragons aren't the only things dying, are they?"
He pointed a shaking finger toward the sky, where a Phantom circled a thousand feet above. Tied to the creature's leg was a Flare Royal Messenger ribbon—the same ribbon Lyra wore on her sleeve.
Lyra's face went deathly pale. She looked at the Phantom, then back at the merchant's son.
"The Age of Rot isn't coming from the outside, Chris," she whispered, her hand resting on Blaze's trembling snout. "It's being invited in. And your father is the one paying for the door to be opened."
She reached into her tunic and pulled out a darkened Rex Orb—one that didn't glow violet, but a sickly, pulsing black.
"This is what your caravans are delivering to Flare," Lyra said. "They aren't power sources. They're parasites."