The wind tore at Osha, a roaring, icy beast that clawed at her clothes and shrieked in her ears. The sky, once a remote canvas, was now an immediate expanse. Pellam’s floating garden-islets, which had moments ago been above her, now receded rapidly, a scattering of emerald chips against the deepening azure. Below, the city’s vast, tiered structure spread out like an unearthly clockwork bloom, its spires glinting like scattered seed-pearls. The Grand Crafter’s Atrium, where she had just been, was already a diminishing speck. Her arms flailed uselessly; the iron choker clasped around her throat pulsed with its deadening hum, dead weight strangling her craft. She was falling, truly falling, not in a controlled descent, but a helpless, accelerating plunge toward the far-off, glittering surface. A choked sound escaped her throat, swallowed by the gale. Then, a shadow. Not the shadow of a cloud, but a shape dropping with vicious speed, a blur of wool broadcloth. It was Rovian. He had launched himself from the precipice, a reckless, wild dive, his powerful frame slicing through the air with a desperation that stole the wind from her lungs. For a fraction of a second, she braced for impact, for the jolt of his body colliding with hers. Instead, a hand, strong and unyielding, clamped around her waist. Not a gentle hold, but a grip of sheer, desperate force that arrested her spin and pulled her hard against him. The force of his catch nearly knocked the breath from her, a dizzying jolt that vibrated through her bones, yet it was the most grounding sensation she had ever known. He held her tightly, his face inches from hers, his dark hair whipped into a frenzy around a gaze that held a wild, untamed fire. His chest heaved, his jaw tight. “Are you mad?” he roared over the wind, the words barely audible. “What were you thinking?” “I was thinking you’re a fool!” Osha yelled back, the ferocity in her own voice surprising her. “Now, we’re both dropping toward a rather inconvenient demise!” He grimaced, adjusting his grip, his muscles straining against the relentless pull of gravity. “Any brilliant ideas, rogue artisan? Or are we to become the city’s most spectacular stain?” Osha’s mind, despite the terrifying rush, was already racing. She clawed at the iron ring, but her palms were useless against the sealed metal. “The choker,” she gasped, pointing to it. “It’s suppression-locked. I can’t… I can’t do anything with it on.” She felt the familiar sting of helplessness, a sensation she despised above all else. Then, a thought, clear and sharp amidst the chaos. “Liri’s gear! The small, ornate one. The one you confiscated from my satchel weeks ago!” Rovian’s eyes narrowed, comprehension dawning. “The decorative one? The one that looked like a toy?” “It’s an harmonic pick!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “It can manually disengage the lock. It trips the internal tumblers. You have to twist it just so. Do you have it?” Rovian fumbled inside his tunic, his body twisting slightly in the wind, threatening to dislodge them both. “I always keep it,” he grunted, producing a small, intricately worked piece of polished chrome, the size of her thumb. It was Liri’s favorite, a delicate device Osha had crafted to aid in fiddly tasks, which Rovian had kept as evidence. The faint, prickly vibration of contained wild current emanated from it, even through the wind. “Good! Now, listen carefully,” Osha instructed, her voice cutting through the wind with sudden authority, every ounce of her pathological avoidance forgotten in the face of imminent doom. “There’s a small, recessed keyhole just beneath the hinge. It’s almost invisible. You need to insert the gear, then turn it counter-clockwise, very slowly, until you feel three distinct clicks. The first two are pressure locks, the third releases the harmonic seal. You can’t force it, or it will jam permanently.” They were dropping faster now, the air thickening, a thick cloud-layer rushing up to meet them. Osha tried to keep her hands steady, guiding his knuckles, but the wind buffeted them mercilessly. Rovian, whose hands were accustomed to wielding heavy enforcer blades and intricate engineering schematics, not delicate artisan tools in freefall, fumbled. His brow was furrowed in concentration, a vein throbbing in his temple. “I can’t feel it, the hole’s too small,” he yelled, frustration lacing his tone. “It’s there! Focus!” Osha urged, their bodies pressed together as they hurtled downwards. The cloud layer was below them now, a swirling, opaque blanket. Soon, Pellam's upper spires would pierce through it. “You’re almost there! Just a fraction more!” He drew air sharply through his teeth, his grip trembling with the effort. A faint click. “One!” he yelled. Another, slightly firmer. “Two!” Osha held her breath, watching his face, the intensity of his focus. She could feel the vibration of the iron band, the leaden weight, but beneath it, the faint click as the tiny gear worked. “Now, the third!” she urged, her voice tight with anticipation. “Slowly! Feel for it!” There was a moment of agonizing silence, broken only by the shriek of the wind. Then, a distinct, satisfying *clunk*. The latch sprang open, its heavy halves falling away from her neck. Osha gasped as raw, potent wild power surged through her veins. Her senses exploded, the world snapping into sharp focus, the air around her suddenly a malleable thing, filled with hidden flows and energies. She felt the structure of the sky-city, the deep hum of its subterranean engine, the minute vibrations of the clouds they were tearing through. “My cloak!” she commanded, already reaching. “The inner lining, feel for the wire armature!” She ripped at the thick, muted grey wool, her now-unhindered hands working with uncanny speed. Rovian, catching on immediately, helped her spread the voluminous material wide. She wove a rapid, intricate pattern, her thumbs glowing faintly as she manipulated the cloak’s hidden threads, pulling, folding, and hardening the weave with precise bursts of wild current. It was a crude, makeshift glider, but it was all they had. The ground was terrifyingly close now, the grand central plaza of Pellam visible through a break in the clouds, its gleaming glass ceiling like a vast, fragile jewel. “Hold on!” she shouted, her voice filled with a desperate exhilaration. The cloak caught the air, transforming their plummet into a jarring, controlled glide, a sickening lurch that threw them sideways. They scraped along the side of a massive central spire, sending a shower of sparks, then veered sharply, aiming directly for the wide, circular dome of the Grand Crafter’s Atrium, where the high society was now gathering for the Inquisition’s judgment. With a deafening roar and a shower of crystalline shards, they crashed through the magnificent, stained-glass ceiling, landing spectacularly in a tangled heap of grey wool and flailing limbs, directly upon the Grand Crafter’s judgment stage.

Freefall over Pellam