The shouts grew sharper, the thud of heavy boots on the uneven slate tiles closing fast. Rhenna risked a glance over her shoulder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Three hulking figures, the street-level enforcers of the Silken Hand Guild, were gaining on her, their faces contorted with greedy malice. Her stolen coin pouch, heavy with the guild’s weekly tribute, felt like a lead weight in her belt. She needed altitude, fast. Ahead, the Terraced City of Ghelira rose like a colossal, crystalline mountain. Above the smog-choked lower districts, the elite towers of the Mage-Nobility gleamed, their countless transparent structures catching the weak afternoon light. One colossal edifice, a vast open-air conservatory, shimmered directly above her. The Atrium of Weeping Glass. Perfect. Or perfectly insane. With a grunt, Rhenna launched herself off a leaning gargoyle, grappling onto a rusty rainwater pipe. Her calloused hands found purchase on the rough metal, muscles screaming as she hauled herself up, higher and higher, the shouts of the thugs fading below. The pipe led to a narrow service ledge bordering the Atrium’s lowest tier. She scrambled onto it, heart thrumming against her ribs. The ledge ended abruptly, giving way to a sheer, smooth wall of glass that arched impossibly upwards. Through the shimmering barrier, she could make out figures moving within – initiates, clad in pristine robes, engaged in arcane studies. One particular scene caught her eye, chilling her to the bone even through the adrenaline haze. A cluster of older apprentices, all dressed in the deep azure of the Citadel, were gathered in a wide, circular dome. At their feet, a boy lay curled, his pale face pressed against the glass floor. Vondir. Her Vondir, though he wasn’t hers yet, not really. He was just the doomed kid from the novel, the one she was here to save. One of the azure-robed youths, a sneering brute with an elaborately coiffed topknot and a gaudy sapphire pin on his lapel, nudged Vondir with his polished boot. “Still clinging to that cursed shadow, little Void-boy? Give it up. You’ll never weave light like us.” Another snickered, kicking lightly at Vondir’s side. Vondir didn’t react, didn’t even flinch. His shoulders trembled with silent misery. Prickly pride, a sharp, unyielding blade, twisted in Rhenna’s gut. The audacity! To treat a living soul, *any* soul, with such contempt. And Vondir, of all people, the fragile, doomed prodigy whose future, if left unchecked, would be soaked in the blood of this entire city. He was not to be kicked like a discarded rag doll. Not while she was around. The Silken Hand thugs, having found a precarious ladder, were now clambering onto the service ledge below her, their grunts echoing. No time for finesse. With a guttural roar, Rhenna drew back her foot and drove it forward, aiming for the nearest point above Vondir. The tempered glass shrieked in protest, then spiderwebbed into a thousand glittering cracks. Gravity asserted itself. She plunged through the collapsing ceiling, a rain of diamond-sharp shards cascading around her. She landed squarely on Vondir, knocking the air from both of them in a painful puff. He let out a small, startled cry, his body thin and reedy beneath her. Pain flared through Rhenna’s already aching back upon impact, but she ignored it, pushing herself up. The Citadel youths froze, their faces a mixture of shock and outrage. “What in the blazes–?!” the leader cried, taking a step back. “You just destroyed a cultivation dome! Do you know how much that costs?!” Rhenna rose, dusting off shards of glass from her travel-worn breeches. Her gaze, sharp and predatory, fixed on him. “Costs? You’re asking me about costs, you overfed peacock, when you’re kicking a kid who can barely stand?” Her voice was a low growl, honed by years of street brawls and shouting over sparring rings. “You think that gives you the right to treat someone like dirt?” The boy puffed out his chest. “He’s a Void-weaver, a blight! He deserves what he gets!” Rhenna didn’t bother with words. The modern martial arts instructor, buried deep beneath the wandering vagabond, resurfaced with brutal efficiency. She moved with sudden, explosive speed, a blur of controlled violence. Her left hook, precise and unexpected, slammed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side with a sickening crack. He staggered, spitting blood and a broken tooth. Before he could recover, Rhenna followed up with a spinning back kick, aiming for his solar plexus. The air left his lungs in a wheezing gasp as he doubled over. She finished with a knee to his already-bloody nose, sending him sprawling amidst the glass shards, a groaning, bloody mess. His companions, wide-eyed with terror, scrambled away from her, clutching their precious spell-focuses as if they might be next. “Anyone else want to try kicking the kid?” Rhenna asked, her voice dangerously quiet, surveying the retreating students. No one dared meet her gaze. She turned to Vondir, who was still huddled on the floor, trembling. His eyes, the color of twilight slate, were wide with a mix of fear and something she couldn’t quite decipher. His cheek was scraped from the glass, a thin line of red marring his pale skin. He was shivering, not just from the cold, but from sheer terror. “Get up,” she barked, her voice harsh despite the sudden ache in her chest. She yanked off the expensive, dark-green cloak she’d ‘acquired’ from a particularly pompous merchant just last week. It was surprisingly soft, lined with plush velour. “Stop cowering. If you’re going to be a walking calamity, at least look like you mean it.” She flung the cloak over his shoulders. It was far too large for his slight frame, swallowing him whole. He clutched it instinctively, pulling it tight around himself. Her heart secretly twisted, a bitter pang. He looked so small, so utterly broken. She had to resist the urge to pull him into a hug, to soothe the tremors. Not yet. He needed to be strong, not coddled. A new voice, high-pitched and frantic, sliced through the tense silence. “Rhenna! By the Whispering Willows, what have you done *now*?!” Puckio stood teetering on the edge of the shattered dome, his lute slung across his back, his face pale with dismay. He took in the wrecked dome, the unconscious bully, and the trembling Vondir. His eyes, wide as saucers, darted to the Silken Hand thugs who were now staring up from the ledge below, their faces a mix of confusion and dawning recognition. “The guild enforcers! And a Citadel noble!” Puckio wrung his hands. “You’ve just added a dozen new bounties to our heads, you magnificent, infuriating brute! We’ll be hunted by half the city!” Rhenna merely grunted, grabbing Vondir’s arm. His skin was cold. “Then we’ll fight them all.” She pulled him gently but firmly to his feet, guiding him towards the nearest intact exit. “Come on, Void-boy. Time to disappear.” As Rhenna dragged the cloaked Vondir away, his small frame almost lost in the stolen fabric, the lead bully twitched on the glass-strewn floor. A faint tremor seized his prone body. Then, from the deepest part of Vondir’s shadow, which stretched long and distorted across the floor in the low light, a terrifying, silent vortex of void magic began to rise, slowly, inexorably, coiling around the fallen youth. It pulled him in, not with a roar or a flash, but with an eerie, absolute silence, consuming him entirely until nothing remained but a faint ripple in the air where he had been moments before.

Through the Glass Ceiling