Chapter Three: Getting to Know Straws
1000 Words
Caelus Spire's iron bells rouse me from my restless slumber. My skull bangs with every toll. I sit up in my bunk with the sheets sticking to my wet body.
The watchtower’s windows spat red flares into the dark, a signal that the assault had begun. My lungs seize, my heart races, and a rush of adrenaline burns through me.
I ran to the balcony, bare feet striking cold stone. The airship docks tremble as intruders swarm like venomous bugs. Orange flames spread across the mooring platforms.
Firelight dances along their curved swords while grappling hooks latch hard onto the ships.
Amid the wreckage, dockworkers run with crying children in their arms. The mooring tower quakes, cables tearing loose.
The tethered airship tears free and plunges into the skies below as the tower collapses with a screech of metal. Gone
I pulled the storm-forged wingsuit from its rack. The harness locks tight, crystals sparking with bottled lightning. My hands shake, but every buckle holds.
The balcony’s brink rushes past, and I throw myself into the screaming wind. The wingsuit answers with thunder, sparks skittering over brass.
The wind claws at my visor. Lightning coils along the steel, hungry for raiders’ blood. The balcony edge rushes up—I dive into the gale as sparks race across the brass railings.
I crashed onto the first skiff, my sword cutting the lines. The pilot whirls, the scimitar raised.
Our blades crash, shrieking. I drove the storm blade through his ribs. He falls into the night.
But three skiffs close in. Then five. Then twelve. They swarm like locusts, burning everything. More emerge for each I kill.
The battle spreads across ships, platforms, and harbours like a disease.
A child’s wail cuts through fire and wind. I fold my wings tight and dive toward a burning passenger ship.
On the leaning deck of the ship, parents huddle with their children as fire crawls up the mast. I crash onto burning boards, wings flaring to shield them from embers. The mother looks up in despair.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
After saving them all, I went back to the mayhem. The weight of their appreciation is greater than that of the sword by my side.
How many families will suffer while I chase the flames?
A booming trumpet shakes the air, deep and old, echoing through bone and brass. The raiders pulled back toward the cloud line with military precision.
Then a giant shape emerges.
The Iron Howl, Draegor's cruiser, is the largest ship in the skies. Its armored hull bristles with cannons, sails flaring with sickening stormlight.
It rises through thunderheads like a violent dream, shadowing burning docks. The front deck seizes my gaze.
Lady Selene Kael, daughter of Chancellor Varros Kael, writhes in the firelight. Her thin dress snaps in the wind, black hair lashing like a war-banner. Her pale face is drained of colour, hands bound tight against the mast.
Draegor stands beside her, appearing massive in his dull, gray armor. He raises his blade in mock salute to Caelus Spire, then points it at Selene’s throat.
My heart pounds. Selene is no ordinary hostage. She is heir to the Chancellor, future voice of the council, and symbol of fragile unity.
If Draegor takes her, alliances shatter, and the sky-clans descend into chaos.
My communication crystal buzzes.
“Sir Alaric!”
The wind carries the voice of Commander Tiberius Kael.
“Don’t move! Hold the docks! " The city can’t lose our ships!” Desperation cracks his command.
Numerous ships burn below. Platforms fall apart. The public screams. Defiantly, Knights of the Watch fight. The ports are essential for survival, trade, and supply. Yet the Iron Howl climbs into thunderheads, while Selene is dragged into the storm's darkness.
Before clouds swallow her, her pale face turns toward Caelus Spire.
Wingsuit thrusters keep me hovering between fire and storm. Below, duty burns. Above, conscience screams.
Whatever I save, something else is lost. Ice grips my chest as the choice sharpens.
I remember Darius’s face—my wing-brother—crying my name when the raider’s storm charge ignited. My hesitation killed him.
Everything dies when you hesitate.
Lightning splits the sky, shadows leaping over the burning city.
For a moment, I saw two worlds—storm above, fire below.
My storm sword hums, charged with energy.
The hilt shakes in my gutted grip, as does my heart. Pursue Draegor, or secure the docks.
Rescue Selene, heir of unity—or protect the lifeblood of Caelus Spire.
Follow instructions or follow your instincts.
The wind howls through the brass frame of Caelus Spire, the storm waiting for my answer.
I picture tomorrow’s docks: piers like broken teeth, merchants counting losses, widows staring at empty berths. Children will ask why knights let the flames take their fathers. I’ll answer with orders and strategies, but it won’t matter.
I imagine the council without Selene: Maelis smiling like a blade, rivals carving up the city, each clan clinging to its ragged banner. Treaties would break, escorts vanish, and convoys would be plundered. Hunger would finish the work—the Storm Wolf needn’t fire a cannon.
The bells still toll, dull and tireless. Smoke sears my lungs. Ozone prickles my tongue. Below me, a knight stumbles and rises again. He waves the civilians towards a safer staircase and then turns back to fight alone against three attackers. You must fulfil your duty, even if it breaks you.
Above me, the Iron Howl rolls, a mountain with sails. Lightning crawls over its flanks like a nervous thought. Draegor has chosen the oldest leverage: one life to ransom a city. I refused to follow his lead.
“Alaric,” I whisper to no one, to the wind, to the ghost of Darius. “Do not flinch.”
Hungry, the thrusters flare. The blade hums, eager. I chart a course through ruins, hoping one day the path will be free of ash.
I gripped the storm blade and made my choice.
- Writer
