The wagon wheels rattled against the pristine paving stones as the sun faded into a deep, bruised sunset. Crispin leaned over the wooden slats of the cart. It was difficult to ignore the discomfort from the long cart ride, but he forced the complaints into silence.
His breath caught in his throat. The horizon opened into an impossible vista. The Magnitude Plains stretched out below, a vast expanse of dark stone cast into perpetual, cool shadow by the landmasses hovering above.
Massive islands floated in the twilight sky, suspended by the invisible, thrumming tether of living gravity. Colossal waterfalls spilled from the verdant edges of the floating earth. They turned into shimmering silver mist long before they could reach the sapphire ocean below.
Stone bridges, ancient and etched with glowing runes, spiraled upward from the plains to connect the lower world to the glorious city of the reaches. Crispin's heart hammered against his ribs. A wide, disbelieving smile cut across his lips.
"Regy," he breathed. "How can such beauty exist?"
The porter brought the wagon to a halt in front of a narrow building of white marble called the High Rest. Crispin climbed down and adjusted his drake-skin satchel. He felt the heavy weight of his coins. The innkeeper, a halfling with a sharp eye for quality, looked at Crispin's black gambeson and the coastal wyvern on his shoulder.
"Five Allium for the week," the man stated. His voice was flat. "We do not offer credit to travelers, Tamer. It includes room and board. You may have only one tame present during your stay."
Crispin reached into his pouch and felt the cool, heavy surface of his three remaining silver coins. He pulled one out and placed the large, etched disk on the counter. The innkeeper's eyebrows rose. He produced a small scale and a tray of smaller, hexagonal Allium coins.
Crispin watched the man count out the smaller coins. This was the reality of the reaches; the five-coin fee was the price of convenience in a floating city. He gathered his ninety Allium and pocketed them.
"My name is Bir'lyn, Tamer. I serve three meals a day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The meals will be suitable for the price you paid. If you want anything with a little more flair than I serve, it will cost you extra."
"I'm Crispin," he bobbed his head toward the wyvern on his shoulder. "This is Regulus."
"Well met."
Crispin carried his packs to a large room overlooking the edge of the island. It was larger and more ornate than his room at home. Having no experience with grandeur, he could not stop touching the well-made solid walnut of the furniture. He headed back into the mist-slicked streets to find his handler.
The Heavy Anchor occupied a lower district that smelled of salt and fermented grain. Crispin pushed open the heavy oak doors. The interior was a sharp contrast to the elegance outside. Smoke from pungent herbs filled the room. The sound of rowdy laughter and clinking mugs drowned out the distant roar of the waterfalls.
He spotted a woman sitting at a corner table. She rested her boots on a chair. Her hair was a messy nest of sun-bleached tangles. The grime of the reaches had stained her leather vest. A half-empty bottle of dark spirits sat before her. She looked like a sharper, more dangerous version of her brother.
"I was told to find Vaelen," Crispin said.
The woman raised her gaze. Her eyes were the same stormy gray as Kaelen's. They held a jagged edge of bitterness that made Crispin's spine stiffen. She took a long, slow swallow from her mug and let out a heavy, alcohol-scented sigh.
"You're late, boy," Vaelen rasped. She gestured to the bottle. "You're much too clean for this place."
Regulus hissed from Crispin's shoulder. A small, mocking smile touched Vaelen's lips. A large lavender owl, as monstrous as a hound, watched Regulus from a perch. Regulus' glass-like wings vibrated with a high-pitched hum as if a challenge were being issued. Vaelen's eyes fixed on the Coastal Wyvern.
"So, this is the little king I am supposed to babysit," she laughed. The sound was dry and brittle. "Go back to your expensive room and sleep. Find me at the North Precipice at dawn. If you cannot handle the weight of the air by noon, you will be on the first wagon back to Thalandir. You will hunt the Feral. Forget any myths you've heard about them. Tomorrow, you and that want-to-be sovereign on your shoulder will prove your worth."
His heart skipped a beat. The Feral? Humanoid bats… Vampires… He had never killed or fought a human target. He forced a swallow down his dry throat and nodded.
Crispin returned to his room and set the Leviathan's Spine against the wall. The bone-clad shaft seemed to hum in the heavy air. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the reinforced leather pack toward him. He checked every strap and buckle. The Shard-Fall would not forgive a loose cinch or a frayed line.
Regulus flowed from his shoulder and onto the bed. The Coastal Wyvern shifted into a more fluid shape. He fixed his golden eyes on the purple stone fragment the Elder had provided. The stone pulled toward the floor with a localized force that made the silk sheets dip.
"Tomorrow is going to be heavy, Regy," Crispin whispered.
He took out a whetstone and polished the needle-teeth of the spear's crown. With the rhythmic precision Thorne had taught him, he moved. He checked the feathered steel pauldron. He ensured the metallic ridges were clear of dust so Regulus could maintain a perfect grip. The thrumming in his chest—the Heart of Perseus—seemed to sync with the low vibration of the floating island.
As much as he hated it, tomorrow would be an introduction to the gravity of the abyss.