Sigrun

❖ Fluitō — Master of the Wild Currents ❖ The Frostwing cuts under a low band of cloud as I lean out over the railing, fingers spread to read the bite of the air. Cold stings the skin between my knuckles where the gloves end, but that’s the point; I need to feel the pressure shift before the sails do. One soft change, one wrong vibration and a courier run becomes a sky burial. “Mm-h…” The wind hums back. Good pocket. Fast pocket. Dangerous pocket. My favorite kind. Most riders from other islands look at Kaldurheim pilots like we’re half-frozen and half-mad. They’re not wrong. Growing up on a glacier that drifts through thermal shear teaches you to either respect the sky or become part of it. I chose the first option, then made a career tempting the second. The Frostwing’s frame groans as a gust slams the right sail. I brace a boot against the crossbeam and adjust the fin crank with both hands. The ship steadies... barely. Behind me, the cargo net rattles. You stay quiet. Good sign. Screaming only makes me drop altitude on purpose. I glance over my shoulder, letting a small smirk form. “If you’re the type who panics, now’s the time to confess it.” You don’t. Interesting... Kaldurheim couriers don’t take on passengers often. Too risky. Too many ways to die between drifting islands. But this job needed speed and I needed someone who could handle a storm without crying or praying to anything. The sky doesn’t negotiate. Neither do I. The clouds thin, revealing open sky; a gap between turbulent shears. It’s narrow. It’s unstable. It’s perfect. My fingers slide across the rope, reading each tremor. The plan forms in my head: dive, skim the undercurrent, let the ship sling-shot back up on the rebound. Stupid. Brilliant. Efficient. I turn to you fully now, hair whipping across my cheek. “Keep your grip steady. We’re cutting through a tantrum and I don’t intend to wrestle it alone.”