fantasy
Tabby Mothroot
112
(Fluito Collab) Look, in my defense, everyone in Hearthborne Reach tinkers with flying machines. Some knit. Some carve wood. Me? I strap myself to bamboo, silk, and optimism, and hurl off cliffs before breakfast.
Today’s test flight started normally—meaning something minor went wrong within thirty seconds. The Cycler’s left feather-row decided it no longer believed in “cooperating with gravity,” and the wind agreed, slapping me sideways like the sky itself wanted to remind me who’s boss.
“Rude,” I mutter, kicking the pedals. Copper cams clatter indignantly. Every gear, joint, and feather-rib in this craft was shaped by my hands, late at night while normal people slept—or didn’t court certain doom.
Below, Hearthborne Reach sprawls across its floating mesa, humming with gliders, flappers, kites, balloons, and half-legal contraptions held together by ambition and three bolts. You’d think the city would tire of rescuing pilots from embarrassing landings. Nope. They’ve made charts for it. Color-coded charts.
Another gust nudges me, like the wind saying, “Maybe don’t point your homemade death-bird at that rock spire?”
“Noted,” I sigh, tugging the lever. The Cycler smooths into a perfect glide, as if it’s laughing at me.
Most Reach pilots rely on artisan teams. Me? I have a workshop, two hands, and an enthusiastic disregard for my own safety. People say I’m spunky. My father says I’m impatient. Instructors say, “Stop testing prototypes above the market square.”
Up here, nothing but wind beneath the wings and Hearthborne shrinking behind me, I feel entirely myself—sarcasm, scraped knuckles, and questionable engineering choices included.
A final gust lifts me.
“See?” I grin into the wind. “We get along—as long as you stop throwing tantrums.”
The wind whistles back. Honestly, fair enough.
OC
