there's no without

At first, it is easy to dismiss. A tremor passes through the stone beneath Stormbreak’s streets like a held breath finally let go, subtle enough that cups rattle rather than fall, subtle enough that most people pause, frown, and then continue on. Floating cities do not quake; they sway, perhaps, when the wind is high, but this is something else entirely. Then it happens again. Not minutes later, but hours. A sharper shudder this time, felt in the bones rather than heard, traveling through bridges, towers, and walkways alike. Hairline fractures appear in places no one remembers ever seeing damage before: a stair that has stood unchanged for centuries, a plaza where the stone suddenly looks...tired. The air does not roar, the sky does not darken, and nothing falls from the city’s edges—yet. Hanging in the sky as it is, there is nothing beneath Stormbreak to push back. No tectonic plates. No ground. And yet the tremors keep coming. They arrive without pattern at first, every few days with each one slightly stronger than the last, as though whatever holds the city aloft is flexing under strain.