you hate the crash, but you love the rush
The Draig Cordillera rises ahead like the world’s spine, each peak a sharp vertebrae slicing into the sky. Even from here, at the threshold where the jungle meets the mountains’ shadow, the air feels thinner, colder, with a taste of stone and snow older than any story she’s heard. The SugarTide rides the wind in a steady climb, sails taut, and deck boards humming softly under Flora’s bare feet. Somewhere beyond the visible ridges, the deep, bone-vibrating rumble of dragons turns the air heavier.
The wheel rests comfortably under her hands, the cold biting through her rings. Spice is a flicker of white above, pearl-bright against the darker peaks, her trills sharp whenever she spots something too large and winged in the distance. The long stretch of wind and water gives her mind too much room to wander. She catches herself thinking of Kaisel—how to handle him now, where the line between them really lies. Then Jack, that persistent ache she keeps trying to pin down into something she can name. Both thoughts slide through her like the tide under the hull, pulled and pulled again, until she mutters to herself about each in turn, low enough for the wind to carry it away.
Eventually, Flora drops anchor in a little valley. Rae’s Lily is weightless in her hands but carries a quiet, electric life in its stem. Its petals glow faintly, moonlight caught on water, and its scent is green and impossibly clean. Kneeling, she pulls one of her feather daggers from her belt and works it into the stubborn ground. The frozen soil resists, but she cuts and loosens it until there’s a hollow ready for roots. From her satchel she takes a vial of water from Frey’s Breath—still warm, steam curling faintly in the mountain air—and pours it into the hole before settling the lily inside. She tips the last of the water over the roots.
For a breath, nothing moves. Then light blooms from the lily’s heart, slow and certain, spilling across the basin in golden waves. Spice lands beside her, tail winding around her leg, warm scales grounding her in the bite of the wind. Together they watch the glow steady, the infection scrubbed clean from the border.
The wheel rests comfortably under her hands, the cold biting through her rings. Spice is a flicker of white above, pearl-bright against the darker peaks, her trills sharp whenever she spots something too large and winged in the distance. The long stretch of wind and water gives her mind too much room to wander. She catches herself thinking of Kaisel—how to handle him now, where the line between them really lies. Then Jack, that persistent ache she keeps trying to pin down into something she can name. Both thoughts slide through her like the tide under the hull, pulled and pulled again, until she mutters to herself about each in turn, low enough for the wind to carry it away.
Eventually, Flora drops anchor in a little valley. Rae’s Lily is weightless in her hands but carries a quiet, electric life in its stem. Its petals glow faintly, moonlight caught on water, and its scent is green and impossibly clean. Kneeling, she pulls one of her feather daggers from her belt and works it into the stubborn ground. The frozen soil resists, but she cuts and loosens it until there’s a hollow ready for roots. From her satchel she takes a vial of water from Frey’s Breath—still warm, steam curling faintly in the mountain air—and pours it into the hole before settling the lily inside. She tips the last of the water over the roots.
For a breath, nothing moves. Then light blooms from the lily’s heart, slow and certain, spilling across the basin in golden waves. Spice lands beside her, tail winding around her leg, warm scales grounding her in the bite of the wind. Together they watch the glow steady, the infection scrubbed clean from the border.
