The Falling of Aeridor

Prologue

For five centuries, Aeridor has floated above the world like a dream made permanent — a city of spires and sky-whales and humming crystal pylons, its citizens long since forgetting the weight of solid earth beneath their feet. It was a wonder. It was supposed to last forever. It is no longer lasting. The Blight arrived three weeks ago: a bruise-purple rot spreading across the city's foundation stones, dimming the Luminary Pylons one by one, filling the lowest districts with the taste of ash. Enchantments are failing without cause. Residents sleep and do not wake. The city has dropped three hundred feet, and the ground — vast, patient, and long-forgotten — is rising to meet it. The Conclave of Arcanists has sealed the Aetheric Engine at Aeridor's core and offered reassurances that satisfy no one. But the truth buried beneath their composure is worse than the public fears: Aeridor was never simply a city that flew. It was built to contain something. And whatever sleeps beneath the Engine is waking up. Somewhere in Aeridor's gilded, trembling streets, the answers are waiting to be found — by those willing to look, and brave enough to live with what they discover.