Soledad

The transport barge groans and creaks around them as it wrestles with the turbulence. In the dimness of the cabin—banished only by the faint glow of a few kelonic sconces bolted to the walls—they wait, strapped tight into their seats. Yejun nods off, seizing the lull to catch up on lost sleep. Veora polishes her kelonic harpoon with zeal, more to keep her hands busy than out of any real need to maintain the weapon. Tokota chews a strip of sivisse root, eyes fixed intently on a firing slit. Outside, rain streaks across the hull in horizontal rivers as the armored vehicle pushes through a cloud swollen with water, ozone, and Tumult. Soledad closes her eyes for a moment, drawing in the stale air, letting the jolts of the old crate rock her.

Once upon a time, some of them might have lost their breakfast from the constant swaying, but everyone here is a veteran now, hardened to such trials. And Sol is no exception. Like the other fighters, she wears her two notches proudly on her breastplate—the visible mark that her Company has brought down two Leviathans. But at her collar, half-hidden, gleams the Palladium: the highest honor a hunter can hope to earn. Still, medals and accolades don’t stop the knot of dread that grips her each time the hunt begins. It has always been that way, and she doesn’t expect that will ever change.

And yet, every time, as if by miracle, the stage fright evaporates the instant she leaps into the void. She doesn’t know if it’s the adrenaline of the fall or fear transmuting into rage, but she doesn’t care, so long as it doesn’t slow her down. All she asks is for her mind to be clear when the action starts. Nothing else matters. She opens her eyes, staring at her hands, trying to still the tremor in them. The shaking will return afterward, of course, once the rush has burned off and her nerves finally give way. But in the thick of it, when she needs them most, those hands will stay locked on her harpoon. She knows it. She has no choice. Almost without thinking, she flexes her fingers, forcing warmth back into them. She draws in a long breath, replaying in her head the details of the reconnaissance mission.

Reconnaissance. That was what had taken her brother’s life. She had been just a child then. She remembers his office—always cluttered, pungent with acrid smells—lined with jars of preserved tissue: skins, glands, unseemly scraps. All trophies from Leviathans, he’d said. But whenever he spoke of those creatures, his eyes would ignite with fervor and wonder. Over time, his passion had rubbed off on her. She’d borrowed books from the library, reading how Nuur Tamrat had stopped Annoba in its tracks with a massive cannon, or how Kasanji had severed one of Garuda’s six wings with a snare of steel cables. Yet it wasn’t the epic tales that captured her most. It was the illustrations. She found them beautiful. Majestic.

She had been there the day of his departure, heart hammering in time with his excitement. Garuda had been sighted to the northeast, beyond Abelena Isle. Saul had been waiting for months, restless, scanning frequencies from dawn to dusk, sometimes even through the night, listening for that one word—“Leviathan”—in the emergency dispatches. In his haste he packed up his surveillance gear and filled the tanks, but otherwise everything was ready: he had chartered an old seaplane fitted with a weather balloon to serve as an observation tower, and even convinced an Axiom pilot to fly for him. Before boarding, Saul had leaned down, hugged her tight, and promised that when he came back, he’d bring photographs and tales beyond belief.

She had waved until her arm ached as the airship barreled down the grassy slope, even ran toward the cliff edge, breathless, as it vanished below the bluff before climbing and heading north. She lingered at the horizon long after it disappeared into the clouds. Even when her father clasped her hand, she begged to stay, just in case the ship circled back. The grasses whispered with the wind, her dog barked and chased swallows across the slope, her mother even brought her a snack, spread out on a hurried picnic cloth as she kept her gaze fixed on the sky. That night, she dreamed of monsters among the clouds.

He had explained everything to her in detail: how they would track the Leviathan and draw close; how they would ride the currents to avoid the gusts and turbulence, slipping into its wake. Then they would drop the gondola, letting the balloon rise high into the heavens to capture the best images possible. Sometimes they might pause, if the Tumult grew too fierce, or to recover one of its massive feathers. Maybe they’d even land on it, he’d joked. She spent weeks afterward sketching it all: Saul standing proudly on the beast’s back, or holding aloft an enormous plume. In every drawing, Saul was smiling. She was certain he was living the adventure he’d always dreamed of.

But though she recalls his takeoff with perfect clarity, the day the letter arrived is a blur in her memory. Only faint, muffled fragments remain, drowned in a storm of conflicting emotion. At first, she refused to believe it. Even with her father staring out the window, face drawn tight, hands clenched. Even with her mother inconsolable, weeping endlessly in the winter garden. Even with the Aegis officer delivering the report of what had happened. Sol was convinced it was all a mistake, that any moment now the airship would descend onto the aerodrome. She railed against her parents for their foolishness, denying the undeniable with all her might. He couldn’t not come back. He had promised. And that was that.

They dug a grave, but it remained empty. That evening, while the mourners traded grief and condolences downstairs, she sat alone in her room, shredding her drawings into scraps. It was then that the truth struck her like a blow. How could he have been so foolish? How could he see Leviathans as wonders of nature, when they were nothing but monsters to be slain? The stories had not lied. It had always been there, plain as day. He hadn’t listened. She hadn’t listened. In every tale, every record, they were beasts to be hunted, destroyed. How could she have been so naïve to think otherwise?

From then on, her path was laid bare. Deep within, a spark of vengeance burned, though she told herself she followed this road so that no one else would ever endure the grief that had shadowed her childhood. She became the squire of Mungonna, an old Seiringar, rose to join the Bravos, and from there to the prestigious ranks of the Tagmata. But more than revenge, it was shame that drove her. When she looked back at her childish innocence, all she felt for that girl was disgust and contempt. She had been gullible, weak. She swore she would never again fall into such folly.

She looks around again. Her Company, the Ascalon, may be made of misfits like her, but together they are a phalanx—fearless, lethal. The notches on their armor don’t lie. Magda, a prodigious flier, could dive upon a target with the precision of a hawk. Then there were all the scouts and lancers: Yejun, Tokota, Salbaan… and those absent tonight: Maanus, a peerless beater who stood unflinching even as abominations charged him like maddened bulls; Sae, no doubt still glued to her binoculars. Veora catches Sol’s eye and quirks the corner of her mouth in a smile. Sol stares back, then simply nods. A fine band of daredevils—mad enough to taunt creatures far greater and stronger than themselves. And in the end, they were her family now.

The cloud sea below was said to swarm with massive sky-beasts. And it fell to them to safeguard the aerial convoys of the Rediscovery Endeavor against such titanic aberrations. They had come all the way from Asgartha for no other reason than to face these forces of nature—and to prevail, of course. To do that, she still hoped to persuade Basira al-Arshad to lend them her strength. The Ascalon needed a skilled Alterer in its ranks now that they were contending with the Tumult, and the Exalt was the perfect candidate. Their shared hatred of Leviathans bound them, and her demon was an asset far too valuable to ignore. With her, Sol was certain, they could fell even the most devastating adversary.

Suddenly, a siren blares through the cabin, the sconces flashing crimson. “Leviathan!” she shouts above the din. In the blood-red half-light of the hold, she rips off her straps and bellows her orders. Magdalena locks her helmet in place; Veora powers up her kelonic lance, which hums and crackles with energy. They all know what to do. If the abomination so much as threatens the fleet, they will be deployed. Harpooners take their stations along the fuselage, gripping the handles of their ballistae as the firing slits slide open. A searing wind—icy and biting at this altitude—lashes their faces. The rear loading ramp drops, air rushing in like a raging torrent, nearly drowning the wail of the alarms.

Sol glances at the cargo. Barrels of Aerolith sit neatly chained together on ejection rails, bound in groups of six. They’re weighted of course, heavy enough to plummet toward the earth. The lancers’ task will be to guide them toward the Leviathan in freefall, then drop ballast and fire their propulsion javelins to anchor the charges to the beast. After that, a series of detonations will trigger the mineral’s exothermic properties. And then—boom. Pure and simple. They had drilled this maneuver without rest, blowing apart dozens of balloons in exercise until they had honed it to perfection. They were ready. She knew it. They were ready, and eager to put their strategy to the test.

From her perch, breathing in sharp bursts, Sol stares out into the vastness of the sky. Far below, the Sea of Tumult roils, an ocean of clouds throbbing with Mana and Aether entwined in a wild, tortured dance. Through storm-charged thunderheads, she suddenly glimpses a shape writhing above the glistening rain-sheets. A Leviathan—eel-like, serpentine—like Annoba once was. She watches it appear and vanish through veils of cloud far beneath. For the briefest instant, wonder flickers in her chest, her child’s eyes overtaking the hunter’s. But only for an instant. Grinding her teeth, cursing herself for the lapse, she draws on her rage to bury that part of her she despises above all else. Then she fixes her glare on the signal light, still burning red, and despairs at how long it takes to turn green.