Anna sat on the worn steps of her family''s cottage, nestled at the edge of the cluster of dwellings. The rough-hewn wood beneath her felt warm from the orange-tinted sunlight filtering through the sky, casting a glow over the patchwork of salvaged metal and stone that formed her home. Along the short path to the door, potted plants—her mother''s handiwork—lined the way, their leaves rustling in the breeze. The air carried the tang of salt from the nearby sea, mingling with the distant hum of wind turbines standing along the cliffs.


    In her hands, she held her father''s diary, its leather cover worn smooth. Her gaze moved across his words, her finger tracing the familiar loops of his handwriting describing gear ratios, the lines blurring slightly. Wind sighed past the doorway. Dust motes drifted slow in the sunbeam. Stillness settled around her after days bent over rotor assemblies in her workshop.


    Overhead, a pair of orange-crested warblers darted between the eaves of the cottage, their iridescent feathers catching the light. Their calls cut through the air—a series of melodic clicks followed by high-pitched whistles dancing with the wind. Her finger stilled on the page. She tilted her head, ears straining toward the sound. A faint curve tugged at her lips as the birds moved away, their song echoing across the dwellings before fading into the rhythmic creak of a neighbor''s windmill.


    A sharp beep sliced through the air, shrill and insistent, emanating from inside the cottage. Her brow furrowed. Her gaze shifted to the open doorway, where shadows pooled deep inside her cluttered workshop. The beeping continued, unrelenting, pulling her gaze from her father''s words.


    Air hissed out between her lips. She closed the diary and set it beside her on the step. Rising, she brushed dust from her pants and stepped inside, the cool air of the workshop washing over her skin. The console on the workbench glowed with a flickering red light, its screen showing an incoming transmission. She tapped it, and a static-laced voice spilled into the room:


    "Lowtide Colony... blight''s got our crops—storm swept our medicine away. Kids are down... please, anyone..."


    The message cut off, leaving only the hum of the console and the static-laced words echoing thin in the air. Anna''s chest tightened, her breath catching as if the static had snagged it. The words—blight, storm, medicine away, kids down—repeated sharp behind her eyes. The console''s red light flickered against her hands, painting them crimson. A tremor ran through the deck plating beneath her feet. Kids sick. Crops gone. Medicine lost.


    The warblers'' song outside—those bright clicks and whistles—was a distant murmur now. Her spine straightened. Her breath steadied.


    She shoved the diary into her vest pocket, her fingers brushing its edges for a heartbeat before she pivoted toward the door. Her boots thudded against the planks as she walked out, head high, the orange sky vivid overhead. Down the dirt path, past huts patched with scrap metal, her gaze found Old Joren at the airship dock. He was hunched over his red-winged craft—a weathered ship streaked with crimson paint—kicking a landing strut with a grunt. His white hair whipped in the breeze.


    "Joren!" Her voice cut through the wind, sharp. He squinted up, wiping grease onto his patched trousers, his weathered face creasing as he met her gaze. "That signal. Lowtide''s pushed hard—crops gone, medicine lost, kids sick. Cloudchaser''s taking medicine. Need another hull for food. Red Wing—can she haul it?"


    Joren spat into the dust, his eyes narrowing as he looked her over. "Red Wing''s half-rust, Freedman. Groans louder''n me in a storm." He paused, scratching his jaw, then glanced at Cloudchaser''s patched hull gleaming beside his own ship. Anna stood, shoulders set, her red scarf fluttering. Her shoulders remained set. "But if you''re leadin'', I''ll limp her along. What''s the load?"


    A breath escaped her, easing the stiffness in her shoulders. "Enough grain, fish. Whatever fills the bins. Let''s move."


    Anna walked into the courtyard, dust swirling around her boots as the village air filled with its daily sounds. Kassia perched on a turbine scaffold, wrench in hand, sparks spitting from a loose wire near her knuckles. She muttered something under her breath. Tolvar stacked grain sacks near a shed, sweat beading on his broad forehead, his movements slow. Miriam sorted vials of salve at a rickety table, her ledger splayed open, ink-stained fingers marking tallies. A few kids darted between huts, chasing a patched ball, their laughter mingling with the faint click-whistle of warblers perched on a nearby roof.


    She stopped in the center and clapped her hands once—loud, sharp, a crack that pulled heads her way. The ball rolled to a stop; the kids froze mid-chase. Kassia''s wrench paused. Tolvar straightened with a grunt.


    "Listen up!" Anna''s voice carried over the courtyard noise. "Lowtide Colony sent a distress call—blight starved ''em, storm took their medicine. Kids are sick. They need help. We''ve got food, bandages. Cloudchaser flies out with medicine. Joren takes Red Wing with food. Who''s helping load?"


    A murmur moved through the courtyard, heads turning, eyes widening. Kassia slid down from the scaffold, landing with a soft thud, and wiped her hands on her pants. A grin touched her lips. "Two ships? Proper convoy, Anna. I''ll haul crates—better than this junk." She jerked a thumb at the turbine, already stepping toward the supply shed, her braid swinging.


    Tolvar crossed his arms, his broad shoulders hunching, his gaze fixed on Anna, brow furrowed. "Stretched thin, Anna. Bins low. We got enough?"


    Anna met his gaze, wind tugging at her scarf. "They''re drowning out there. We patch through worse with less. Help me load, Tolvar. Keep Red Wing steady."


    He grunted, a reluctant nod softening his expression slightly, and hefted a sack over his shoulder. "Fine. Elders ask next month, you answer."


    Miriam stepped forward, closing her ledger with a soft thump, her eyes locking onto Anna''s. "I''ll sort medicine—fevers first. How many needing food?"


    "Enough," Anna replied, brushing a streak of oil from her cheek with the back of her hand. "Joren''s got the food. We split the load. Fly by noon." She turned to the growing knot of villagers—kids peering from behind crates, an elder leaning on a cane, a fisher pausing with his net—and raised her voice slightly. "Anyone who can carry, pitch in. Lowtide counts on us."


    Kassia tossed Anna a satchel of bandages from the shed. Anna caught it mid-flight, slinging it over her shoulder, and returned Kassia''s grin with a quick curve of her own lips.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Hands grabbed sacks. Vials clinked into boxes. Boots scuffed the dirt. Old Joren ambled over from the dock, his limp more pronounced as he dropped a grain crate with a thud near Red Wing. "She''s ready," he muttered, his tone gruff as he glanced at Cloudchaser. Anna clapped his shoulder, light but firm. "She''ll do. Get ''em loaded."


    The wind picked up, rustling the potted plants by her cottage and sending a fresh chorus of warbler clicks into the air. Anna''s fingers brushed the diary in her vest—dad''s handwriting a faint outline through the leather—and a steady thrum pulsed against her ribs. She moved toward the docks.


    Anna stood at the helm of Cloudchaser, her hands firm on the weathered yoke as the airship''s propeller spun to life, a low hum vibrating up through her boots. A faint green light pulsed from the autopilot panel beside the throttle. She flicked the ignition, and Cloudchaser lifted off from the docks, its ascent smooth as Joren eased Red Wing into the sky beside her, the groan of its engines mingling with the wind.


    Their shadows moved briefly over the dwellings below—patchwork steel huts, whirring turbines—before stretching out across the glowing sea as they banked west toward the cliffs. The sky sprawled above them, a bruised orange canvas streaked with thickening cloud lines hinting at a storm. Anna''s eyes remained fixed ahead, her jaw tight.


    The ascent began smooth, the coastal cliffs shrinking below the port railing. A rugged shoreline unfurled, waves breaking against rock, sending up plumes of spray that caught the light in shifting arcs. Cloudchaser''s hull plating creaked, a familiar sound against the engine''s hum. The comm crackled—static, then Joren''s gravelly voice: "Steady so far, Freedman. You good?"


    A faint curve touched Anna''s lips. She tapped the console; a map flickered, tracing their route. "Always," she replied. The diary pressed against her ribs, a solid weight.


    Farther from the cliffs, the air moved faster. Sharp gusts struck Cloudchaser''s frame, making it shudder. Anna''s grip tightened on the yoke, her knuckles showing pale against the worn material. Beyond the windshield, the horizon darkened. Clouds swelled into a thick, churning mass, swallowing the sunlight.


    Lightning flickered in the distance, a jagged white pulse against the darkening gray. Below, the sea surface churned, foam glowing with phosphorescence. "Storm rolling in fast," she muttered, glancing towards Joren''s ship. Red Wing swayed nearby, its crimson wings sharp lines cutting the haze.


    "Squall''s got teeth," Joren''s voice crackled over the comm, the tone low. "Seein'' this?"


    "Yeah." Her pulse jumped against her ribs. The air smelled sharp—salt, and something metallic, like ozone. "We climb—get above it. Red Wing holding altitude?"


    A rough chuckle crackled through the speaker. "She''s tougher than she looks. You lead."


    Anna dipped her chin once, hauling the yoke upward. Cloudchaser groaned, its frame rattling as the nose lifted into the thickening air. Medicine crates slid in the hold with a clatter; straps creaked under the strain. Raindrops hit the windshield, a drumbeat blurring the view.


    Wind slammed the hull—a heavy impact throwing Cloudchaser sideways. A howl drowned the rotor hum. A curse escaped Anna''s lips as she wrestled the controls, the ship pitching hard. Her boots slid an inch on the deck plating. Her eyes flicked towards the steady green glow of the autopilot panel beside the throttle. Her hands tightened on the yoke, jaw setting. She pulled back harder, climbing.


    Lightning split the sky yards away. White glare seared her vision. A thunderclap followed, rattling her teeth. Air crackled, ozone sharp. Rain smeared the glass in silver streaks. "Joren—climb!" she barked into the comm, her voice tight over the storm''s roar.


    "On it!" he snapped back. Through the rain-streaked blur, she glimpsed Red Wing tilting upward, frame battling the gusts. She yanked the altitude lever hard. Cloudchaser surged, engines screaming, pushing through the heavy air. Gray swirl enveloped the cockpit—wet, dense, visibility zero. Then, the clouds ripped open. Light flooded the cockpit.


    Anna exhaled sharply, breath fogging brief in the sudden chill. Above the storm, the sky unfurled—a sweep of gold and violet light. The sun''s low rays painted the cloud tops below into a shimmering, rolling field.


    The air felt crisp, thin, carrying a faint ozone scent and a trace of sweetness. The supernova nebula blazed across the heavens—a sprawling tapestry of pastel flames, edges curling lavender and amber against the horizon. Below, the storm churned on, its lightning a silent flicker—silver threads weaving through the cloud''s dark underbelly.


    Cloudchaser steadied, its hum softening. Anna''s hands eased on the yoke; tension bled from her shoulders. Beside her, Red Wing emerged from the clouds, rust-streaked hull catching the nebula''s glow, shimmering faint red-gold. "Good call, Freedman," Joren''s voice rumbled over the comm, the tone less gruff than usual. "Clean flying."


    Her lips curved faintly. "Keep you moving." She glanced down at the golden expanse of cloud tops, shadows skimming the surface like dark birds, then forward to the clear patch of sky stretching toward Lowtide. "Hold altitude. Ride it out up here. Smooth skies ahead."


    "Lead the way, kid," Joren replied, his voice steady.


    The two airships pressed on, their frames bathed in the nebula''s light. The storm below faded, its rumble distant against the vastness above. Anna felt the diary''s weight against her chest. Her gaze fixed on the horizon.


    The airships descended, engines humming low, onto the rugged outskirts of Lowtide. Dust swirled up, catching the fading light as propellers slowed, stopped. Ahead, a patchwork of weathered huts perched along cliff edges, patched roofs stark against the gray rock. Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys, mingling with the salty tang of sea air. Ramps lowered with a groan. Figures emerged from hut doorways—moving slow at first, then quickening their pace towards the ships, faces lined, pale, gazes fixed on the arriving vessels.


    Anna stepped off Cloudchaser''s ramp, her boots sinking into damp earth. A woman with a weathered shawl stood forward from the crowd, her eyes sharp. The group parted slightly as Anna approached her. "You''re here," the woman said, her voice rough, thinning at the edges. "We thought the storm might''ve—"


    "Kept us grounded?" Anna replied. A faint curve touched her lips. "Not a chance. Medicine''s on Cloudchaser—fevers first. Food''s with Joren on Red Wing." She nodded toward Joren, already wrestling sacks of grain from his ship, his white hair a bright contrast in the dusk.


    The woman''s hand gripped Anna''s arm, fingers trembling against the fabric. "Thank you," she murmured, then raised her voice: "Everyone, help unload!"


    The courtyard stirred—figures moved quickly towards the airships. Hands reached for crates. Vials clinked against glass. Bundles of bandages rustled. Low voices murmured thanks. Anna knelt beside a tent flap marking an infirmary, handing a stack of dressings to a healer. Dark circles rimmed the healer''s eyes; their lids looked heavy. A small girl, skin pale, tugged at Anna''s sleeve. "That big ship yours?" Her gaze fixed on Cloudchaser''s silhouette against the darkening sky.


    "Yep," Anna replied. Her fingers brushed through the girl''s tangled hair. "Want a look inside later?"


    A grin spread across the girl''s face. "For real?"


    Anna''s eye crinkled at the corner. "Stick close. Show you how she flies."


    The last crates moved off the ramps. The sky deepened to violet. The nebula above cast a faint, eerie glow across the cloud tops. Anna leaned against Cloudchaser''s hull, the metal cool, solid under her palms.


    The storm''s rumble was a faint vibration on the horizon now, far out over the sea. She tilted her head back, her gaze tracing the supernova''s faint shimmer—a long streak against the darkening sky. Her fingers brushed the diary tucked inside her vest. Hold the line, Anna. For them. The thought surfaced, a brief echo linked to the weight against her ribs.


    Joren walked over, brushing dirt from his hands. "Solid work, Freedman," he said, his voice less clipped than usual. "Kept head steady up there."


    Anna shrugged, her gaze still skyward. "Had to." She paused, then added, her voice lower, "Dad would''ve been first in line."


    Joren gave a slow nod. Lines around his eyes crinkled. "He''d say you''re doing him one better."


    A faint curve touched Anna''s lips again. "Not just me, Joren. All of us."


    They stood near the airships as stars began to pierce the twilight. Behind them, the murmur of voices from the village huts softened; the steady rhythm of waves against the cliffs became clearer. Anna let out a long breath, the stiffness easing from her shoulders. The air tasted of salt and damp earth.