Summary: In Lysithea, music and the wind are part of life. When good music plays, the wind twirls and dances in tune. But when the air itself is injured, the wind struggles to sway. Nicolo Callister is tasked with finding a solution, if his disease doesn’t kill him first. 

Fantasy/Action/Romance/Drama

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Rohir took Nicolo to his room, away from the smog outside, making him sit on a plush sofa chair. They spoke little. To his credit, Rohir did not fuss or fret or baby him. He perched across from Nicolo at the edge of the bed, absently plucking at his cuticles as he waited for Nicolo’s breathing to ease. It was just a bout of coughing. Nothing too far out of the ordinary.

The window was shut, but the air outside was soupy and grey. Nicolo spied Rohir watching it, his lip curled in disgust. After about twenty minutes, however, the air had begun to clear, turning a sickly white, and then, finally, blue.

“What was that about?” Rohir murmured.

“I don’t know, but it’s the clearest sign confirming our suspicions. There’s no way a giant wall of smog is normal at Cloudhall.”

“Look!” Rohir stood, putting his nose to the window glass. Nicolo stood, and before them, the sky…had changed. They were flying over a magnificent garden, the bushes and trees bursting with newly-bloomed flowers. He exhaled, the glass crystallising before him. “It’s amazing,” he said in undisguised wonder.

Even from the distance, Nicolo had to admit this was the finest garden he’d ever seen. He could spot countless topiaries and manicured hedges, a bright red strip of roses, lilyponds, frangipani and marigolds and tulips and apple blossoms and— “I don’t even think half of these are in season,” Nicolo muttered as the ship flew close over the garden.

“Cherry blossoms!” Rohir practically shrieked, pointing out to a single, bright pink tree. “I love cherry blossom trees! There used to be one right outside my home! This place is incredible! I can’t believe someone gets to live here!”

Nicolo squinted as a shape in the distance grew larger. “There it is,” he whispered, as a marble white mansion came into view. “Cloudhall.” He picked up his violin case from the table. “Let’s go.”

Captain Arche was watching the gardens with her arms crossed. When Nicolo emerged to see her, she said, “Milord, there are already more signs of damage.”

“The air is clean?” Nicolo prompted. “I can breathe just fine.”

“Have you noticed any wind?” she all but snapped. “Where are the chantrari?”

“Wind horses?” Rohir asked, coming up from behind Nicolo. “I thought that was a legend.”

“They’re real, my father told me about them.” Nicolo watched the sky. It was so blue and so empty. “There should also be sylves—they’re birds that bring rain.”

The ship went around the mansion, parking at an airborne jetty. Nicolo stepped out first, followed by Captain Arche, then Rohir, and two of Nicolo’s bodyguards. The rest of the sailors stayed on their ship.

“Perhaps I read too many adventure stories as a boy, but there’s a part of me that feels like we’re walking into a trap,” Nicolo mused, stroking his chin.

“Stay alert,” Captain Arche ordered. “And Duke Callister, do allow me to walk first. For your safety.”

Nobody greeted them, and there were no guards—not that there would be. The Lord of the Air was not a martial spirit. From the corner of his eye, however, Nicolo did see a girl. He turned his head and watched the ends of her long white hair disappear behind a marble pillar as she fled from view.

“One of the servants,” Captain Arche explained, watching her go. “The Lord of the Air has many. They won’t stop us.”

They walked up the wide stairway and into the grand doors, which only needed a gentle push to swing open. There were more servants in the foyer. They were all wind spirits, without true physical form. Humanoid, their bodies consisted of gently swirling translucent air. Their hair was always white, and their eyes always black. Usually, wind spirits were excitable and constantly mobile; moving in bursts of speed, they appeared to turn into balls of air.

These servants, however, were made out of smoke. Awful smells: burning rubber, ash, petroleum, mixed together. A thin layer of dust covered the floor, and the wind spirits coughed as they staggered, holding onto railings and furniture to stay upright. As soon as Nicolo breathed the air inside the mansion, his coughing resumed in full force.

“Nico,” Rohir cried softly, rubbing circles over his back. “He can’t be here,” he said to Captain Arche. “He’s going to have an exacerbation if he stays here.”

“No,” Nicolo coughed out. “I’m the only royal among us, I need to stay.”

For a moment, Rohir looked like he might argue, but then he just sighed, and helped wrap Nicolo’s scarf around his nose and mouth.

Captain Arche stepped forward. “You,” she pointed at the nearest servant. “We represent the Lysithean government. Where is the Lord of the Air?”

The servant, mute, shook his head and dissipated into a cloud of smoke. Nicolo held his breath, but it was pointless. Violent coughing shook his body, his knees buckled with the force. Rohir tried to steady him, but it was obvious that Nicolo literally couldn’t breathe in here.

“We’re leaving,” Rohir snapped, turning Nicolo around. Even his voice sounded hoarse. The air was just too toxic.

From the other end of the foyer, someone said, “But you just arrived. Sit down. Have some tea. The young prince looks ill. Perhaps he should rest.”

The woman who spoke was not human. Her skin was as grey as bone shards after a cremation. Her dark hair tumbled down her back in a matted mess, her eyes were the colour of pencil graphite. The edges of her body seemed fuzzy. Like she was smouldering. The hem of her black robes tapered into a cloud of smoke.

Her appearance was marked by how the wind-spirits reacted. Many of them just collapsed to the floor in soundless moans, clutching at their throats and gasping. Nicolo’s complexion now somewhat resembled hers. His throat was closing, but he forced himself upright. He was a prince. He was the leader of this mission. He had a job to do.

“We need to speak to the Lord of the Air.”

“Oh,” the woman had girlish voice. She looked away, pouting. “Visitors for my brother. I incapacitated him.”

The admission was startling in its honesty. Captain Arche let out a short gasp, Rohir reached for Nicolo’s hand, but Nicolo himself barely even reacted. A corner of his lip twitched, and he narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?” his voice was much softer, much weaker than it should have been, but the woman answered anyway, smiling as though delighted to be asked.

“I am the Lady of Smoke. Whatever can I help you with?”

Nicolo regarded her, pursing his lips. “We want to speak to the Lord of the Air. You can help us with that.”

Beside him, Rohir made a face. “Now’s not the time for your sass, Nico.”

She circled the room to approach them, and as she did, the foul stench of burning rubber spread further across the room. Captain Arche coughed too. Rohir covered his nose with his hand. The wind spirits that could still move hastened towards the exits, slipping out from underneath the grand doors and the spaces between the windows and their panes. Others just lay on the floor, unconscious.

The Lady of Smoke didn’t seem to notice or care about the effect she was having on the room. She only glided, soundless, to Nicolo, and put a hand on his cheek. Her skin was as soft as cigarette ash. Nicolo’s head was swimming. He was going to faint. He could no longer breathe, and everything in the room spun, except for her terrible, inhuman eyes.

“I want to help you,” she said gently. Her smile seemed so genuine. “What can this immortal spirit do for a Lysithean prince?”

“Back away,” Nicolo rasped out. He slipped out of her grasp, collapsing to the floor in a fit of wheezing. Vaguely, he could feel Rohir call to him, feel hands on his back. Mostly, however, he felt the tightness in his chest, and the terror of her figure looming over him.

“All right.” The Lady of Smoke took a few steps back, and her noxious aura retreated by fractions. Nicolo still couldn’t stop the wheezing. He tried to pat his pockets, mindlessly looking for his inhaler, but in the next moment, Rohir had shoved one into his hands, whispering reassurance as he helped him use it.

Above them both, Captain Arche stared the woman down. “You’re what’s wrong with the wind.”

“The wind?” she hummed, stroking her chin. “I didn’t do anything to that little brat. She’s free to go where she likes, except she always tries to escape. So I have to keep her here. I didn’t touch her, but I confined her. Just like I did her father. They are both such terrible brats, aren’t they?” She seemed to be talking to herself. “I always try to be friendly, but they never want me around. They push me around! But I’m much stronger now than I used to be. There’s far more smoke in the air these days. I feel powerful.” She smiled widely, as though bearing her teeth.

“The smog,” Nicolo rasped out.

“That’s right.” She snapped her fingers. “Smoke is heavier. It keeps the wind-spirits grounded. And the wind…she’s such a little narcissist, she hates the smog. She won’t fly through it! I suspect she can’t.”

“Look,” Rohir cried, “we just came here because there were no wind trails when we played music. Just let the wind—”

“I hate music.” With that, the Lady of Smoke reached down to the floor, where Nicolo had discarded his violin case, and picked it up. She opened it, ever so delicately, and put her fingers on the body of the violin.

Within seconds, the polished wood turned to ash.

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