Part 1 – After the Dream
Aera awoke beneath a sky painted in soft gold, the clouds drifting lazily above like sails lost at sea. Dew clung to the tall grass around him, shimmering in the morning light, while the ever-present breeze whispered through the treetops and tangled in his hair. Whisperfall was peaceful — more than peaceful. It was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.
He blinked against the sun, sitting up with a groan. His back ached from sleeping outside, and his clothes clung to his skin from the mist that always curled through the fields at night. He'd fallen asleep after the vision — if it had been a vision — and the memory still clung to him like fog.
The collapsing village. The pulsing glyphs. The wind howling with sorrow.
Aera rubbed his eyes, then reached for his worn sketchbook, fingers tracing the edge of the page he'd marked the night before. The drawings were there — tangled threads, spiral symbols, and a rough depiction of the floating islands breaking apart. He stared at the symbols. They didn't make sense, but they felt… right. Like something he'd seen before, even though he knew he hadn't.
He stood slowly, muscles sore, and walked toward the overlook that faced the skywater stream. Normally, the glowing river of skywater hummed with quiet energy as it passed through the rock channels carved by generations. Today, the flow was uneven. It pulsed instead of rippled, and the light within it flickered — dimmer than it should be.
That wasn't right.
He knelt beside the channel and dipped his hand into the current. The skywater was cold, colder than usual, and it tugged at his skin like it was trying to pull him deeper. He yanked his hand back.
"I know what I saw," he murmured. "Even if it was just a dream... it was real."
The wind shifted behind him. Not a gust — more like a pause, a breath held in. He turned, scanning the trees and skybridges nearby. No one. Just the gentle creak of ropes and wood swaying high above the clouds.
He made his way toward the old shrine stone near the village center — a jagged monolith etched with ancient markings. The Loom glyphs. They had always been there, glowing faintly, unmoving. Today, as he approached, something changed. The glyphs stirred.
Only slightly — a shimmer, a ripple, as if the stone had exhaled.
Aera took another step forward. The breeze at his back pushed him gently toward the stone. He placed a hand on the surface, fingers tracing one of the spiral threads. It glowed briefly beneath his touch, then dimmed again, pulsing once as if responding.
The glyphs were reacting to him.
He pulled his hand back, chest tightening. Was this some kind of sign? A warning? Or an invitation?
"Aera!"
He startled at the voice. It was Naeli, the baker's daughter, standing across the square with a half-empty basket of bread. "You're late! Market's already started!"
"Right. Sorry," he called back, forcing a grin. "Got caught up."
She rolled her eyes with a smile and walked off toward the lower bridge. The moment passed.
But as Aera turned to leave the glyph stone, he heard it again — not a voice, but something like a breath on the back of his neck. A whisper, too faint to catch, carried by the wind.
He didn't understand it. Not yet.
But something was changing.
And Whisperfall was no longer as quiet as it seemed.
Part 2 – The Traveler with the Wind in His Step
The markets of Whisperfall buzzed with gentle activity, though even now, the energy felt a touch subdued. Vendors lined the main walkways between bridges, selling floating lanterns, woven cloud-fruit baskets, carved wind-chimes, and bottles of bottled skywater — said to hold a memory if you whispered into them.
But Aera wasn't shopping.
His eyes wandered past the colorful stalls and familiar faces. Past Naeli arguing with her mother over underbaked bread. Past the musician playing a slow, breezy tune on his reed flute. He wasn't looking for anything, and yet something tugged at his attention — like a loose thread in his mind pulling him forward.
Then he saw him.
A figure lounging atop one of the windblown platforms overlooking the western cliff, legs crossed, hat tilted low. He wore loose robes the color of sunbleached clouds, trimmed with swirls of silver thread that shimmered when the light hit just right. His scarf fluttered lazily even when the wind didn't touch it.
The man was resting against a hanging skybell tree, arms behind his head as if he'd been there all morning.
Aera felt it immediately — the strange stillness in the air around him, like the wind itself had paused out of respect.
As Aera approached, the man's eyes opened beneath the shadow of his hat. One silver eye twinkled, and the stranger smiled — not the wide grin of a performer or the sly smirk of a trader, but something quieter. Knowing.
"Funny place to nap," Aera said, trying to sound casual.
"Funny place to wake up," the man replied, gesturing to the sky above. "And yet, here we are."
Aera blinked. "Have we met?"
The man sat up slowly, dusting invisible specks from his robe. "No, but we've nearly crossed threads before. Thought I'd finally catch up."
Aera frowned. "That supposed to mean something?"
"Only if you want it to," the stranger said. He stood, arms folded behind his back, and gave Aera a slight bow. "Name's Zephr. Traveler, listener, occasional wind-chaser."
"You're not from Whisperfall."
"No one is from where they're going," Zephr replied, walking slowly to the edge of the cliff and peering down. "You've got a good view here. Most people never notice it. But the wind... the wind remembers."
Aera narrowed his eyes. "Are you one of those sky monks?"
Zephr chuckled. "Oh no. They take themselves far too seriously. I laugh too much for robes and silence. I just like to listen. And lately, the threads have been humming."
The way he said it — threads — sent a shiver down Aera's spine. It was the same word he'd thought of when looking at the glyphs. Coincidence?
"Say… you've seen the glyph stone, haven't you?" Zephr asked without looking at him. "Of course you have. You felt it, didn't you? It's not speaking clearly yet, but it's trying."
Aera took a slow step back. "How do you know about that?"
Zephr finally turned to face him fully. "Because the winds are out of tune, Aera. You hear them, don't you? Not just feel them — hear them. The way they curl around your steps. The way the skywater shivers when you're near."
Aera didn't answer. He didn't have to. Zephr's expression softened.
"I don't mean to frighten you. You've got a good heart. Curious. Open. But you're not just part of the storm that's coming… you're one of the ones it listens to."
Aera stared. "Who are you really?"
"Just a wanderer," Zephr said, smiling again — but it held something else now, something deeper. "But I'll tell you a secret. The sky sings different songs for different people. Yours is starting to rise in pitch."
He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a small windchime — made of delicate silver strands and paper-thin crystal feathers. It sparkled faintly, even in shadow.
"Here. A gift," he said. "When it rings on its own, you'll know the wind is speaking."
Aera took it slowly. The chime was warm to the touch. Alive, almost.
Zephr tipped his hat again. "See you around, threadling."
And just like that, he strolled past Aera and vanished into the market crowd — robes fluttering in a breeze that didn't touch anyone else.
Part 3 – The Whisper Before the Fall
The windchime hadn't made a sound all day.
Aera held it gently in both hands, its silver strands catching the afternoon light as he sat beneath the skybell tree, the same one where Zephr had lounged earlier. The tree's drooping flowers swayed softly overhead, their petals glowing faintly with blue veins that pulsed in rhythm with the wind — or what little of it remained.
The breeze had died down again. Not fully, not noticeably, but enough that Whisperfall felt off. Like a song pausing mid-note.
He turned the chime slightly, watching it shift between his fingers. It was light, fragile, and intricate — but it didn't feel like a trinket. It felt deliberate. Like it had purpose.
He looked up at the glyph stone across the glade. The symbols etched into its surface had dimmed since the morning, as if exhausted from trying to speak. Aera had tried to trace them again after meeting Zephr, but nothing happened. No glow. No pulse. Just cold stone.
He sighed and stood, stretching his arms to the side. The energy that had burned in his chest that morning — the one that made him feel like the wind itself was calling to him — had started to fade, replaced by a frustrating stillness.
"Nothing's changed," he muttered.
But that was a lie. Everything felt like it was changing — too slowly to see, but fast enough to feel.
He started toward the edge of the island, walking a narrow bridge that led to the weather-watcher's platform. From there, he'd have a clear view of the eastern ridge where the skywater collected before flowing through the village.
The wind picked up as he reached the edge. The chime in his hand stirred… but it wasn't ringing.
Then the clouds shifted.
He paused, squinting into the sky. One of the far islands — a smaller one, usually hidden behind a veil of mist — seemed closer than usual. Too close. Its silhouette pressed against the edge of the sun, casting long shadows across the skywater veins below.
Aera narrowed his eyes.
And that's when he saw him.
A figure, standing on the cliff's edge of the distant isle. Cloaked in layered black and muted silver, with a long scarf coiled loosely around his shoulders and a hood half-cast over his face. The glow of the sun outlined his silhouette sharply, making his stance more imposing than visible. His presence struck like a weight — even across the vast distance.
Aera didn't know who it was, but he couldn't look away.
The figure was still. Watching. Not just Whisperfall — him.
The wind around Aera stalled.
Then, the chime sang.
It wasn't loud, just a soft, single note — but it rang with uncanny clarity, like a whisper turned into sound. The glyph stone behind him shimmered again, a faint response. The skywater beneath the platform rippled backward, climbing briefly before falling again into rhythm.
Aera staggered back.
When he looked again, the figure was gone.
Had he imagined it?
No… the chime had rung. The wind had changed.
And he had felt it in his bones — whoever that figure was, they had brought the silence with them.