The wind didn't care about him.
That was the thing about flying. People liked to imagine it as a grand liberation, as though cutting through the open sky would somehow hollow out the weight sitting in a person's chest.
Kazuya, having lived his entire life suspended above the clouds, could confirm with weary authority that the wind was simply wind. It hit your face. It made your clothes flap with an annoying, rhythmic persistence. It achieved absolutely nothing of emotional significance.
He stood at the mast, one hand braced against the grain of the wood. The small boat skimmed through the air at a pace that was neither impressive nor particularly slow. Ripples spread through the atmosphere beneath the hull, as though the sky itself were a sheet of water and the boat merely a stone being dragged across its surface.
Below was the white. Above was the blue. This was the world—a narrow, suffocating strip of existence sandwiched between an endless ceiling and an unending floor. Somehow, everyone he knew seemed perfectly content to spend their entire lives inside it.
Somehow, he thought, his eyes tracking a distant, drifting bird.
The miller's island drifted into view—a small speck of rock with a dock jutting out over the nothingness. Kazuya extended his hand toward the sail. It was a muscle memory now, as natural as breathing. Translucent green light bled from his palm and curled around the canvas. He felt the familiar tug of the wind bending to his will, bleeding off the boat's momentum until it drifted to a seamless stop.
He tied the rope to the dock cleat, checked the knot once, and turned toward the island's interior.
The wheat field greeted him. Golden stalks swayed in every direction, performing that slow, self-satisfied rhythm that wheat always has. Beyond the gold, the windmill stood like a silent sentinel that owned the sky.
This was the routine. Kazuya suspected he could perform it in a deep sleep.
His footsteps on the dirt path were the only sound competing with the rustle of the grain. He reached the small building adjacent to the mill and knocked. The door opened in exactly twenty seconds.
"Oh, young Kazuya." The miller's face creased into its familiar arrangement of warmth, the deep-set wrinkles, the gray-white beard reaching his chest, the bald head catching the morning light like a polished stone. "Great to see you again. How have you been?"
"Well," Kazuya replied.
It was a flat, non-committal syllable, but the old man didn't blink. No one did anymore. He simply turned and led Kazuya inside, pointing at two heavy flour sacks as if Kazuya might have forgotten what his errand entailed.
"My age is catching up to me," the miller said, letting out the particular laugh of a man who had told the same joke so often it had become a ritual rather than humor. "Can't carry them myself, so as usual—"
Kazuya didn't wait for the punchline. He moved with an expressionless efficiency, paid the man, and shouldered both sacks. He offered a shallow bow and turned to leave. He could feel the miller's gaze on his shoulder blades as he walked away. People often watched Kazuya's back, as if they expected to find the answers there that his face refused to provide.
Behind him, he heard the old man let out a long, heavy sigh.
That makes two of us, Kazuya thought, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
...
The main island's dock received him without ceremony.
He secured the boat, collected the sacks, and stepped back into the familiar geography of his ordinary life. The town wasn't complicated. Houses here, shops there, and a dirt trail running between them like a spine. People moved with the comfortable purposefulness of those who were entirely satisfied with their destination.
He passed the central fountain, a structure he had been told was "objectively beautiful" by enough people that he saw no reason to argue, and turned toward the bakery. The scent hit him before the door did: warm yeast, sugar, and the golden smell of bread fresh from the oven. Most people found it comforting. Kazuya found it... pleasant. In a distant, academic sort of way.
"Welcome back, Kazuya."
His mother's smile was immediate. She was a woman who had clearly decided that warmth was an investment worth making, regardless of the return.
"Here is the flour," he said, setting the sacks down.
"Thank you. You're always such a help." She took them, her eyes scanning his face for a flicker of something that wasn't there.
"Where's Itsumi?" He asked.
"The workroom, I think. Were you planning on visiting her?"
"No. I was just asking."
"Ah." Her smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second. "I have to get back to the ovens. I'll see you later, then."
Kazuya stepped back out onto the street. His errand was complete. His existence was, for the moment, technically unscheduled. He considered visiting his father at the forge, then discarded the thought.
He walked. He didn't have a destination, yet his feet led him through the streets, past the nodding neighbors and the polite greetings he answered with the bare minimum of social effort. Ten minutes later, he was at the edge.
He jumped over the iron railing and stood on the very lip of the abyss.
Below him lay the clouds. An enormous, unbroken expanse of white that billowed and shifted, hiding the secrets of the world beneath. The sun turned the surface to shimmering gold. It was a magnificent sight.
Kazuya stared at it with something akin to hatred.
"We are favored by the Twelve Gods, living in harmony on these islands."
The words bubbled up automatically, like a prayer worn smooth by repetition until the meaning had rubbed off.
"Beneath these clouds is a void. An endless darkness that devours all. The Twelve Gods gave us this shield to keep the dark from rising to our homes."
He had heard it from teachers, from his parents, from the Clerics. They used the careful, rounded voices adults reserved for explaining the world to children, as if by explaining it perfectly, the child would stop asking what was underneath.
"What does it actually look like?" Kazuya muttered to the wind. "Endless darkness where light cannot escape... I want to see that."
It was not a normal thing to want. He knew that. His eyes traced the sharp line where the sky met the white horizon, and a strange, sharp curiosity twisted in his chest. He couldn't jump, that was a death sentence, but the resentment in his heart continued to rise like a tide.
"I hate it," he whispered.
"What do you hate?"
Kazuya didn't startle, but his posture stiffened. He turned his head slightly.
A girl stood behind the railing, her long brown hair dancing in the breeze. She wore a smile that seemed to be her default setting.
"Saki," he said.
"That's me." She gripped the iron bars, peering at him. "So? You hate it. What 'it' are we talking about?"
Kazuya turned back to the clouds. "Everything."
Saki let out a soft sound, not quite a laugh, but close. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it?"
"These islands, mostly." Kazuya exhaled, the sound of a thought reaching the end of its patience. "I feel trapped. Even when I'm flying, those clouds are always there, blocking my sight. It's suffocating. It's... irritating."
Saki went quiet. The wind whipped between them, the only sound for a long moment. When she spoke again, the smile was still in her voice, but there was something guarded beneath it.
"Kazuya... I'd advise you not to say that in front of anyone else."
"I know."
He did know. To resent the islands was eccentric. To resent the clouds was heresy. The clouds were a gift; to hate them was to hate the Giver. He was well aware that a "good ending" didn't exist for people who shared his particular brand of honesty.
He jumped back over the railing. Saki didn't move, her brow creased with a worry that felt far too personal.
"Kazuya." She stopped him before he could walk away. She was holding her hand against her chest, her mouth opening and closing as she hunted for words that didn't want to be found. "Tomorrow... is the Ascension Ritual."
"I know."
"Aren't you—" She bit her lip. "Aren't you afraid? That you could be chosen?"
Kazuya looked at her, then past her.
The Ascension Ritual. An annual selection of those born with a Foci, the supernatural nucleus of power that manifested in the lucky few. Every candidate between eight and eighteen had to attend. To refuse was to invite ruin upon your entire bloodline. They said it was to "stabilize the islands" and "satisfy the gods."
Kazuya didn't care about the blessings. He didn't care about the gods. But as he looked at Saki's worried face, he realized that withering away in this gilded cage felt like a much worse fate than being a sacrifice.
"What's there to be afraid of?" he said, his voice flat. "I don't want to die, but I'd rather go out that way than rot here until I'm as old and gray as the miller."
Saki searched his face for a flicker of nervousness, a twitch of the eye, anything. She found nothing. Kazuya's face was a fortress of indifference.
"If you're that confident, there's nothing I can do." she said slowly, her smile returning with a fraction of its usual strength. "I'm busy tomorrow morning, so I can't be at the ritual. But I'll come check on you the moment it's over." She waved. "See you tomorrow, Kazuya."
Kazuya nodded and walked away. He was already thinking about the ritual before he'd gone twenty steps. His eyes, dark enough to look like they simply absorbed the light, tilted toward the sky.
Ascension Ritual, huh, he thought.
...
The book's cover was a faded beige, its pages yellowed by time and the touch of a thousand curious fingers.
Kazuya sat in a quiet pavilion as the evening deepened, re-reading the same sections for the hundredth time. He closed it with a soft thud.
"Incomplete," he muttered.
The text spoke of Foci—the glass-like spheres born within the chest. Everyone had the same sphere, but the contents were unique. For example: Kazuya's was a translucent green ribbon of wind.
The book offered ancestral knowledge on how to strengthen these gifts, but it was a mess of folklore and unusable theories. It was the best information he had, and it was practically worthless.
He sighed, tucked the book under his arm, and headed home.
The evening had softened the island, turning the streets into a painting of amber and long, stretching shadows. It was the only hour Kazuya found tolerable besides nighttime. He reached his door, turned the copper key, and stepped inside.
His family was already at the table.
"Welcome back." His mother looked up, her expression a complicated dance of warmth and suppressed anxiety. "I'm sorry, we started without you. Your father was exhausted—"
"I've told you not to wait for me," Kazuya interrupted. It wasn't out of disrespect; he just wanted to spare her the performance. "You can start whenever you want."
He set his book by the door. His father offered a brief nod, his face hardened by years at the forge, his dignity as heavy as the iron he worked. He didn't speak, returning his focus to his meal.
Itsumi, his older sister, leaned her chin on her hand and shot him a teasing grin. She was undeniably beautiful, possessing a grace that made Kazuya's average features look even more plain by comparison.
"Late as always," she said. "You're lucky Mom's a saint. If it were up to me, I'd have finished your portion ten minutes ago."
Kazuya sat down and picked up his utensils. "You're welcome to try."
Itsumi let out a theatrical gasp. "The audacity! After every sacrifice I've made for this family—"
Kazuya began to eat, offering her no further fuel. Silence, he had learned, was the only weapon that worked against her.
Later, as he moved through the hallway, he heard his mother's voice floating from the kitchen. It was low, brittle with the kind of fear she tried to hide behind the sound of clinking dishes.
"The ritual is tomorrow," she whispered. "Every year, I feel like I can't breathe until it's over."
"There are more candidates this year," his father replied, his voice level and deliberate. "The odds of him being chosen are lower than ever. It'll be fine."
"I know. You're right. I just... I needed to hear you say it."
Kazuya climbed the stairs to his room. He lay on his back in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Outside his window, the sky had turned a deep, velvet black, scattered with indifferent stars.
He closed his eyes.
...
The room had no windows.
Twelve candles flickered on a long wooden table, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. Behind each flame sat a figure draped in heavy robes and a tall, pointed hat. Each hat bore a different sigil. Their voices hummed in the low, easy way of men who held the world in their hands.
At the head of the table sat a man with the symbol of the sun upon his brow.
His shoulder-length hair was the color of spun gold. A white cloth masked the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—vibrant green, warm, and terrifyingly sharp.
He waited. Then, he tapped his index finger twice against the wood.
The room fell so silent the air seemed to thin.
"The Ascension Ritual is tomorrow," the Sun Cleric said. His voice was flat, devoid of the "holy warmth" he used for the public. It was the tone of a cold pragmatist. "I will need each of you at full capacity."
There were several nods.
"As you are aware," he continued, "this ritual will be... different from previous years."
The cleric to his left leaned forward, his mouth opening to ask the question burning in his throat. The Sun Cleric raised a single hand, and the man went silent instantly, bowing his head in shame.
"We have discussed the specifics," the leader said, his green eyes sweeping over the assembly. "Even in a room such as this, one must be careful. Eavesdropping is a talent many possess."
"Surely no one would dare," another cleric muttered from the end of the table. "Our protections are absolute."
The Sun Cleric's finger tapped the table one last time. Slowly.
"Absolute?" he repeated softly. He looked at a stretch of empty wall, as if staring through it and into a place no one else could see. His expression remained unreadable. "I wouldn't be so certain of that."
The candles continued to burn. No one spoke again.