The sun in Aeris didn't rise; it ignited.
Because the kingdom floated above the cloud layer, there was no gentle dawn, no soft transition from gray to gold. One moment it was twilight, and the next, the entire world was blindingly, aggressively bright.
Leo groaned, shielding his eyes as the light streamed through the crystal windows of his office. It felt like just yesterday he came from Aethegard. But it had already been more than a year.
"I hate this sun," Leo muttered, dipping his quill into a pot of ink that defied gravity by hovering slightly above the desk. "It's too cheerful. It's suspicious."
He looked down at the stack of parchment in front of him. It was taller than a tankard of ale and significantly less enjoyable.
Official Request for Import Tariffs on Surface Grain.
Protocol regarding the proper tethering of diplomatic goats.
Complaint form: A Surface-Dweller sneezed near a cloud-lily.
"I'm going to kill her," Leo whispered, stabbing the paper with his quill. "When I get back to Aethelgard, I'm going to challenge Queen Erika to a duel. 'Royal Liaison,' she said. It's accounting with altitude sickness."
He leaned back in his chair—which was made of woven cloud-stuff that felt like sitting on a very firm marshmallow—and sighed.
He missed the mud. He missed the smell of wet earth and horse manure. Here, everything smelled of ozone and lavender. It was perfect. It was pristine. It was driving him insane.
A soft tap-tap-tap came from... above him.
Leo didn't look at the door. He looked up at the ceiling.
Walking casually across the vaulted ceiling, upside down, was a maid. She wore the standard white-and-gold uniform of the Sky Palace, her skirts defying gravity thanks to specialized hem-weights. She was dusting the chandelier.
"Good morning, Sir Liaison," the maid chirped, not even slightly red in the face.
"Morning, Elara... I mean, uh, miss," Leo stammered. He still wasn't used to people walking on the walls. "Please come down. You're making me dizzy."
The maid giggled and stepped off the ceiling, floating gently down to the floor as her boots re-oriented to the local gravity plating.
"Apologies, sir," she curtsied. "I just wanted to ask about your sleeping arrangements. Shall I tether your boots to the bedframe tonight?"
Leo blinked. "Tether my... why?"
"The night-winds are forecasted to be strong, sir," she explained as if talking to a toddler. "Without a tether, a heavy sleeper might float out the window and drift into the Cloud-Sea. We lost a diplomat from the Mirage Kingdom that way last year. Very tragic. The Sky-Sharks were quite full."
Leo paled. "There are Sky-Sharks? Have I missed anything else?"
"I hope not, sir. The Sharks are only in the lower strata, sir. Would you like tea?"
"I would like a parachute," Leo muttered. "And coffee. Black."
The maid bowed and floated out of the room.
Leo put his head in his hands. "Sky-Sharks. Of course."
BANG.
The heavy double doors of the office flew open.
"Sir Earth-Walker!"
A small hurricane in royal blue velvet burst into the room. Prince Sirocco, fourth in line to the throne and ten years old, skidded to a halt in front of the desk. He was holding two wooden practice swords.
"Sirocco," Leo smiled, the tension in his shoulders instantly relaxing. "I told you, just call me Leo."
"But 'Earth-Walker' sounds cooler!" Sirocco insisted, his eyes wide and shining. "It sounds like you crush mountains with your feet! Are you done with the boring scribbles?"
Leo looked at the mountain of paperwork. He looked at the kid.
"Yes," Leo lied instantly. "Absolutely done. Vital diplomatic mission complete."
"Yes!" Sirocco pumped a fist. He tossed one of the swords to Leo. "Teach me the Move! The one where you hit the guy with the other guy!"
Leo caught the sword. "That's not a 'move,' Sirocco. That's called a tavern brawl. And your father would execute me if I taught you how to bar-fight."
"Father is in the Solarium listening to Orion play the harp," Sirocco rolled his eyes. "Boring. I want to learn to fight!"
Leo chuckled. He stood up, stretching his stiff back. Being the "cool older brother" figure to a literal prince was the only thing keeping him sane in this gilded cage.
"Alright, kid," Leo walked around the desk. "Let's go. But if we break another vase, you're taking the blame."
"OK!"
They ran out of the office, down the hallway of white marble, and out into the training courtyard.
The courtyard was a floating platform suspended by massive gold chains off the side of the main island. There were no rails. Just a sheer, five-thousand-foot drop into the endless white clouds below.
"Okay," Leo said, swallowing his vertigo. He planted his feet wide. "First lesson of Earth Style. Gravity is your friend."
"Gravity is a variable," Sirocco corrected, tapping the rune on his boot.
"Not where I come from," Leo grinned. "Down there, gravity is the law. You plant your feet. You find your center. And you swing like you're chopping a tree."
He demonstrated a heavy, clumsy, over-head swing. It had zero grace, zero finesse, and relied entirely on brute force.
To a fencer from Aeris, it looked barbaric.
To Sirocco, it looked awesome.
"Hyah!" Sirocco mimicked the swing, nearly falling over.
"Better," Leo encouraged. "But more grunt. You have to sound like you mean it."
They spent the next hour sweating in the sun. Leo forgot about the tariffs. He forgot about the sharks. He just enjoyed the simplicity of swinging a stick.
"You possess a unique lack of elegance, Liaison."
The voice was cold, melodic, and sharp as a razor.
Leo froze mid-swing.
He lowered his wooden sword and turned.
Standing on the upper balcony, looking down at them with a mixture of amusement and disgust, was a young man. He was tall, lithe, and impossibly beautiful. His hair was the color of a storm cloud, and his eyes were piercing silver. He held a silver flute in one hand.
Crown Prince Orion.
"Your Highness," Leo bowed stiffly.
"Brother!" Sirocco waved. "Look! I'm doing the Earth Chop!"
"I see that," Orion glided down the stairs. He didn't walk; he flowed. "It looks remarkably like digging a hole. Fitting, I suppose."
Orion stopped in front of Leo. He was a head taller, and he smelled of ozone and expensive perfume.
"My father requests your presence in the Throne Room, Liaison," Orion said, his lip curling slightly on the title. "Something about a trade agreement. Try to wash the sweat off before you enter. We prefer our palace not to smell of... labor."
Leo grits his teeth. "I'll do my best, Your Highness."
"See that you do," Orion turned away, dismissing him.
As Leo watched the prince walk away, he felt the familiar sting of inadequacy. He was a farmboy in a kingdom of gods.
But then Sirocco tugged on his sleeve.
"Don't worry, Leo," the boy whispered. "Orion is just grumpy because Father made him practice politics all morning. He hates politics. He just wants to play his Instruments."
Leo looked at the arrogant Prince's retreating back. He saw the way Orion's hand tightened around the instrument, white-knuckled.
"Come on, kid," Leo ruffled Sirocco's hair. "Let's go get cleaned up. Can't keep the King of the Sky waiting."