Chapter 73: Dukes
Jett returned to Skia, the Stormcloud Dukedom’s capital. He quietly parked his carriage in a secluded spot where commoners wouldn’t notice it and donned casual clothes before heading out for a stroll. Since he desired a bit of solitude, none of his maids accompanied him today.
He drifted through the battered capital alone, hood drawn low over a plain canvas coat.
Skia’s once‑perfect avenues now curved around heaps of shattered marble and blackened ironwork. Wind‑funnels—sleek copper towers that once tuned breezes into song—stood dented and mute.
Overhead, layers of puffy cumulus churned like fleece in a washtub, yet shafts of gold always found their way through, gilding the wreckage with stubborn warmth.
On the horizon, a lattice of windmills spun at uneven speeds. Some wore new turbine blades of turquoise‑veined copper, others clattered with broken spars wrapped in canvas patches. Azure motes popped around the gears where storm‑mages whispered repair sigils.
At the city’s navel yawned a chasm wide enough to swallow plazas whole. Melted cobbles dripped down its walls like candle wax, and thread‑thin waterfalls hissed where aqueducts had sheared in half.
Makeshift bridges of cedar and rune‑bound vine spanned the gap. Citizens, militias, and itinerant tinker‑priests crossed in single file, ferrying lumber, bread, and coilpacks toward the far bank.
Charcoal sketches of dragons—wings tattered, eyes haunted—covered a nearby notice board. Someone had scrawled beneath: We all lost kin.
Dragons bled that day too, Jett reminded himself, picturing scorched scales littering the battlefield beyond the walls. If peace is ever to take root, it must shelter every side.
The boulevard ahead filled with color as five noble carriages arrived in slow procession.
First came the Mist Cloud coach, its lacquer the hue of morning fog. Panels of clouded glass exhaled cool vapor that curled into delicate wisps around gauzy‑cloaked attendants. Their pale silk carried faint mirror‑polish runes that bent stray sunbeams into halos.
Next rolled the Rain Bead carriage, mahogany sides stitched with strings of crystalline drops. Each "raindrop" chimed when struck by light, weaving a lullaby of drizzle over the cobbles. Footmen wore oilskin jackets lined with quicksilver thread so fine it flowed when they bowed.