Legacy’s Wake (part 1)

A disgraced pilot races for redemption in a rigged airship competition, seeking justice for her fallen family amid sabotage, betrayal, and sky-bound war.

The first time she wagered my life on an airship, soaring on borrowed wings and whispered promises of aetherium, she won.

Fortune favored the desperate.

The second time, fortune nearly buried her in the wreckage.

This time, climbing into the worn leather seat of the Golden Icarus, winning felt secondary. A hollow echo against the roaring furnace in my chest. The stressed groan of the aetherium conduits screaming through the hull seemed to keen the truth: Altyn Temir wasn’t chasing glory across the Cadenzan sky.

She was hunting blood, shrouded in the spectacle of the Obsidian Airship Gambit.

Hers, or his.

The Gambit Begins

The shriek of agitated aetherium engines clawed at the air above the Valorian Sky-Docks – a siren's call promising fame, fortune, or a fiery grave.

Below, a discordant symphony played out: the rhythmic clang of Zara’s wrench against fatigued brass piping, the hiss of escaping steam from a dozen overworked boilers, the bellowed curses of gear-greased dockhands dwarfed by the leviathans they served. It was a metallic ballet conducted under a sky thick with coal smoke and the shimmering, oily residue of raw aetheric energy – the lifeblood of Valoria, controlled by the few, craved by the many.

Altyn wrestled with the sputtering ignition sequence of her airship, the Golden Icarus. Once, perhaps, golden. Now, its patched hull bore the scars of neglect and necessity, a stark contrast to the gleaming vessels lining the berths.

The Obsidian Airship Gambit, Valoria’s most celebrated and dangerous spectacle, commenced in less than an hour. Time, like the leaking pressure in the portside valve, was escaping.

“Altyn, this primary aetherium regulator’s corroded clean through. Looks like cheap scrap passed off as certified,” Zara grunted, wiping a smudge of iridescent lubricant from her brow. The streak only highlighted the weary frustration in her eyes.

“Thorne’s Tariff Guild controls everything, doesn’t he? Parts, permits, even the damned weather forecasts. He squeezes the life out of anyone not already kneeling.” Altyn’s gloved hand clenched on the throttle lever.

Thorne. The name was a brand seared into her soul.

Prefect Valerius Thorne – architect of Valoria’s gleaming prosperity for the elite, had framed her father, a respected aeronautical engineer who dared question the Guild’s safety practices, for treason. Seized their workshops, their patents, their modest estate nestled away from the smog-choked upper tiers. Left her with nothing but this rickety, repurposed cargo hauler and a thirst for retribution that burned hotter than any furnace.

“Bypass it, Zara. We don’t have the credits for Guild-approved parts, even if we had the time. We fly with what we have,” Altyn commanded, her voice tight.

Zara hesitated, her gaze drifting towards the starting line. Thorne’s flagship, the Seraph’s Fury, loomed there – a predator carved from obsidian glass and polished chrome, bristling with regulated, military-grade cannons and humming with the smooth thrum of perfectly refined aetherium. It radiated power and privilege. The Icarus, by comparison, was a mongrel snapping at the heels of a purebred war hound. An intentional insult, Thorne had ensured that.

“It’s more than risky, Altyn,” Zara warned, her voice low. “Pushing unrefined aetherium through a bypassed regulator… it could rupture the core containment. We could vaporize.”

“Risk is the entry fee for people like us, Zara,” Altyn retorted, the words tasting like ash.

This race wasn't merely a contest of speed and nerve. It was her only stage, her one chance to expose Thorne’s web of corruption woven through the very fabric of Valorian society – a society mesmerized by the spectacle, blind to the rot beneath the gilded surface. To reclaim not just an estate, but a truth. Even if the price was immolation.

A shadow fell across the cramped cockpit. Chance Ismet leaned against the entry hatch, his usual swagger slightly dimmed by the frayed cuffs of his once-elegant coat – a walking metaphor for fortunes lost in Valoria’s unforgiving social currents.

“Trouble in this rust-bucket, Altyn?” Chance drawled, a wry grin playing on his lips.

He gestured vaguely towards the cheering crowds on the observation platforms far above.

“Thought you’d be charming the chronometer-watchers by now. Playing the plucky underdog for the Vid-screens?”

“Engine trouble. Courtesy of Thorne’s market stranglehold,” Altyn snapped, irritation warring with a grudging reliance.

She was never sure if Chance, with his gambler’s luck and network of shadowy contacts cultivated in the city’s underbelly, was a liability or an indispensable asset.

“Ah, the Prefect’s benevolent chokehold.”

Chance produced a worn deck of Sky-Leviathan tarot cards, shuffling them with a practiced flick of the wrist.

“Perhaps a reading? Or maybe I can ‘acquire’ a regulator from less… official channels? Might cost you that silver locket, though.”

He winked, but his eyes scanned the bustling dockside with a predator’s alertness.

“In the meantime, look at them.”

He nodded towards the other racers – some desperate like them, others arrogant in their inherited wealth.

“The air practically crackles with desperation. Perfect atmosphere for a little side wager.”

Altyn managed a dry snort. “Keep your luck charged, Chance. We’ll need every spark.”

Chance nodded with a mocking salute and melted back into the crowd.

The Klaxon’s blare sliced through the din – final boarding. Zara met Altyn’s eyes, her face a mask of grim determination.

“She’s as ready as she’ll ever be. Pressure’s holding… for now.”

The starting cannon’s boom echoed off the towering city spires, a thunderclap unleashing a flock of mechanical beasts. The sky above Valoria erupted in a chaotic ballet of venting steam, roaring flames, and the gut-thrumming vibration of aetherium engines pushed to their limits. The Golden Icarus lurched, shuddered, then clawed its way skyward, leaving the grimy, stratified world of the Sky-Docks below. Ahead, the pack surged – sleek racers bankrolled by Guild fortunes, their polished hulls catching the sun like flung daggers. A glittering testament to the inequality that fueled this city.

“We’re already eating their exhaust wash,” Zara observed, adjusting the focus on a brass long-glass. Thorne’s Seraph’s Fury effortlessly commanded the lead, flanked by ships bearing the crests of families enriched by Thorne’s policies.

“And look there – the currents are shifting. Favoring the lead pack. Thorne’s not just racing; he’s conducting the damn sky.”

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