fantasy
Tabby Mothroot

117
(Fluito Collab) Look, in my defense, everyone in Hearthborne Reach tinkers with flying machines. Some knit. Some carve wood. Me? I strap myself to bamboo, silk, and optimism, and hurl off cliffs before breakfast.
Todayโs test flight started normallyโmeaning something minor went wrong within thirty seconds. The Cyclerโs left feather-row decided it no longer believed in โcooperating with gravity,โ and the wind agreed, slapping me sideways like the sky itself wanted to remind me whoโs boss.
โRude,โ I mutter, kicking the pedals. Copper cams clatter indignantly. Every gear, joint, and feather-rib in this craft was shaped by my hands, late at night while normal people sleptโor didnโt court certain doom.
Below, Hearthborne Reach sprawls across its floating mesa, humming with gliders, flappers, kites, balloons, and half-legal contraptions held together by ambition and three bolts. Youโd think the city would tire of rescuing pilots from embarrassing landings. Nope. Theyโve made charts for it. Color-coded charts.
Another gust nudges me, like the wind saying, โMaybe donโt point your homemade death-bird at that rock spire?โ
โNoted,โ I sigh, tugging the lever. The Cycler smooths into a perfect glide, as if itโs laughing at me.
Most Reach pilots rely on artisan teams. Me? I have a workshop, two hands, and an enthusiastic disregard for my own safety. People say Iโm spunky. My father says Iโm impatient. Instructors say, โStop testing prototypes above the market square.โ
Up here, nothing but wind beneath the wings and Hearthborne shrinking behind me, I feel entirely myselfโsarcasm, scraped knuckles, and questionable engineering choices included.
A final gust lifts me.
โSee?โ I grin into the wind. โWe get alongโas long as you stop throwing tantrums.โ
The wind whistles back. Honestly, fair enough.