By the time the second sun rose over Nandiru, the sky shimmered like a cracked mirror. Threads of light — thin as spider silk — stretched between clouds, humming faintly. The people of Nandiru called them Sky Veins, and they believed they carried the dreams of the gods.
But Asha knew better. She was one of the Sky Weavers — the last generation trained to repair those glowing threads, the living technology that kept their floating city from falling into the mist ocean below.
Every dawn, she strapped on her harness, clipped her magnetic tethers to the wind rails, and soared into the light. Her glider’s wings hissed softly as she worked, patching fractures in the air with plasma threads. From below, she looked like a silver bird sewing the heavens.
Nandiru...
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