My Three Thousand Years To The Sky Novels & Stories

into a forbidden sky. The ascent of the Aethel-Dawn II was the slowest, most agonizing space-launch in history. There were no roaring boosters, only the haunting, metallic creak of the bronze foil as it expanded in the thinning atmosphere. Inside the sphere, Lucas and a team of "Silver-Eyed" engineers sat in a pressurized gondola, surrounded by hand-cranked oxygen scrubbers and "Coal-Fired" heaters.

​The sky didn’t tear; it unzipped. It was a surgical, clinical sound—the noise of a high-end garment being opened by a cold, metallic hand. The perfect blue of the 401st Chapter, the sky Kael had sacrificed his very existence to paint, was being peeled back to reveal a grid of glowing violet neon and sterile white light. ​"Nora, get to the Cradle!" Elia screamed, her voice cracking as the peaceful meadow began to vibrate with the hum of a thousand synchronized engines.

Eliana lay on her back, staring up at a sky that was not compressed time or collapsing architecture or the machinery of a dying law. It was simply sky, the blue of late afternoon, streaked with the first hints of sunset, the color of a world that had never learned to bargain, never learned to exchange, never learned to weigh the worth of a soul against the duration of a life.

Tell me what you notice. Yanran looked at her. 'That is it?' 'That is it.' A pause. Then Yanran closed her eyes. She was quiet for two minutes. Three. Then she said, without opening her eyes, 'There are six people on this peak right now not including us. Two of them are working and their focus has a particular quality — concentrated, going inward. One of them is in conversation and the emotional frequency of it is warm. One of them is worried about something they have not said yet. One of them is happy in the straightforward way that does not need anything.'

"The sky doesn't care about your pride, Aichonne. If you fall, you die. I will not have you dying because you’re too stubborn to accept the only safety left to you." The sky-mount, a gargantuan beast of corded muscle and iridescent, shifting scales, senses our friction. It shrieks, a sound that shreds the low-hanging clouds, and snaps its massive, leathery wings wide. The force of the take-off is a violent, stomach-turning lurch that defies gravity, slamming us against the seat. Aichonne has no choice. The gale-force winds hammer against us, a physical wall that would peel a lesser creature from the saddle. She is forced to abandon her rigid, defiant posture, her slender arms snapping around

*** When I woke up, Johan was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless and smoking. He heard me move and looked back. A check landed on the bed in front of me. I stared at it. He only said a few words. "I'm bored with you." Something inside me cracked. Like porcelain shattering, sharp pieces cut across my heart. Still, my voice came out calm. I even smiled. "I've got less than three months left. Couldn't you wait a little longer?" Johan frowned. "Yara Yelton, you should know your place."

There were no more lies or betrayals around me, only loyal subordinates and like-minded friends. My phone chimed again. This time, it was a message from my best friend. "Caitlyn, want to go to the newly opened world-renowned restaurant tonight? I heard the head chef is super handsome!" I looked out the window at the azure sky. A silver-white airplane flew across the horizon, leaving a beautiful arc in its wake. I smiled and replied, "Let's go."

Don't you want to live happily ever after with Owen? [Things have gotten out of hand. You're really jealous.] [Break off the engagement like that, and who knows what Owen would do? Maybe tomorrow he'll just kidnap you.] [What? Is there going to be a kidnapping play? Can't wait.] Of course, I was afraid Owen might snap, so I needed to escape as soon as possible. In just a few hours, I would be halfway across the world, heading to another country. ... When the plane took off, I let out a deep sigh of relief.

The spine of the world was snapping. It began as a vibration in the soles of Tristan’s boots—a low, discordant hum that bypassed his ears and rattled his teeth. The Sky-Spire, the obsidian needle that had pierced the heavens of Oakhaven for three centuries, was screaming. KR-THOOM.