Skybound: The Atlas War

The Sanctum's entrance swallowed them whole.

As Kairo, Velka, and Cinder stepped past the golden threshold, a hush descended—not just around them, but inside them. Even the sound of their footsteps felt muffled, like the air had forgotten how to echo.

The obsidian walls curved like the inside of a vast shell, etched with spiraling glyphs that shimmered faintly as they passed. Blue light pulsed from veins of crystal embedded deep in the stone, beating like a second heartbeat beneath their own.

Kairo touched the Atlas hanging at his side. Its glow had dimmed, not in retreat—but in reverence.

Cinder's voice was a whisper. "This place is alive."

"No," Velka said softly, eyes scanning the glyphs. "It remembers."

They stepped into the first chamber.

A circular hall opened around them, ringed with statues cloaked in feathered robes—each with a hand extended, each cradling a different object: a quill, a feather, a shattered compass, a stone eye.

"Watchers," Kairo murmured. "But not like the ones we've seen."

"They were the First Ones," came the voice from above.

The Emissary stood on a platform carved into the wall, arms spread like a preacher before an altar. "The Sanctum remembers the voices that shaped the sky. Before the Assembly. Before the Courts. Before even the Atlas learned to speak."

"You talk like the Atlas is alive," Kairo said.

"It is," the Emissary replied. "But it is not your ally. Not yet."

Cinder stepped forward. "Why let us in? If this place is so sacred, why not stop us?"

The Emissary descended slowly, robes trailing behind like liquid dusk. "Because prophecy is not a door you open. It is a wind you ride. You were always meant to enter. What you do inside... that is your burden."

The far wall shifted, revealing a spiraling staircase descending deep into the Sanctum's core.

Kairo glanced at Velka. "Still smell like a trap?"

She grunted. "Now it smells like bait."

They followed the stair, deeper and deeper, the walls tightening around them. The further they went, the more the air changed—thicker, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Finally, they emerged into a vast subterranean chamber.

A floating ring of stone hovered in the center, suspended by nothing. Glyphs danced along its surface, shifting as if aware of their presence. And in the center of the ring—an orb.

It pulsed like a heartbeat.

The Emissary stepped to its edge. "This is the Core of Recall. The Watchers left it to remember all that came before. Touch it, and the Sanctum will show you."

Kairo stepped forward.

"Wait," Velka said, her hand on his shoulder. "We don't know what it'll do."

"We never do," Kairo replied.

He reached out—and placed his hand on the orb.

The chamber vanished.

Kairo stood on air.

Below him: the Skybelt, roaring. Above him: constellations twisted into unfamiliar shapes. Around him: visions.

Flashes.

A young Watcher inscribing glyphs with blood. A city in the sky collapsing into flame. A storm so vast it split a continent. A mother cradling a child beneath the last Watchtower.

Then—

A throne of wind. A crown of silence.

And a voice—not the Emissary's.

"He must not awaken."

Kairo gasped and fell back. Velka and Cinder caught him as the chamber returned.

He staggered to his feet. "I saw… I saw a crown made of wind. And someone—someone said not to awaken."

The Emissary was still. "The Sanctum shows fragments. Shadows of truths unspoken. It is up to you to see them."

Cinder's expression darkened. "That voice—it didn't sound like yours."

"It wasn't," said the Emissary. "Others walk the sky. Older ones. And not all welcome your kind."

The ground rumbled.

Velka spun, dagger out. "What was that?"

Above them, dust fell from the ceiling. Distant booms echoed through the stone.

The Emissary's head turned sharply. "The Sanctum has been breached."

"By who?" Kairo demanded.

The Emissary's voice dropped low.

"By those who serve the Crownless Storm."

A roar shattered the quiet.

High above, in the clouds, the cloaked skycraft began to descend. Dozens. Unmarked. Silent. Their weapons drawn, their purpose clear.

And in their lead—a figure cloaked in white ash, wearing no mask, only scars.

Cinder's eyes narrowed. "Vaelstorm."

Velka gritted her teeth. "He followed us."

Kairo drew the Atlas. The map shifted violently.

Not away. Not toward.

It spiraled.

Toward war. Toward reckoning.

Toward whatever slept in the heart of the Sanctum—waiting to awaken.

END OF CHAPTER 17