After a short lunch composed of corn crackers, cheese, and sausage provided by Diego, a woman and the lone male instructor went over the basics of flying an Arawinaya style canoe.

  The sky canoes were grown, not built.

  Living vines had been woven into a rigid frame, their paths deliberate and load-bearing, then interlaced with dried lengths that locked the shape in place like a bamboo skeleton. Over that, thin strips of cured vine were braided into a wicker skin, tight enough to hold form but flexible enough to breathe.

  At the canoe’s heart ran a knot of thicker, pale vines. These were the buoyant organs, all of them feeding back toward a small clay pot set into the hull. Soil filled it, sustaining the living core just long enough for flight.

  What unsettled Drew most was how little of the craft was actually hollow.

  There was no empty cavity to sit inside, no clear separation between structure and space. The canoe was dense, layered, and alive in ways that defied his instincts of what a canoe should be.

  “The racing canoes have much more space,” Rafael informed Drew. “These are just for men who fear the sky, rather than race death itself,” he said, grinning madly.

  Isabela frowned, eyeing the charismatic Rafael as if sizing up how much trouble he would become.

  The class was split between students who had flown the sky canoes previously and those who had not. Out of the eleven students, only four had no prior experience, including a skyborne who had no need for a canoe when she had wings.

  Drew felt further isolated when the group that had experience took canoes out solo, with the instructors flying next to them and shouting pointers, while Drew was grounded learning the basics. Even Isabela, who was more of a merchant than a rugged sailor, had flown a canoe before.

  Climbing into the two-person canoe with the instructor, Drew was not comforted. The entire craft swayed with the motion of him stepping into it.

  Gingerly, Drew sat in the reinforced seat and very carefully placed his feet onto the bamboo-like ribs. He was keenly aware just how thin the wicker of the hull was. The craft swayed and flexed way too much; it was not a rigid construct.

  Sweating, he tied himself to a support with safety rope, looped around his legs and waist to make an impromptu harness. Definitely not FAA-approved safety standards.

  The instructor untied the fragile craft and kicked at the dock to get them clear. The entire craft wobbled menacingly.

  Drew did not consider himself frightened of heights. Looking down and seeing only yellow clouds, with a thin wicker floor between him and death, was harrowing.

  Breathing deeply, Drew summoned his gumption and tuned back into the gruff instructor.

  “The upper sail carries you. The lower sail keeps you honest,” the male instructor barked. “Ignore either, and the sky will remind you.”

  Speaking to himself, Drew repeated the mantra: “Top sail, lift and drive.” Frantically, “Bottom sail, stability and trim.”

  The instructor screamed, “Feather the upper sail!”

  Drew frantically pulled on the ropes to comply.

  “Smoothly! Jerking the sails is how you die!”

  Drew steadied his motions and complied.

  “If you don’t have Vélaria Sanctum or Windvine grafts, you will have to feel the currents,” the instructor said.

  Drew paused, reflecting on his Lúmivolt Root vine graft. He focused on the feeling in his chest.

  Neon text entered his view.

  Aether Flow Perception: INTERMITTENTStatus: Partial sensory alignment detected.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Drew dismissed the message.

  A haze hung in the air, flashing in time with his heartbeat. Most of it was a dull yellow, but the edges burned neon aquamarine, as if charged. The fog was not still. It drifted, twisted, and flowed in slow currents, cutting through the sky like invisible rivers made briefly visible.

  The image blinked in and out of focus, never fully stable, always slipping away just as he tried to fix on it.

  The motion followed the jet stream. Eddies curled where currents collided, forming spirals and shear lines. In places, the color deepened, aquamarine overwhelming the yellow, marking dense pockets that churned with barely contained energy.

  Then the vision faltered, thinning, fading, leaving only empty sky behind.

  Using the flickering vision, Drew was able to trim the sails to take advantage of the currents. Under tight direction, he hesitantly guided the fragile canoe through the sky and back to the dock.

  Drew exited the craft and whooped in excitement!

  +500 XP (Navigation Milestone)Category: NavigationTotal Navigation XP: 600

  Rafael patted him on the back. “Not bad! We’ll make a pirate of you yet.”

  Isabela walked over, also offering congratulations and advice.

  “You don’t hold the lines the whole time. That’s how you ruin your hands and your judgment. Trim it, tie it off, and let the craft do the work.”

  Looking back into the canoe, Drew spied some hardened points set for tying off ropes. That would be useful. His hands were slightly raw from the chafing of the ropes.

  “Thank you, I will try that.”

  Drew completed one more short, instructor-guided flight, slowly understanding how to make the craft go where he wanted, using his aether vision to see the currents. The trick was to adjust the sails gradually and smoothly to gain more lift or pitch.

  Upon his second successful landing, Drew spotted Claire observing him coolly.

  She stood with her legs crossed, posture precise, wearing a split skirt over fitted breeches. A linen shirt covered her modest chest, cinched by a shortened green bodice that looked practical rather than decorative. Nothing about her suggested softness. Everything about her suggested judgment.

  Drew wondered, not for the first time, whether she had received a paired system message encouraging his death. It was the only explanation he could come up with for the amount of attention she seemed intent on giving him.

  The older female instructor approached Drew.

  “You clearly have a vine graft that assists with navigation. Be careful and rely more on your instincts and the clouds than your gifts.”

  She paused.

  “Many successful captains and racers do not have gifts and perform better than those who are grafted.”

  “Understood. Thank you. Any other advice?” Drew asked the instructor.

  “Don’t sail trimmed for the strongest wind you can find. Sail trimmed for the strongest wind you can hold.”

  Frowning, Drew considered.

  The instructor walked over to the two-person canoe and tapped the line with two fingers.

  “If it’s humming, it’s too tight. If it’s flapping, it’s too loose. Listen for the quiet.”

  Drew hummed under his breath, then stopped, thinking.

  Flight here was less a science than an art. He had never been a pilot, not really. Maybe a fighter pilot would describe flying an F-16 the same way.

  The long-endurance craft he had worked on back home were drones. You could not feel the wind working the ailerons through a controller. Here, every correction carried weight. The sky spoke, and you were expected to listen.

  Drew and his keel stood watching as the other mentees took turns lifting off in the single-person canoes. With each launch, Isabela offered a brief assessment of the pilot.

  A tall, lanky brunette pushed off next, her departure cautious but controlled.

  “María,” IIsabela said. “Sponsored by the Venture Exchange. They run the Consortium Floor on their island. It’s where most investors and expedition sponsors cross paths. Her sponsor might be the wealthiest.”

  The young woman was part of the keel, with the lone skyborne mentee.

  Drew tilted his head.

  “So… like a stock market? You buy shares?”

  Isabela replied, “You fund the attempt, not the people. If it works, you’re paid. If it doesn’t, you’re not.”

  María guided the canoe in a slow, descending spiral toward the dock. The craft itself moved with deliberate calm, but María did not. She was a flurry of sharp, hurried motions.

  Drew frowned. He heard the instructor’s voice in his head.

  Smooth hands. One change at a time.

  As María closed on the landing, she reached down and began working at a port-side line, her movements quick and uneven. Too quick. The moment the knot came free, the line snapped from her grasp.

  The bottom sail collapsed inward.

  The canoe lurched toward the dock, rolled hard, and then dropped.

  “Top sail off! Ease it!” an instructor shouted.

  María lurched for the line, hands scrambling, but the canoe was already rolling. The top sail caught the cross-current, twisting the craft as it dropped. She never got the sail loose.

  The canoe yawed hard, rolled once more, and slammed into the edge of the dock with a splintering crunch.

  María was thrown forward, the safety line snapping taut as it flung her onto the planks. Her body hit hard. Her head struck the dock with a dull, sickening sound.

  She did not move.

  Her limbs lay at wrong angles, slack.

  Several mentees rushed forward, shouting, reaching.

  The ruined canoe groaned.

  With a slow, scraping slide, it slipped off the dock.

  The safety line tightened.

  María’s body began to move.

  Helping hands mere feet from her as she disappeared over the edge.

  Down.

  Down.

  Then she was gone.

  Silence fell over the dock.

  Drew knelt at the edge with the others, staring into empty sky. To his right, a girl broke down sobbing.

  “Well,” Rafael said lightly, “that’s why they give us ropes.”