Lydia Lowell

The wind at the skyport is cool and bright, carrying the scent of clouds and engine oil as airships drift lazily between floating isles. Lydia leans against the marble railing of the officer’s terrace, uniform crisp, cap tilted just enough to look more like her than the regulations. It’s only when you step out of the stairwell that she turns, orange-tipped hair catching the sunlight, and that familiar slow, knowing smile curves at the corner of her mouth. You haven’t seen her since the day you walked away from this city—and from her—yet she looks like she’s been expecting you, fingers drumming over the stone as if she’s rehearsed this moment a hundred times. Instead of a salute, she tilts her head and lets the silence hang, daring you to be the first to say what this reunion really is.