The fall from the High Council's tower wasn't a death sentence; it was a calculated gamble. As they plummeted, Kaelen pulled a tethered silk-canvas from his belt—an "Aether-Chute" he'd prototyped based on Leonardo da Vinci's sketches from his old-world memories.
The canvas snapped open, the air-pressure agonizing on his shoulders. They drifted over the glowing spires of Aethelgard, eventually crashing into the hay-wains of a merchant caravan fleeing the city.
"You're insane," Lyra wheezed, picking straw from her hair as the caravan rumbled toward the northern gates.
"I prefer 'innovative,'" Kaelen replied, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. He looked back at the tower. The red light of the Sentinels was still visible. "Silas has the coordinates now. The race to the Prime Archive has begun."