The gondola rises steadily...
The hum of mechanisms thrum beneath Obinai's feet. He tries not to grip the edge of his seat, but his fingers twitch, his body instinctively resisting the sensation of weightlessness creeping into his gut. The gentle lurch of ascent sends a brief shiver down his spine.
Keep it together.
He exhales sharply, forcing himself to focus on the station below rather than the steadily shrinking ground beneath him.
The station is alive.
Figures move in an endless tide—some with deliberate, effortless grace, their ornate coats fluttering behind them, others pushing through the crowd in hurried strides, bumping shoulders, shouting last-minute farewells. The clash of voices—some clipped and refined, others harsh—intertwine into a chaotic melody.
And not a single one of them is human.
Obinai watches as an enormous figure, its body covered in rock-like plates that gleam under the shifting light, strides toward a waiting gondola. Strips of metal plating line its thick arms, fastened with glowing sigils that pulse faintly beneath the surface. A gnome—barely reaching its knee—hurries past, adjusting the brass clasps on a leather satchel slung across its chest, its round spectacles flashing with embedded runes.
A slender, four-eyed figure, clad in a high-collared coat, stands near the edge, its elongated fingers elegantly scrolling through a parchment that glows like translucent crystal.
Obinai's stomach twists slightly at the sight.
What in the hell is that?
The gondola continues to ascend, and the station below shrinks, its sprawling platforms, mechanical arms, and rotating gears reducing to miniature etchings of movement. The sight should make him feel less anxious.
It doesn't.
"Okay, yeah. Not terrifying at all."
He shifts his focus outward.
The town unfolds beneath him, unfurling like a grand tapestry of stone, metal, and glass woven together in impossible harmony. Structure with intricate, gilded facades reach upwards in layers, their arched windows shimmering in the afternoon sun . Massive glass panels, veined with streaks of bronze and gold, catch the light at shifting angles, casting refracted hues onto the streets below.
Airships drift lazily between designated pathways, their hulls reinforced with metal bands that glow faintly. Floating docks cling to the upper districts, with workers hauling crates, their voices merging into the distant hum of commerce.
Beyond the city's boundaries, the coastline stretches outward, the deep cerulean waves of the sea lapping at the lower ports.
Obinai watches as the tide pulls back, revealing smooth black rock, polished by centuries of water and wind, before another wave crashes, sending a fine mist into the air. The sight should be calming, grounding.
It isn't.
Because beyond that—
His breath catches...
There it is.
Suspended in the sky like a divine kingdom, wreathed in drifting mist, lies the floating city of Amrosia.
The main island is colossal, its sheer size bordering on the unnatural, an architectural wonder that shouldn't be possible...
Twelve smaller landmasses orbit it, tethered by glistening energy conduits that stretch between them like celestial bridges.
At its heart, a cluster of spires pierce the heavens, just touching the cloud layer, their pristine white stone lined with glowing veins of deep blue and gold. Runic patterns spiral up their exteriors, flickering faintly.
Obinai stares...
"How in the hell do you even build something like that?"
Before he can take in more, the gondola shudders, pulling into a station on the outskirts of a neighboring island. The platform stretches out before them, its massive archways adorned with brass inlays, faintly pulsing. The gondola glides smoothly into the docking bay, a series of interlocking gears grinding into position, locking it into place.
Obinai clicks his tongue, irritation flaring as his view of the floating city is cut off. With a small sigh, he stands, brushing off the nonexistent wrinkles from his cloak and shifting it comfortably over his shoulders. He moves toward the exit—
"Ahem."
A slow, dragged-out exhale. Obinai closes his eyes for half a second, already feeling the headache forming. The tone alone tells him all he needs to know.
He turns, and—yep. It's them.
The elves from earlier, standing tall, poised, and annoyingly self-important.*
Obinai is already regretting turning around.
Why do they all have to be taller than me?
One of them—the same one who had spoken so casually about beastkin earlier—studies him now, his expression caught between mild intrigue and thinly veiled condescension.
"How...?" He trails off, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then, he straightens, his tone shifting into something thoughtfully arrogant. "No, wait—I don't believe this one is even familiar with customs."
Another, the elf who had been idly tapping on the window before, nods in agreement. "Yes, I concur. If he were of any proper standing, I would have heard of him. And if by some unlikely chance, royalty had joined our ranks, well—" he gives a dramatic, dismissive flick of his hand—"the very notion would be absurd. There would have been announcements, correspondence, something of actual importance."
His lip curls slightly as his gaze sweeps over Obinai in the way one might inspect a poorly made garment. "But alas, I suspect we may have… a grounded." He says the word like it tastes bad. "I suppose it is something we must all become accustomed to."
The female elf, deep auburn hair elegantly braided and pinned back, steps forward slightly, her voice draped in artificial warmth. "Ah, yes, Saurin... a rather unorthodox matter, isn't it?" She tilts her head just so, smiling in the way that's meant to appear polite but is anything but. "Though I do admire your boldness, standing where you are. Tell me—you do understand the nature of your situation, don't you?"
Oh, he does.
He knows exactly what she's saying. What they're all saying. But something about her tone makes him want to hear her say it outright.
He tilts his head slightly, his voice even, steady. "No."
The slightest shift in her posture. A flicker of something in her eyes—was that irritation? She recovers quickly, clearing her throat in a delicate, calculated way.
"Move," she says simply, as if speaking to a misbehaving pet. "It is expected that when the exalted are prepared to depart, those beneath them should lower their heads and wait. It is a matter of proper etiquette, after all.**"
Obinai's jaw tightens as he exhales through his nose, long and slow.
"Expelled from one school. Barely survived another. Kicked out of three classes. Almost died more times than I can count.
And somehow, every time—
This kind of shit is always involved."
He plasters a pleasant smile onto his face, dipping into a mockingly fluid bow.
"My deepest apologies," he says smoothly.
A chuckle.
Low. Amused.
Obinai glances up just slightly, catching sight of the dark elf boy watching him, smirking...
Andiia, now sitting, is notably tense. She isn't relaxed like before. She casts him a sideways glance, her glowing blue eyes flicking between him and the others.
The tiefling from before still doesn't move, but for the first time, Obinai catches the faintest glimmer of interest in his gaze.
The auburn-haired elf clears her throat again, this time sharper. "I am sure you didn't mean—"
Obinai cuts her off.
"But why though?"
A pause.
The doors hiss open...
The elves stiffen.
He studies the first elf—the one who had been so smug, so self-assured...
Yep. I'm definitely gonna regret this.
His eyes flick up and down the elf's appearance—perfectly pressed uniform, embroidered cuffs, high collar that looks more like a decorative piece than anything functional. The way he stands, stiff, overly poised, like someone spent years beating 'proper posture' into him.
"You know," Obinai starts, his tone light—too light. "I was trying to figure out why you looked so familiar. And then it hit me—"
He snaps his fingers.
"—you remind me of one of those fancy glass dolls. You know the ones? They stick 'em behind expensive cases in museums, all dolled up in outdated fashion? Fragile. Stiff. Completely useless unless someone's standing around gawking at them."
The elf's brows twitch. The perfect composure cracks—just slightly. But it's enough.
Obinai barely suppresses a grin. Oh. That got to him.
Obinai lets out a short chuckle, shaking his head, amusement threading through his voice.
"But hey," he says, tilting his head slightly, letting his grin widen just a bit. "Who am I to judge? I'm new here, right?" He spreads his hands in a mock display of innocence. "You should really cut me some slack."
Then, without hesitation, he claps the first elf on the shoulder.
A simple motion...
Casual. Almost friendly....
But the effect? Immediate.
The air in the cabin shifts. A sharp inhale ripples through the group, the moment stretching thin as a blade's edge. Even the ones who hadn't been speaking suddenly seem far more invested in the interaction.
The elf's entire body goes rigid. His pristine, carefully composed mask cracks—not in outrage, not yet, but in something akin to sheer disbelief. Like Obinai had just smeared dirt on a priceless painting.
His jaw tenses. The muscles in his neck twitch. And for just a split second, Obinai swears he sees something ugly flash behind his eyes.
Then—
"Hah."
A low, hearty laugh rolls from the back of the cabin.
The dark elf boy—the Lord Heir—has a hand resting against his chin, his silver eyes gleaming with unfiltered amusement. His laughter isn't loud, but it carries.
Andiia—who had already been tightly wound—visibly stiffens. Her shoulders draw up, her fingers clenching at the folds of her coat.
Obinai doesn't even look back at the dark elf boy.
No need.
Because he knows that laugh.
Recognizes it.
The kind that lingers right before someone throws a match into a powder keg just to watch the sparks fly.
And if the tension in the air was bad before?
Now?
Now it's crackling.
Before the stunned elf can even recover, Obinai turns his gaze to the girl.
Unlike the first, she isn't nearly as composed. Her hands clench subtly at the folds of her pristine coat, her posture locked, as though she's fighting the urge to either walk away or deck him on the spot. Her auburn hair catches the glow of the arcane lamps overhead, each twist and fold meticulously arranged, not a strand out of place.
Obinai clicks his tongue, smirk deepening.
"I bet the guys just love you," he muses. "But I wonder how long it takes for them to realize you're as hollow as that doll over there."
A pause. His smile turns mockingly sympathetic.
"Hope they don't throw you away once they figure it out."
Her expression twists instantly—not just anger, but...
Her lips part, sharp words already forming—
But Obinai's already moving.
With a sharp, fluid backward hop, he launches himself off the deck, the wind catching the edges of his cloak as he twists midair. He lands on the cobbled ground below, knees bending slightly to absorb the impact, boots barely making a sound. The moment his feet touch down, the tension unspools from his chest.
And breathe.
The cool night air brushes against his skin, the distant hum of the station fading into the buzz of the smaller town beyond. For a moment, he just stands there, taking it in.
Then—he grins.
He tilts his head back, gaze lifting just in time to catch their reactions.
The first elf is rigid, jaw locked so tight Obinai thinks he might chip a tooth. His hands, previously folded behind his back in that pompous, trained stance, have balled into fists at his sides.
The girl?
Pure. Unfiltered. Outrage.
Her sharp features are twisted in barely contained fury, the glow in her eyes intensifying, as if she's already running through a dozen ways to make his life a waking nightmare.
Obinai lifts a hand, slow and lazy.
A farewell.
A taunt.
"Later, losers."
Not that he needs to. He can feel the hate behind him. He's kicked a hornet's nest, and he knows it.
Yep. Not even at the school yet, and I've already doomed myself.
But hey—what's one more problem on the list?
With that, he smoothly and slips into the shifting crowd, his cloak billowing slightly behind him as he disappears...