After the Great Weathering, the people of Halidom built upward. They raised a city to anchor the Cloudline, power the grid, and regulate the rain. The villages below do the work the towers won't. Maintenance, repair, the constant rhythm of hands on ropes and tools on steel.
One city. One people. One veil.
The Highborn occupy the ten towers above the Cloudline, from Central Spire to Thessa’s Crown and the floors in between.
Ten towers rise from the limestone where the sea once stood. At the center, the Council rules from the glass domes of the Central Spire. Oldest of them all, the Ascendant Fang's heart still ticks, despite its cracks and patchwork repairs.
Glass bridges connect the buildings. Wind and sunlight reach the upper crossings first. Lower down, the paths fade into haze where the two worlds stopped meeting.
Nutrient dense food is cultivated in upper floors using hydroponic greenhouses. Warm air lingers inside as rows of crops sit perfectly spaced in shallow trays. Autonomous NX units move between them, probing the soil and checking moisture levels.
By evening, the towers glow blue behind skyglass windows. People gather in private quarters above the Cloudline, eating processed nutrients. Sterile corridors go quiet as the sapfire light of the towers slowly dims.
A mist-based environmental system stretches between the towers, halfway between ground and sky. Copper mesh and suspended pipes gather moisture, feeding rain to the soil below. Its design is older than most records, and built for more than rain. Once, it bound Halidom together. Now it divides it.
Years ago, wind chimes rang at dusk from every tower. One note from each spire. Ten tones folding into a single chord.
The Rooted settlements of Ashgrove, Stillmere, Stoneveil, and the villages between cluster around the base of the ten towers.
Ashgrove's market buzzes from first light. Stalls painted every color crowd the square while children dart between crates of fruit and scrap. Peddlers holler over each other in Rooted slang. Around the old fountain, elders tell stories to whoever slows down long enough to listen.
Workers ascend by rope and rigging, swinging scaffold to beam with pails in hand and tools strapped at their hips. Every climb depends on balance, grip, and a line strong enough to hold.
Gardens claw through scarred soil softened by the mineral rain from above. Barley grows along the terraces. Fruit and fresh eggs make the rounds before noon. Fruit trees bow under their own weight, branches propped up with scrap wood and wire. Rain-catch canopies hang between scaffold lines.
By evening, cook fires burn low. Lanterns strung between scaffolds throw warm light across the square. One family passes around root stew while another pulls beets straight from the coals. The faint green glow comes from living moss first cultivated generations ago.
Beyond the city, the wasteland stretches for miles. A broken seabed of limestone mounds, shallow valleys, and pale stone. Salt-scoured ridges run to the horizon. The ground white beneath an endless void. Buried under the crust are things that should never be disturbed.
Eight tethered pods drift above the old seabed, connected by hanging bridges of woven plank and braided rope. Sun-bleached sails pull against the wind. Legend calls them exiles. They chose their own name instead. Long after the towers forgot the systems beneath them, the phase-runners kept the old harmonics humming.
Far to the east lies an island few people still believe exists. Its story unfolds in Book Two: Across the Driftline.