Prologue
The giant screen above the check-in counter flickers, the colors shifting with a looping advertisement. LowSky Transit’s latest deal—the cheapest direct flight from Eldon to Cleyria. A sleek animation of a plane arches across a digital map.
A brunette in his late twenties watches, his brown eyes following the animated flight path as the narrator explains how passengers used to endure layovers in Nibia, forced to switch planes and drain their wallets in the process. But now—LowSky Transit promises something better. Faster. Cheaper.
“Sir?” The voice snaps him back to the present. The airline agent, dressed in a crisp airline uniform, offers a polite, professional smile. “Are you here for your boarding pass?”
“Uh, yeah. First flight to Cleyria,” he says, adjusting the strap of his bag as he steps forward.
Her fingers tap against the keyboard as she gestures for his documents. He’s already a step ahead, sliding his passport and booking reference across the counter. She picks them up, eyes scanning the details.
“Nolan Clements,” she reads aloud. “Flight LST404, seat 20C.”
Overhead, the advertisement begins again—LowSky’s announcement of history in the making, the first-ever direct flight cutting straight through the old inconvenience. First-time passengers receive an exclusive discount.
A new route. A new beginning.
Nolan sinks into his seat at the very back of the cramped budget plane, the rough fabric pressing against his back. The seat creaks slightly as he shifts, and the armrest wobbles under his elbow. Cheap. Everything about this flight screams it. But it’s fine. He wouldn’t have been able to afford it any other way.
A few rows ahead, a frail voice rises above the murmur of passengers settling in. “Excuse me, young man,” an old woman says, her wrinkled fingers clasping the thick bicep of the man seated beside her. Her tiny hands barely wrap around his arm, her grip fragile against his bulk. “Are we taking off soon?”
The man—tall, broad, bald—glances down at her, his tan skin contrasting sharply with her delicate, paper-thin fingers. His seat looks too small for his frame, his broad shoulders nearly spilling into the aisle, but despite his evident discomfort, he offers her a warm smile. “The air hostess will let us know,” he reassures her, his voice deep but kind.
She frowns, her fingers trembling slightly. “I need to get to my grandson, Milo, before they put him in an orphanage.”
The man’s expression softens. He shifts, turning to face her fully, and takes her small hand in his, his massive fingers easily enveloping hers. “You’ll get to him in time,” he assures.
Her worried eyes search his face, hesitation flickering in their depths. But as he gently squeezes her hand, something in her seems to ease. Her face lights up as she pats his arm. “Such a polite young man,” she coos before suddenly brightening even more. “Do you want a cookie?”
The male blinks, caught off guard. “Oh, uh—” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m good, but thank you.”
“Nonsense!” she exclaims, already rummaging through her oversized purse. With surprising speed, she pulls out a homemade cookie wrapped in saran wrap, thrusting it toward him. “I bake the best cookies. Everyone loves Granny Matilda’s cookies.”
He lets out a soft laugh, surrendering as he takes it from her hand. “Well, I can’t say no to that. Thank you, Granny Matilda.”
Her wrinkled face beams with pride. “You’re welcome, dear. And what’s your name?”
“Jacob.”
Nolan exhales, glancing out the tiny oval window, where the runway stretches under a hazy afternoon sky. Cleyria’s pay is better, and with a couple of recommendation letters secured—thanks to some well-placed words from his college professors—this move feels like his first real step forward. No more side jobs just to scrape by. No more watching opportunities slip away because he couldn’t afford the next step.
The switch flights had been a dealbreaker, way beyond his budget, but this—this direct flight was his way out. A soft smile tugs at his lips. Things are finally sorting themselves out.
——
“MASTER WARNING. MASTER WARNING.”
A sharp jolt rocks the airplane. The cockpit shakes violently, alarms blaring as the yoke jerks in the captain’s grip. “What the hell was that?” he grits his teeth.
“Severe turbulence? But there’s nothing on the radar—”
A loud metallic snap echoes through the fuselage, followed by a deep groaning sound from the airframe.
“CABIN PRESSURE FAILURE. DESCEND IMMEDIATELY.”
The cabin suddenly depressurizes—sharp hissing fills the cockpit. The oxygen masks drop from overhead compartments, swinging wildly. The pressure change sends pain shooting through Nolan’s skull, and he presses his hands over his ears as they pop painfully.
“Put your mask on first before assisting others!” Flight attendants’ voices rise above the growing chaos, but panic spreads faster than instruction. Screams. Cries. People gasping, clawing at their throats as oxygen thins.
Granny Matilda clutches her chest, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. Jacob moves without hesitation, securing the mask over her tear-streaked face, his own features tight with urgency. “Breathe, Granny. Just breathe.”
“Mayday, Mayday—this is LST404! We’re losing cabin pressure, initiating emergency descent!”
The plane starts to descend, but another deafening snap sends it into a sharp left roll. “We’ve lost hydraulics—controls are unresponsive!” The left wing buckles. A sickening crunch reverberates through the plane as part of the wing shears off. The aircraft lurches violently, rolling into an unrecoverable spiral.
“Mayday! We’re going down—uncontrollable—”
His voice cuts off as the cockpit spins. Ground rushes up in the windshield. The altimeter spins wildly—30,000 feet, 25,000, 15,000—
Nolan grips the armrests, his knuckles white, the world spinning as gravity shifts unpredictably. The roar of the engines blends with the panicked wails of passengers.
The aircraft crashes into the forest below. The impact slams him against the backrest of the seat ahead. Metal twists and crumples, and trees snap like brittle twigs under the force. A deafening cacophony of destruction, then—
Silence.
