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Kernelforge Ridgeforge Sky-horizon
The wind was always the first to speak on Kernelforge Ridgeforge.
It howled in layered tongues — a deep moan from the lower caverns, a whisper at the upper altitudes, and a shrill cry that danced along the cliffside turbines. Lyra Vent had learned to understand those tones. They told her whether the ridge was healthy or sick, whether the Sky-horizon was calm or straining. Today, it sounded uncertain — like a breath being held too long.
She crouched on the outermost ledge, a thousand meters of empty blue beneath her boots. The harness line hummed against her hip, tethering her to a maintenance hook driven into the stone. Her fingers, calloused from years of work, twisted the regulator bolt on a turbine vane. The machinery pulsed with faint light — a dull orange glow, struggling to keep rhythm.
“Come on, old thing,” Lyra muttered, tapping the vane housing with her wrench. “You’ve been spinning longer than my family’s been breathing. Don’t start dying now.”
The turbine’s inner gears gave a reluctant groan, then spun faster. A gust lifted her copper hair into the air. She shielded her eyes, squinting toward the horizon — the Sky-horizon, they called it, a radiant divide where the blue of their world folded into a mirror of itself. On clear days, you could see the reflection of the ridge hanging upside down in the sky, as if another world lay just beyond the veil.
Today, that reflection was trembling.
She steadied herself and reached for her gauge device. The readings were erratic — atmospheric density spiking, light refraction bending, wind velocity shifting in impossible patterns. She frowned. The ridge had always been volatile, but this… this was the first time the horizon itself looked like it was breathing.
Behind her, the intercom crackled.
“Lyra, status report,” came the voice of Foreman Halden, deep and weather-worn like the stone itself. “We’re getting inconsistent power feedback from turbine sector D. You seeing what we’re seeing?”
Lyra pressed the transmitter on her wrist. “Yeah, I’m here, Halden. Turbine thirty-eight’s flux field is stuttering again. I’ve realigned it twice, but the core stabilizer’s not syncing.”
“Not syncing?” A pause. “Is it the relay
It howled in layered tongues — a deep moan from the lower caverns, a whisper at the upper altitudes, and a shrill cry that danced along the cliffside turbines. Lyra Vent had learned to understand those tones. They told her whether the ridge was healthy or sick, whether the Sky-horizon was calm or straining. Today, it sounded uncertain — like a breath being held too long.
She crouched on the outermost ledge, a thousand meters of empty blue beneath her boots. The harness line hummed against her hip, tethering her to a maintenance hook driven into the stone. Her fingers, calloused from years of work, twisted the regulator bolt on a turbine vane. The machinery pulsed with faint light — a dull orange glow, struggling to keep rhythm.
“Come on, old thing,” Lyra muttered, tapping the vane housing with her wrench. “You’ve been spinning longer than my family’s been breathing. Don’t start dying now.”
The turbine’s inner gears gave a reluctant groan, then spun faster. A gust lifted her copper hair into the air. She shielded her eyes, squinting toward the horizon — the Sky-horizon, they called it, a radiant divide where the blue of their world folded into a mirror of itself. On clear days, you could see the reflection of the ridge hanging upside down in the sky, as if another world lay just beyond the veil.
Today, that reflection was trembling.
She steadied herself and reached for her gauge device. The readings were erratic — atmospheric density spiking, light refraction bending, wind velocity shifting in impossible patterns. She frowned. The ridge had always been volatile, but this… this was the first time the horizon itself looked like it was breathing.
Behind her, the intercom crackled.
“Lyra, status report,” came the voice of Foreman Halden, deep and weather-worn like the stone itself. “We’re getting inconsistent power feedback from turbine sector D. You seeing what we’re seeing?”
Lyra pressed the transmitter on her wrist. “Yeah, I’m here, Halden. Turbine thirty-eight’s flux field is stuttering again. I’ve realigned it twice, but the core stabilizer’s not syncing.”
“Not syncing?” A pause. “Is it the relay
67 pages, Kindle Edition
Published November 13, 2025
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