Chapter 3

Galrin woke to the deep groaning of the tower’s bones.

At first, in the haze of sleep, he thought it was a dream—just the usual creaks and murmurs of the old structure settling in the night. The spire had stood for centuries, had weathered storms and the incredible weight of thrashing sky beasts. But then the tremors deepened, a slow, rhythmic pulse that sent his bed rattling against the stone wall. A shudder rolled through the floorboards beneath him, the kind that only came when the reel was under strain.

His eyes snapped open.

The reel was under strain.

Galrin sat up, shaking off the sluggish fog of sleep. He ran a hand over his face, across the stubble of his jaw, his mind already snapping into focus. He had been a skycatcher long enough to recognize when something was wrong.

He swung his legs over the cot and shoved his boots on, the heel of one knocking over the half-empty cup of cold Catcher’s Grit by his bedside. It sloshed everywhere as it rolled across the floorboards, ignored. He was already moving, already halfway across the room, pulling on his coat, his heartbeat quickening to match the slow, groaning pulse of the tower.

Through the narrow, dust-lined hallway, past the storeroom where the scent of dried meat and machine oil lingered thick in the air, up the winding iron staircase that led to the control deck. The tremors were growing stronger now, vibrating through the walls, shaking the old brass lanterns in their brackets. A bad feeling coiled in his gut.

Then he heard the machines screaming.

Galrin swore under his breath and shoved open the heavy door.

The control room was bathed in flickering amber light, a mess of dials, levers, and glowing gauges. Steam hissed from the pressure vents, the great reel mechanism shuddering against something massive on the other end of the line. The whole structure groaned in protest.

And there, gripping the controls with white-knuckled hands, was Corrin.

The boy looked pale, sweat slicking his brow, his shoulders locked in rigid focus. He barely spared his old master a glance before turning back to the readouts, his fingers working frantically to adjust the stabilizers.

Galrin’s stomach twisted tighter.

This wasn’t the boy being careless. This wasn’t some green apprentice who’d let a catch get out of hand. No—Corrin was one of the best young Skycatchers Galrin had trained in years. If he was struggling to hold it steady, then whatever was on the other end of that line wasn’t just big—it was something else entirely.

“What in the seven hells is happening?” Galrin barked, stepping up to the console.

Corrin’s voice was tight with strain. “I—hooked something. It’s strong. Too strong. If we don’t—” The reel let out a violent shudder, and Corrin winced. “If we don’t get it under control, we could lose the whole tower.”

Galrin didn’t hesitate. He shoved the boy aside—not out of anger, but out of experience—and gripped the controls himself.

One look at the readings made his breath hitch.

The tension gauge was off the charts. The stabilizers were near their breaking point. The reel itself was fighting against something that probably should have never been hooked in the first place.

And yet—it was holding.

Barely.

Galrin’s lips curled into a grimace. His hands moved instinctively over the controls, adjusting the pressure valves, dialling back the tension without letting the line snap. There was a way to bring this beast in. There was always a way. You just had to know how to play the machine like a second heartbeat, how to listen to the groans of the cables and understand what they were telling you.

Bit by bit, the thrashing force on the other end of the line began to slow.

Galrin exhaled, his pulse settling as the reel found its rhythm, as the great drum turned with purpose rather than panic.

“At this pace,” he murmured, eyes locked on the dials, “we’ll have it in the catch zone in five days.”

He could feel Corrin’s hesitation beside him, could sense the boy’s unease in the silence that followed.

He had spent his life chasing beasts through the sky, pulling meat and bone from the stars, feeding the land below. But this—this was different. This was legendary.

Galrin turned to face him, his jaw set. “This thing will feed thousands. Its bones alone will be worth more than a decade of sky hauls. And us?” A slow smile crossed his face. “We’ll be legends.”

Corrin’s expression darkened.

He saw the way the boy’s hands curled into fists, the way his throat bobbed with whatever words he was swallowing down. But he didn’t press him. Five days from now, when the beast was brought down, when the people saw what they had achieved, Corrin would understand.

This was a good thing. No—it was more than that. It was the greatest thing to ever happen to this tower, to this aged skycatcher.

He had spent his life in places like this, standing in the glow of flickering gauges, feeling the hum of machinery beneath his boots, watching the sky spill open to deliver the bounty that kept their world alive. And for all those years, for every beast he had reeled in—every sky-whale, every strider, every massive drifting colossus—there had always been something missing.

Genuine recognition.

The world had never really cared about the men in the tower. They only cared about the meat that filled their bellies, the bone that built their homes, the trade that lined their pockets. Skycatchers were nothing more than the hands that pulled the creatures from the void, un-seen, un-thanked. Their work was vital, but their names were forgotten.

Unless of course their named happened to be Orvan Velth, the man who destroyed an entire town. A cursed legacy that lingers on the minds of all when the catch comes home, howling down from the sky.

Not this time.

This time, when they landed this thing—this monumental thing—the world would know his name. They would look to Galrin of Duskwatch Spire and remember.

He had spent too many years clawing his way to the top of this tower, too many years watching younger men rise above him, watching lords and traders reap the rewards of his labour while he remained in the shadows. When he was just a boy, fresh-faced and eager, he had dreamed of more. He had stood on the lower decks of an old, rusted spire, watching his master reel in a mighty void whale, believing for the first time that men could harness the power of the heavens.

But it was always the wrong men who got the glory.

He had watched his betters take credit for his skill. He had watched tower lords sit fat and smug in their feasting halls, eating meat he had bled for, drinking Nebula Brew from bone carved chalices he had supplied, while sipping Catcher’s Grit from a rusted tin cup.

This beast would change everything.

This thing—this immense, unearthly, unimaginable thing—would feed a generation. Its bones would be carved into towers, its hide would be worn by kings, and its name would be etched into history. And beside that name, as the man who brought it down, would be Galrin.

The greatest skycatcher to ever live.

A legend.

He could already taste the future, already hear the merchants haggling over its carcass, already feel the warm glow of a feast held in his honour.

He tightened his grip on the controls.

They just had to hold on. Five more days.