The brickwork tunnels below the Thistlethorn estate were narrow and cramped, and the fog that flowed through them smelled permanently of rotting mistweed. And these were just some of the things Rylan disliked about carrying out fog-condenser maintenance.

Unfortunately, like most people who lived in the vast cloudsea, the inhabitants of Thistlebloom Island were entirely reliant on condensers for their water needs, and regular maintenance was not optional. And as the estate’s youngest indentured servant, Rylan was usually the first pick to go perform it.

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

Worse than the smell and the lack of space, were the cold and the fogging damp.

Rylan shivered as another icy drop of water splashed onto his head. The freezing droplet immediately ran down his flaxen locks to his forehead, passing beneath his glowband—if you could call it that.

The slim cloth headband had the tiniest hexagon of glowmetal glued onto it, and while Rylan enjoyed watching the colours shimmer over the Divine Metal’s surface during his breaks, its purplish-red glow barely even reached his feet through the thick vapour. Thus, he was forced to keep one hand on the chilly brickwork while he shuffled forward, moving as fast as he dared over the rocky, uneven ground.

The icy drop continued down his forehead and across the bridge of his nose until it could go no farther, then leapt off and dripped onto his deep-brown kelp tunic. Rylan paid it no heed; the fabric already clung to his skin anyway, drenched and cold like his apron after an evening shift washing dishes.

There was one thing he did like about the fog: the sense of floatiness it provided. Down in the cold mist, things didn’t seem to weigh as much, allowing him to jump much higher and farther, with softer landings to boot.

It was almost enough to give him a sense of freedom.

Almost.

It was hard to enjoy the floaty sensation when—despite his average height—he had to literally hunch over to avoid scraping his head against the brickwork overhead. It was even harder to feel free with the heavy metal anklet on his right leg.

By now, he was used to the extra weight. Still, each step served as a physical reminder that he was mere property until he repaid his debt. To prevent chafing, the anklet was lined with wool on the inside—the Thistlethorns at least took good care of their belongings—but the skin beneath often itched like crazy, especially during humid, sweaty summers.

Or after being soaked by airborne water.

Happy fogging birthday to me.

It wasn’t really his birthday, probably. That was hard to figure out for a Cloudgift. Still, it was the anniversary of the day he’d been found, so for all intents and purposes, he treated it as such.

More importantly—to Rylan, anyway—it was the day that he knew for certain that he was of age. Which meant he was eligible to gain... a Skill.

The odds of getting one were incredibly slim, of course, but surely his years of preparations would amount to something. All he had to do was demonstrate to Ethereon that he deserved one.

But first, he had to finish his last chore for the day.

The water pressure had been steadily dropping all over the estate, so his job was to visit the cisterns on all of the various buildings within the compound to manually clear the mistweed out of the condensation grids.

The fog inlet down in the small marina was equipped with a heavy grate to prevent fogfish or anything worse from swimming in, but it couldn’t block tiny seeds from drifting through and inevitably ending up getting sucked into the fog-attracting grids.

Travelling through the tunnels and fogtubes was not strictly required for the task, but it was by far the fastest way to access each of the condensers in turn, and today especially, Rylan didn’t feel the slightest bit like taking the longer, drier way around.

Passing by the junction that led to the collector on top of the greenhouse, he expertly ducked the arc where the tunnel he was in crossed beneath the foundation of the guards’ barracks. The tunnels that served as a conduit for the fog were a bit of a maze, but by now, Rylan could navigate them blindly.

Soon enough, the ground started to slope up, heading for the opening of the copper tube that led all the way up to his final stop: the cistern at the top of the tower, the tallest building in the walled-off compound.

He’d heard the original fogtube leading there had gone straight up, but after one-too-many blockages in the vertical section, the Thistlethorns had it torn down and redone so that it spiralled up around the tall stone building. Rylan was quite thankful for that decision today, as it meant he could just walk up the tube, rather than take the long way around and go through the trouble of requesting access to the tower’s roof.

Maintaining grip on the shiny interior of the tube did require some care, as it was always damp. A problem that was exacerbated by the small hexagons of cool, aquamarine cloudmetal spaced out along the top and sides of the tube’s interior.

Cloudmetal was always cold, which, combined with its ability to attract fog, made it perfect for keeping food from spoiling, fighting off the summer heat, and, of course, for condensing fog into drinkable water.

The flat, hexagonal pieces placed in the fogtube helped draw the fog all the way up to the roof. However, it also triggered some condensation to form prematurely, especially in the parts of the tube that were in the tower’s shadow, causing a thin trickle of water to constantly run down the centre.

Unwilling to spend anymore time down here than he needed to, Rylan planted his feet on either side of the tiny stream, grabbed onto the handrails, and started to climb.

As he made his way up, the sound of the steady drip-dropping of water falling from the condenser at the top grew steadily louder. He could already tell it wasn’t operating at peak capacity, both from the sound and the sluggish rate at which the water vapour seemed to be travelling up the pipe.

The fog was thicker than usual as well, which at least had the added benefit of lightening him further, thus making his climb easier. In fact, by the time he at last stepped out of the top end of the copper tube, he felt light as a feather.

Despite his haste, he allowed himself a brief moment to roll his neck and straighten his back.

Standard procedure was to close the hatch at the top of the tube and wait for the fog to clear up a little, before proceeding to a visual inspection of the condensation grid. But that was the slow way to do it, and Rylan had no stomach for slow today.

A few careful hop-steps forward through the soup-like fog brought him to the stone cistern without stubbing his toe. Reaching into it with one hand, he checked the water level, hoping against hope that it would be fine.

It was clearly too low, so with a sigh he pulled his already mostly full bag around to hang in front of his chest, faced the cistern, then jumped up and forward.

For a moment, he was suspended entirely in the floaty fog, his right hand stretching up, reaching for something just beyond him. Then his hand hit the condensation grid—a mesh of pure cloudmetal hanging over the cistern—and his fingers closed around the cool material.

Within the fog, it was easy enough to hang from a single arm. Frankly, the hardest part was keeping his body from swinging back and forth like a very slow pendulum as, with his other hand, he started feeling around for the clumps of mistweed clogging up the mazes of the grid.

The fog was very thick so close to the condenser, so his fingers blindly sought out the weeds tangling up and insulating the cloudmetal, depositing them in his bag one by one, until he couldn’t find any within reach. Then he moved his grip along the grid, and continued.

By the time he couldn’t find any more mistweed, his bag was full and his fingers were freezing.

He found the edge of the grid, gripping the metal with both hands as he swung forward, then released. Falling down through the fog was scary, but with its floaty qualities, not too dangerous. Not from three feet up, anyway.

He’d heard stories of people falling off cloudships. Those rarely ended happily.

He touched down gently and found the fogtube in short order, the thick fog already thinning a little after his efforts. Standing at the top, he briefly hesitated, tempted as always to just slide down.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

As a child, he’d done it on a few occasions. He and Zahra had run up and slid down the tube until they were blue-lipped and shivering, giggling all the way. Of course, those days were long gone now, with him having come of age, and his best friend not far behind.

Somewhere around the ten-year anniversary of his arrival, the bamboo sticks they’d been using as mock swords had been plucked out of their hands, and replaced with thicker bamboo poles that had brushes and rags on the end, while their loose shirts and breeches turned into stiff, ill-fitting uniforms.

All of a sudden, rather than children with nothing better to do than attend Master Gullfeather’s morning classes and play pranks on the staff, they had become the staff.

As the daughter of the head chef, Zahra had some leeway when she whined and complained, but Rylan was, after all, a Cloudgift. He was indebted to the Thistlethorns for taking him in, for feeding and clothing and sheltering him.

Starting at age ten, he’d been expected to start earning his keep, and Miss Amberleaf, the Thistlethorns’ head of housekeeping, had no patience for indentured servants, regardless of their age. He’d learned that the hard way.

With a sigh, he bowed his head, gripped the handrails and went down the slow way.

Finding your way out of the maze of tunnels was, paradoxically, easier than finding your way in. All you had to do was walk against the direction the fog was flowing in—and it was flowing a lot faster now.

Well, it would actually be quicker to exit the way Rylan had come in, through the hatch down below the servants’ quarters, but of course, it wouldn’t be appreciated if he stepped out of there now, dripping wet. It was really more of an entry-only kind of hatch.

So instead, Rylan simply hurried on. Soon enough, he reached the grate at the fog inlet. The flow was moving so quickly there now, it actually made it a little difficult to fumble the key he’d checked out earlier into the lock.

With the grate secured behind him again, Rylan stepped out of the cramped brickwork tunnel, onto the sandy cloudbed of the small marina.

The fog immediately cleared a little, and he spotted some vague silhouettes of people in the distance, no doubt tending to the mushrooms growing there on a thin layer of substrate, checking them for parasitic growths and whatnot.

His appearance was met with the happy bleating of a couple of nearby mistsheep, that quickly started to waggle their little tails and paws in order to drift closer to him.

Smiling, he took off his bag and shook out the collected strands of mistweed, causing them to float towards the mammals that happily started to chew.

Sometimes, he sorted out a few fresh shoots to sneak back to his room as a snack, but he didn’t feel like it today. It wasn’t like his diet lacked mistweed anyway.

Besides, the mistsheep were cute. The bubbles of light, fog-free air trapped in their greasy wool was what kept them afloat, and it made them look like they were all hanging inside a personal little cloud.

You just had to avoid walking beneath them when they, well...

A shepherd in the distance—easily recognised by the stained, extra-wide-rimmed hat and the thirty-foot, hooked bamboo pole—brought a hand to his mouth and whistled. A split-second later, one of his trained fogseals enthusiastically came swimming over to Rylan, sniffing and circling him once before it started to chase the still-chewing, wayward cattle back to their herd.

Rylan’s smile faded as he stood there a moment longer, watching as they slowly faded out of view. Peering into the swirling fog, he could almost imagine he was out in the vast cloudsea, delving into its mysteries. In actuality, the marina was only a small, closed-off section that belonged to the estate; a watered-down version of the massive ecosystem that covered the vast majority of the land. Of course, even if he had been standing in the real thing, his anklet would not have let him get far.

With an empty bag and a sigh, Rylan turned around and started making his way up through the loose sand. As he did, however, the fog in the enclosed harbour thickened around him again, indicating the presence of a cloudship somewhere above him.

Most larger vessels incorporated some cloudmetal in their hulls, as having thicker fog around them improved their buoyancy and thus carrying capacity. When walking beneath them, however, it was a real pain in the—

Rylan swore out loud as he bonked his head on something.

—skull.

Reaching up, he quickly found he’d been bopped on the crown by a flat, spongy span of bone, probably the rib of a fogwhale. Most floats were constructed like that. They often used an entire ribcage to form the exterior support, with the spine serving as a keel, and thickly woven kelp stretched taut between the ribs, dented slightly inward due to the force exerted by the heavy fog.

Inside it would be space to store cargo, between carefully preserved and greased gas bladders from fogwhales, which the majestic creatures used to stay afloat.

The kelp tarpaulin itself should be enough to keep out the fog and keep the ship adrift, but redundancies were important. The last thing a sailor wanted was to have to make an emergency landing down on the cloudbed.

Feeling out the contours of the float, Rylan made his way around it until he finally stepped out of the driftline—the topmost layer of the cloudsea—and into the warm sunlight beaming down from the clear blue sky. As usual, there wasn’t a single skycloud in view.

Taking off his glowband and rubbing his sore head, he shot a glare at the offending cloudship. It was a simple craft, consisting of two long, thick floats with a small bamboo cabin painted a jolly red suspended between them. On one side of the cabin hung a bone harpooncaster—a wicked-looking, oversized crossbow with a harpoon as its payload, used to hunt fogfish out on the open clouds—and on top stood a small bench, from where a sailor could hold the reins of the marlins hitched to the front.

The two long, pointy-nosed fogfish were floating upside down right now, seemingly catching some rays on their pale bellies. Meanwhile, two weathered, unkempt men dressed in brightly coloured tunics spun from soft bamboo fibre were unloading bamboo crates from inside the floaters and stacking them on the stone dock. They were doing so under the close inspection of Ava, a blonde woman in her early thirties who served as the Thistlethorns’ sous chef.

Judging by the intense gesticulating Ava was doing at a third sailor, a similarly brightly dressed woman, the haggling wasn’t quite done yet.

Rylan remained standing there for a moment, shivering as the warm sunlight slowly warmed his soaked tunic and britches, and stared at the sailors in their comfy-looking shirts who were probably about to set off again, out onto the open cloudsea.

His thoughts inevitably turned to a different cloudship, one painted a jolly orange, but that one hadn’t docked here in seasons.

Finally, Ava handed over a jingling pouch. The lady sailor opened it briefly, the soft cyan glow bathing her face betraying the presence of valuable Quint Cubes among its contents, before she closed it again, nodded, and they shook hands. Then Ava turned around and caught sight of Rylan.

Rylan’s stomach sank as the blonde sous chef’s eyes lit up and she strode over with purpose, the skirt of her white-striped, pale-blue livery swishing with every step.

He’d broken the first rule of life as an indentured servant: always look busy. But it was too late to start walking away now.

“Ah, Rylan, excellent,” she started as she came up to him. “Seth could really use your help carrying in these crates.” She pointed her thumb over her shoulder at the surly, slouched boy who was standing next to the stacks and stacks of crates in question, looking highly unmotivated.

Rylan barely managed to hold back a groan. “Actually, I need to go hand in my keyring and glowband,” he replied. “And then I’m done for the—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ava said, waving off his ‘concerns’. “Those can wait; all of these need to go to the pantry and I don’t want any of it to spoil, so go ahead and help Seth out.”

Rylan snapped his mouth shut with a click, biting down the retort that was welling up inside of him, that Seth would be able to handle it alone, if he just put in some effort for once. It was an uncharitable thought, even if it was true. And Seth wasn’t the cause of his trouble.

“Ava, please,” he tried, hoping against hope. “I’m of age now. I’d really hoped to have some time to—”

“Look, Rylan,” Ava said with a sigh, cocking a hip and resting her hand on it. “I know you’re in a hurry to clear your debt, but honestly, betting on gaining a Skill is not the way to do it. The odds of getting one are like one in a thousand!”

“Are they now?” Rylan asked, calmly folding his arms over his chest. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before. “I guess the Thistlethorns must be insanely lucky then.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “That’s different. They’re nobles. That’s not our lot in life. If you want to clear your debt faster, take my advice, and start showing some initiative. You think I worked my way up to sous chef by pulling faces about extra chores? You’re not bad with a knife, and you’ve actually got some feeling for spices. Now if you could just muster up some motivation, you’ve got the makings of a decent cook.”

That was about the last thing Rylan wanted to be. He hated working in the Thistlethorns’ loud, sweltering, chaotic kitchen.

“Who knows,” Ava continued, either unaware or uncaring of his distaste. “Maybe if old Zelim stops in a year or four, five, you could be up for my job! Now, are you going to carry those crates, or do I have to go get Miss Amberleaf?”

Rylan stopped himself from grinding his teeth. The classic sugarcane and whip, except it was a withered husk of a sugarcane. There was no way Zahra’s father was stopping in five years. The man probably wouldn’t stop working until he dropped. But Rylan knew all too well that arguing was pointless.

“Yes ma’am,” he said instead.

Ava clapped him on the shoulder. “Good lad.” And she was off.

With a sigh, Rylan turned towards Seth, who was already grinning at him, exposing the gap between his front teeth for all the world to see.

“Thanks for the help, Rylan, appreciate it.”

Seth had only recently started working on the estate, and while Rylan’s first impression of him wasn’t great, he was willing to give the lanky boy the benefit of the doubt. After all, since a little while ago, he had a vacancy for a friend.

“I’m sure,” Rylan replied absentmindedly, already mentally calculating how long this chore was going to take. There were thirty-seven crates, so if he carried twenty-five and Seth carried at least twelve, he could probably be done in an hour and a half, two hours tops. There’d still be some time left, and he wasn’t scheduled for dinner prep today.

As he selected two relatively light crates to pick up together, Seth scoffed, picking up only a single one as expected.

“You know we’re getting paid by the hour, right?” Seth said as they started moving through the loose sand surrounding the small marina.

Rylan wasn’t actually getting paid by the hour. He was getting paid by the day, and expected to be available for work at all hours. But he didn’t feel like correcting the lazy boy.

“If you’d rather do this alone, I’m perfectly fine with that,” he said instead. “You could really take your sweet time with these.”

“Well let’s not be hasty here,” Seth hurriedly replied, shifting the bamboo crate up in his grip as they walked up a few stone steps and replaced sand for a path of crushed shell that crunched under their shoes, lined by grass and actual trees.

“Let’s do be hasty, please,” Rylan retorted, shooting Seth a look. “I’d like to spend some time this afternoon that’s just me and Ethereon.”

“Wait, you’re putting serious effort into getting a Skill?” Seth asked, having the audacity to sound surprised. “Fog, I thought Ava was joking. There’s not much you can do about it, you know? It’ll either happen or it won’t.”

Rylan managed to hold himself back from scoffing, if just barely. Getting into another fruitless argument would only slow down the work.

“Why not just work off your debt the old-fashioned way?” Seth continued blithely. “I mean, you’ve been working for what, four years now?”

“Six.”

“Well there you go, how many more can it take?”

Rylan let out a sigh. “You really want to know?”