Like most things that float in the sky, Chryse appears serene, but its atmosphere is tense as guy wire.
“We’re the tail of the archipelago, and the sharks are circling,” says Clary Sage. “If we refuse to take up arms, like Psyttalia–”
“What happened on Psyttalia was a failure of engineering,” growls Wolfram Tungsten.
“The raiders won’t distinguish that!”
His fist thumps oak. “And our engines won’t fail! Besides, who on this island will you call to arms? Teenage artificers? White-haired herbalists?”
“My hair is not white, Wolfram Tungsten,” says Clary Sage.
“I can see that, Clary Sage,” he says.