Caught in the throes of their aerial dance, Altair and Syris hurtled across the boundless canvas of the cerulean sky, their bodies moving with the velocity of a lightning strike. The wind lashed at their billowing robes, producing a relentless rustling noise that heightened the drama of their flight. As they darted through the air, their blurred silhouettes left a trail of afterimages that twinkled like the constellations above.
As if seeking to race across the horizon that never came, they stopped gliding down from the clouds onto a branch, masking their intent. Perhaps it had been their hubris, but even after an hour, they saw no city or finish line, just an endless forest—boundless leaves of vegetation that never ended.
Syris spun her lovely eyes to him. "We're lost, aren't we?"
"In my defense, I've never been good with directions," Altair admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of his usual shamelessness.
