The letter arrived on a day when the sky was the color of old brass, and Finn Ashford's hands were covered in soot from another failed experiment. The explosion had been minor this time—barely enough to singe his eyebrows—but the heat converter lay in ruins before him, another attempt to replicate the ember's power reduced to smoking debris. He picked up a twisted piece of brass, still warm to the touch, and added it to the growing pile of failed prototypes in the corner of his workshop.

"Note to self," he muttered, reaching for his worn leather journal, "increasing the crystal's resonance frequency does not, in fact, stabilize the energy flow. Result: immediate catastrophic failure." He sketched a quick diagram of the shattered device, adding annotations in his cramped handwriting. "Possible solution: additional containment matrix? Review calculation series twenty-three..."

A sharp rap at his door interrupted his notations. Mrs. Broden, his elderly landlady, didn't wait for a response before entering, waving away the lingering smoke with one hand while holding an envelope in the other. Her gray hair was tied back in its usual severe bun, and her expression carried its familiar mixture of concern and disapproval.

"Another explosion, Master Ashford?" She peered at the debris through smoke-spotted spectacles. "That's the third this week. The other tenants are beginning to talk."

Finn offered an apologetic smile, trying to discreetly wipe the soot from his hands onto his already-stained trousers. "Just a small one, Mrs. Broden. I'm very close to a breakthrough, I assure you."

"That's what you said last month, when you nearly set fire to the east wing." She sniffed, but there was a hint of fondness in her tone. After five years, she'd grown accustomed to her unusual tenant and his experiments. "This came for you. By private courier, if you can believe it. Quite insistent he was, too."

The envelope she held out was pristine white, expensive—the kind of paper used in Skyhold, not in this dusty town on the edge of the wastelands. Finn's heart skipped a beat as he saw the seal: deep blue wax impressed with the symbol of Skyhold's ruling council—a burning ember cradled by outstretched wings.

Mrs. Broden was still talking, something about the noise regulations she'd explained when he'd first rented the workshop, but Finn barely heard her. Five years. It had been five years since he'd seen that seal, since the day they'd stripped him of his guild credentials and sent him from the floating city. His hands trembled slightly as he broke the wax.

Master Ashford,

Your expertise is required by order of the Council of Skyhold. Your presence is demanded at the Sanctum within three days of receiving this summons. Arrangements have been made for your return to the city.

This is not a request.

By order of High Councilor Elias Thorn

"Curious thing," Mrs. Broden said, watching his reaction. "A letter from Skyhold itself, isn't it? I recognized the seal—we all do, down here in the shadows of the great floating city." There was an edge to her voice now. Like most ground-dwellers, she had complicated feelings about the city that drifted above them, perpetually out of reach.

Finn set the letter down carefully on his workbench, next to a brass instrument of his own design that measured ambient ember energy. The needle had been dropping steadily for weeks, confirming what the whispers from passing traders suggested: the Heart of the Sky, the great ember that kept Skyhold aloft, was failing.

"Mrs. Broden," he said slowly, "I may need to terminate my lease earlier than expected."

She raised an eyebrow. "They're calling you back, then? After what they did to you?"

Finn had never told her the full story of his exile, but in a town this small, rumors spread. They all knew he was from Skyhold—his accent and education made that obvious enough. And they knew he hadn't left voluntarily. The story had grown more dramatic with each retelling in the local tavern: Finn Ashford, the brilliant young inventor who'd dared to question the council's wisdom, cast out for his heretical ideas about the sacred ember.

The reality had been both simpler and more complex. A public demonstration gone wrong. A theory that challenged centuries of doctrine. The horror on his father's face as the council read their judgment. His brother Loric's quiet fury, not at the council, but at Finn for bringing shame to their family name.

"They need me," he said, more to himself than to Mrs. Broden. "Something's wrong with the ember. Something significant enough that they're willing to bring back the exile."

Through the grimy window of his workshop, he could see Skyhold floating in the distance, a majestic silhouette against the aureate sky. The city had drifted closer to his exile-post in recent months—closer than he'd ever seen it since his banishment. Its crystalline spires caught the late afternoon light, creating a halo effect that had inspired centuries of poetry and prayer. But Finn knew the city's true nature, its beauty built on a foundation of rigid tradition and fear of change.

Mrs. Broden followed his gaze. "Seems lower than usual, doesn't it? Been noticing it for weeks now. The traders say the lights aren't as bright at night, either."

She was right. The eternal glow that usually surrounded Skyhold had dimmed, though most ground-dwellers probably hadn't noticed yet. But Finn had been watching, measuring, documenting. His workbench was covered with journals filled with observations and calculations, tracking the city's subtle descent.

He walked to a cluttered shelf and pulled out an old brass compass, a remnant from his days in the Ember Guild. Its needle always pointed toward the Heart of the Sky, drawn to the ember's power. The needle wavered now, something he'd never seen before in all his years of study.

"What's happening to you?" he whispered, though whether to the ember or to Skyhold itself, he wasn't sure.

Mrs. Broden cleared her throat. "Well, I'll leave you to your packing, then. Though I do hope you'll settle your accounts before departing. Last month's rent is still..."

"Of course," Finn assured her, already moving through his workshop with renewed purpose. "You'll have it all before I leave. And I'll pay for the scorch marks in the east wing."

After she left, Finn began to gather his equipment with methodical precision. If he was returning to Skyhold, he'd need evidence—proof that his theories had merit. From a locked cabinet, he retrieved his most precious possession: a journal bound in red leather, filled with five years of research and observations about the ember's declining power. The council had thrown him out for suggesting the ember's power wasn't infinite, that they needed to research alternatives. Now that same council was summoning him back.

He packed his instruments carefully: the energy meter, calibrated crystals, measuring devices of his own invention. Each one represented hours of work, failed attempts, and eventual breakthroughs. Together, they told the story of his exile years—not wasted in bitter resentment, as some might have assumed, but spent pursuing the truth that had cost him everything.

A glint of metal caught his eye, and he paused in his packing. On a high shelf, gathering dust, sat a Guild medallion, its surface tarnished with age. He'd been meant to destroy it after his exile, but something had stopped him. Finn reached up and took it down, wiping away the dust with his thumb to reveal the guild's motto: "Knowledge Serves Power."

He'd believed in that motto once, had worn the medallion proudly as one of the guild's youngest members. Now the words seemed like a warning. Knowledge serving power, rather than truth—wasn't that exactly what had led to his exile?

The medallion went into his pack along with the rest. A reminder, perhaps, of what happened when tradition was valued over progress.

As evening approached, Finn found himself still packing, though now he was moving more slowly, lost in thought. Through his window, he could see the first stars appearing in the darkening sky. Usually at this hour, Skyhold would be blazing with light, a second sun hanging above the world. But tonight, the city's glow seemed muted, its edges softer.

He caught his reflection in a clouded mirror: thin face, sharp eyes, clothes stained with the evidence of countless experiments. At thirty, he was no longer the proud young inventor who'd once walked Skyhold's halls. That man had believed in the city's perfection, in the ember's divine nature. This man knew better.

Time and exile had changed him, but they hadn't broken him. Instead, they'd tempered his passion for discovery with patience and caution. The council had summoned back the radical young inventor they'd cast out, but they would find someone different in his place.

Finn tucked the council's letter into his jacket pocket, its weight pressing against his chest like a stone. Three days to prepare for a return to the city that had cast him out. Three days to ready himself to face old wounds, old enemies, and whatever was wrong with the Heart of the Sky.

He looked once more through his window at Skyhold, and for a moment, he could have sworn he saw the city's eternal lights flicker. Whatever was happening up there, whatever had finally forced the council to swallow their pride and summon him back, it was worse than they were admitting in their terse letter.

Good. Let them need him. Let them face the truth they'd tried to suppress. The ember's power was failing, just as he'd predicted five years ago. The only question was whether they'd truly listen this time, or if they'd called him back simply to watch him fail again.

Finn sealed his pack and began to clear his workbench. Tomorrow, he would settle his accounts with Mrs. Broden, pack up five years of research, and begin the journey back to Skyhold. But tonight, he had one more experiment to complete—one last attempt to prove what he'd known all along about the ember's true nature.

The council had given him three days. He intended to make every hour count.