Events · Acts, bosses & the Break

The Carriers' Guild has posted a notice at every port along the frontier: any ship that completes the regional circuit will earn a full Carrier's License. That means legal trade contracts, access to high-tier ports, and a clean record in the Charter's books.

Behind you, a bank of dead gray sky has been following your wake for three days. Dockworkers call it dead weather, and it is steadily gaining on you.

The city broadsheets are printing your ship's name—calling you "the crew that keeps flying out of dead sky alive."

The rest of the news is grim: frontier mageholds have gone dark overnight, and a mail courier was found drifting with its lamps cold and every sailor aboard dead in their bunks. The gray sky isn't weather. It is hunting for what you carry in your hold.

Two couriers arrive at your mooring on the same morning. One carries an Admiralty dispatch sealed with the Crown's blue wax; the other brings an unsigned letter from the Free Muster, smelling of pitch.

Both factions want the same thing: your ship, your veteran crew, and the void Shard humming in your hold, committed to an open war that the rulers on the Peak still refuse to admit has begun.

As you enter the Front, the sky goes dead. There are no birds and no wind, and your deck lanterns dim to a faint blue flicker.

Ahead, the allied fleet holds a battered line against the Hush. Beyond them in the gray murk, the Undertow's massive flagship—the Cistern—is draining the magic out of the world.

A signal lamp flashes from the allied flagship: "The Cistern is protected by void wards that absorb spells and feed on mana. Hit it with physical bolt-throwers and boarding parties!"

The Dunning lists and burns. In the Collector's cabin, you find your ship's debt contract stamped PAID, a heavy purse of silver, and a lead-lined strongbox that hums against your palm.

Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lies a fist-sized crystal with a dark void swirling at its core. Every mana meter on your ship goes dead the moment you lift it. Behind you, the clouds fall eerily still.

The Dunning tilts and burns. In the Collector's cabin, you find the Guild's lane-toll ledger, a heavy purse of silver, and a lead-lined strongbox that hums against your palm.

Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, lies a fist-sized crystal with a dark void swirling at its core. Every mana meter on your ship goes dead the moment you lift it. Behind you, the clouds fall eerily still.

The refinery flagship Tallowmere crashes into the cliffs, her crystal vats bursting one by one. A Guild inspector who watched the battle from a safe distance flies alongside, surveys the wreck, and stamps a full citizen's clearance onto your charter.

"You are now a Licensed Carrier," she says. "And the Guild has taken note of how your ship keeps surviving the dead sky."

The mage-lord's flagship drifts with darkened lanterns while the defeated lord sits slumped in his drained Casting Room. His steward hands over a grimoire and the dungeon permits for every magehold in the region.

Two days later, a courier delivers your official Carrier's License with a Guild note: "Your ship has a remarkable habit of surviving the dead sky."

The great storm finally breaks. Gentle rain falls for the first time in a month, and the clan halls atop the spires relight their signal fires.

An elder from Kestrel Spire boards your ship and inspects your battle-scarred deck. "You have earned kin-sky rights," she declares. "Our air lanes are open to you." She leaves behind a bolt of storm-gray silk and a young clan warrior eager to join your crew.

The storm breaks, and across the mountain spires the clan halls relight their signal fires.

No delegation boards your ship, but Kestrel Spire flashes a signal lamp as you pass: you have been granted kin-sky passage. You won no salvage or silver by sparing the beast, but the clans will remember your mercy.

The Orrery's brass rings grind to a halt, stopping every synchronized clock across the Cogholds. One by one, gnomes step out onto their spire balconies to stare at your ship.

A Compact delegation soon arrives bearing an artificer's workbench, a crate of clockwork devices, and a formal diplomatic protest—all at the same time.

The pirate Regatta scatters in defeat. News travels fast through the Reaches: by the time you drop anchor at the next haven, the locals already know your name and have opened their private black market to your crew.

The noble spectators on the Academy terraces rise to applaud. A senior Admiral in gilded dress uniform steps aboard and pins an officer's commission to your coat. "The Crown needs captains of your caliber," he declares—conveniently ignoring that his own Admiralty kept you on the Lowborn rolls as a criminal until today.

The final bell rings with both ships still aloft. After a brief huddle, the marshals award the match to House Highwell on points. An official hands back your entry papers unsigned. "Well flown, Captain. You win no prize purse or commission today, but the air lane ahead is open to you."

The Crown blockade shatters, opening the hidden harbor of the Free Muster—a covert anchorage packed with a hundred unregistered warships. The Free Captains award you a Privateer's License, a full combat refit, and a night of raucous toasts.

The Cistern's massive siphon pipes hang limp. Its central vault stands open, revealing a house-sized void crystal slowly turning within—gorged on the stolen mana, light, and wind of an entire region.

In your hold, the Shard resonates so loudly you can feel it through the deck planks. Nearby, your patron's fleet flashes signal lamps, ordering you to stand aside so they can tow the Cistern home.

The corridors inside the Cistern are completely drained of mana. Magic lanterns die, mages feel their power go numb, and clockwork devices seize up. Only someone who relies on mundane skill or natural senses can guide the team down.

The siphon conduits down here look more like living roots than metal pipes, still pulsing with stolen mana. Silver-eyed Undertow thralls tend the machinery in silence. They haven't spotted your team yet.

You reach the structural flaw marked in the Surveyor's Pages: a crossed-circle symbol chiseled into the crystal housing years ago by the engineer who built it. Directly beneath the mark lies an exposed fracture line.

The colossal void crystal looms above you, absorbing all magic in the room. Spells are useless here—someone must crack the fracture line with brute physical force and drive the Shard into the gap.

You jam the Shard into the crack, and the core shatters. All the stolen magic of the sky erupts outward in a blinding torrent, shaking the Cistern apart as the vault ceiling begins to collapse!