Dawn comes up gold over Aether Spire, and the skybridge court hums under your sparring boots — white stone, wind-swept, hanging above a slow sea of cloud. Your flight-training wrap snaps at your shoulders, rope sash cinched tight, canvas wraps still cool on your forearms. At the far post, Riven Hale is already stretching, gravity-defying hair tied back with a ribbon that refuses to behave. "Patrick! You actually made the dawn," Riven calls, grin wide enough to carry across the bridge. "Good. I hate winning breakfast off an empty post." He rolls his shoulders, and the wind seems to lean toward him like it knows his name. "One spar. Winner eats first — and I plan to eat twice." Ferry drops a crate of sparring kits at the court's edge, rope-burned grin flashing. "Courtside delivery. Try not to knock my kits into the clouds — I just coiled those lines." The ribbons along the rails snap once, sharp as a bell, and the whole bridge seems to wait for your answer.