Meet Nia, sun-kissed, brown-skinned hurricane from the southern isles. She’s got more energy than a shaken soda can, and a mouth faster than a stolen horse. She’s bold, she’s loud, and she’s got the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel. Her better half? Mano—a porcelain-faced automaton cooler than the other side of the pillow. Together, this walking circus of a duo calls themselves “sky explorers,” and they’ve got their eyes on the grand prize: the Mist-Shrouded Tower, where the sun supposedly went belly-up.
Their plan went south faster than a snowbird in January.
A storm chewed up their airship like a hungry shark. Engines? Toast. Propellers? Spinning slower than a broken ceiling fan. Stranded but too stubborn to cry about it, they decided to fix their bucket of bolts inside the tower while sniffing around for that lost sun. “Alrighty then,” Nia grinned, teeth flashing like a slot machine jackpot. “Time to go poke the bear.”
She had no clue the bear had fangs.
The tower’s guts weren’t just ruins—they were a nightmare with a bad attitude. Hallways that folded in on themselves like a pretzel having an existential crisis. And monsters. More monsters than a haunted petting zoo. But the real kicker? Ghosts. Nia didn’t get grabbed by claws or teeth. Nope. Pale, creepy hands straight out of a bad dream did the job. The puppeteer behind it all? A woman named Mary—a ghost mistress so lazy and laid-back she practically drools while humming show tunes. But don’t let that sleepy act fool you. Mess with her turf? She holds a grudge tighter than a toddler with a candy bar. Intruders? She does not forgive. Not even a little.