Port-Luthair.
The sun dipped low over Port-Luthair, casting golden streaks across the hangars and runways. The salty air had begun to cool, and the shriek of gulls gave way to laughter, music, and the gentle clink of glasses. For once, Hangar Three wasn't ringing with the sound of hammers and tools. Tonight, it rang with something rarer: celebration.
A long trestle table had been dragged out onto the tarmac, surrounded by mismatched chairs and crates pulled from every corner of the base. Lanterns swayed gently in the wind, their warm glow flickering against the silvery fuselage of the Hawkfire parked just beyond. Her engines had cooled, her glass canopy left open to the night air like a satisfied yawn after a long run.
