There are no answers. Astra learned that years ago. The pitiful creatures in Steadfast are but pawns, and Steadfast but a fluke. It's not safe here - not truly, anyways - the stars swirl closer and closer through the obscuring red fog, and rain that is not rain drums on thick-stone roofs. Yet things do not float, in Steadfast. The whispering of the cracked sky quiets, here, and there are worse places to be.
That's what she tells herself, anyways - she who lost everything that she ever cared for to a old, dusty wooden door in a place where no door could be. That's what she whispers at night, telling herself not to obey the pleading from the old wooden door in her basement, where it is impossible for it to open onto anything but old sand and bone.
That's what she tells herself, when residents quiet and stare through
blank
white
eyes
at her
Steadfast is strange, but there are worse things than strange