Your name is Hallis. Throughout most of your young life you've had a tube in your nose and a pillow behind your head. You've not had the chance to know much, but you know your mother loves you very, very much.
You are tended to by physicians, a dying art in a flying city. Occasionally, when she can find the time, your mother takes you to its architecture, with its curving columns and highest peaks, where you can pray to the stars who thread the sky. Where you can wish upon those stars.
Your name is Halis and you meet some strange people in the hospital, and one of them fills you with a warmth you can only start to describe. She shares that warmth with you and for the first time you can breathe unaided. Your mother looks at her and she is reduced to tears of joy. Your mother will be killed that same night.
The city is falling. Safety is a memory. Those who've been killed are the lucky ones, and you are waiting for her to arrive. The goddess of fate, the one who prevails over rules set by nature itself, looks down upon the entire city and plucks you from her void, and that who swore not to intervene, intervenes.
You are placed on a terrestrial land, on a magicless land, on a land where your casual ability to operate a sending stone for more than a 25 word message is considered borderline holy. A breath of Aeor's knowledge, your kindergarten classes give you the same knowledge as the town's most studied wizard.
Your name is Halas. You were born in the calamity, and you hold the fractured knowledge of Aeor in your subconscious. The calamity is coming to an end, the final stand is nigh, and if it were to go poorly, no-one on this plane is safe.
No-one on this plane. It's time to get to work.
