Grimstrong leaned back, swirling his glowing drink, the murky liquid rippling like a disturbed swamp. "The Skyborn ain't known for their openness, lad," he rasped, his voice gravelly as a gravel pit. "But whispers travel even through those polished halls. Anya Molotova... she's entangled with someone powerful, someone who calls himself the 'Celestial Shepherd'. Claims to commune with the very stars, that bloody eye being his prized possession."

  Bogran frowned, "Shepherd? Sounds more like a glorified sheepdog."

  Grimstrong chuckled, a sound like rocks tumbling down a mine shaft. "Right you are, lad. But powerful nonetheless. Controls a faction within the Skyborn, whispers say they're experimenting with...unnatural energies, bending reality itself. Molotova's got something they crave, something tied to her lineage, ancient blood magic they want to exploit."

  Bogran felt a chill crawl down his spine. This was deeper than he'd anticipated. "And this Shepherd, where does he operate from?"

  "The Sky Citadel," Grimstrong replied, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hidden deep within the clouds, accessible only through ancient rituals and...well, let's just say not your average sky-tram ticket." He paused, eyeing Bogran appraisingly. "But if you're serious about this Molotova, word on the street is he holds a grand feast tonight, celebrating some celestial alignment. A chance to mingle with the elite, slip in unnoticed...if you're bold enough."

  "Bold?" Bogran scoffed, adjusting his already-bulging nasal satchel. "I practically invented bold, mate. Lead me to this feast, and I'll make sure Molotova gets a front-row seat to my grand entrance."

  Grimstrong grinned, revealing teeth filed to sharp points. "Follow me, then. But remember, lad, the Sky Citadel ain't for the faint of heart. You waltz in there with a nose full of phlegm and delusions of grandeur, you might just end up as celestial fertilizer."

  Bogran thanked Grimstrong with a wink and a handful of glittering dust – his payment for information in this underbelly economy. He followed the hulking informant through a maze of back alleys, eventually reaching an unassuming hatch leading upwards, hidden beneath a tapestry depicting a grotesquely contorted star-god.

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  Grimstrong pushed it open, revealing a spiraling staircase bathed in ethereal light. "This'll take you to a service tunnel leading to the Citadel," he said, "Sneak in through there, blend with the staff, and pray the Shepherd doesn't mistake your snotty spectacle for divine intervention."

  Bogran chuckled grimly, pushing past Grimstrong into the swirling luminescence. The air grew thick with incense and the murmur of arcane chants as he ascended, the scent of roasted meats and exotic spices wafting up from below. He reached a dimly lit corridor lined with shimmering panels depicting celestial bodies in impossible configurations. It was clear this wasn’t just any service tunnel; it served a purpose far grander, its very essence humming with potent magic.

  He squeezed through a ventilation shaft leading into a vast hall pulsating with energy. Lavish candelabras cast dancing shadows on the throng of elegantly dressed Skyborn nobles, their faces alight with otherworldly glee. In the center, a colossal dais shimmered, draped in fabrics that seemed woven from starlight itself. The Shepherd, a gaunt figure wreathed in celestial fire, addressed his guests with theatrical pronouncements about cosmic alignment and destiny.

  Bogran observed the scene, calculating his next move. He couldn't just barge in; he needed to blend in. Spotting a cluster of attendants bustling around with trays laden with shimmering delicacies, he donned an abandoned tunic and a feathered cap, stuffing his bulging nasal satchel deep within its folds. He joined the throng, feigning servitude as he weaved through the crowd, his eyes searching for Anya Molotova.

  Suddenly, a commotion erupted near the dais. Two cloaked figures clashed in a whirlwind of energy blasts, their forms flickering like dying stars. One was unmistakably Molotova, her ancient blood magic crackling around her, desperately fending off a shadowy assailant with serpentine limbs and eyes burning like nebulas.

  The Shepherd, his voice laced with fury, bellowed, "Stop this insolence! Seize the traitor!" Enforcers clad in shimmering armor surged towards Anya, weapons humming with celestial power.

  Bogran knew he couldn't stand idly by. He had to act, and fast. Leaping onto a nearby table, he grabbed a ceremonial goblet overflowing with luminous liquid – a concoction that smelled suspiciously like fermented starlight – and hurled it at the advancing enforcers. The goblet shattered, releasing a blinding flash and a wave of disorienting energy. It bought Anya precious seconds, but as the enforcers regrouped, their weapons aimed, Bogran found himself face-to-face with the Shepherd, his celestial fire burning hotter than ever.

  "You dare interfere?" The Shepherd hissed, his voice echoing with cosmic wrath. "Your meddling ends here, mortal."

  Bogran, nose twitching from the heady fumes of the spilled starlight potion, grinned defiantly. "Looks like your feast just got a whole lot spicier." He raised his hands, drawing upon the residual magic humming in the air, preparing to meet the Shepherd’s celestial fury head-on.