High above the clouds, in a realm where the sky becomes land and gravity bows to engineering, colossal cities drift in sovereign silence. These are not visions of the future, but echoes of a past erased—Sky Citadels built by a civilization lost to time or secrecy. The floating spheres, impossibly vast and luminous, orbit one another like moons in a private galaxy, tethered not to planets but to their own enigmatic logic.

Each citadel is a self-contained world: towers spike like frozen thunderbolts from their bellies, lights flicker in patterns too rhythmic to be random, and shadows glide beneath them—sleek, disc-like vessels patrolling the mist as if awaiting orders that never came.

What happened to those who lived here? The architecture suggests minds that mastered both the art of war and peace. The hovering fleets, suspended in eternal readiness, hint at a long-forgotten defense. But against what?

Perhaps they built upwards to escape a surface world long uninhabitable, or perhaps these orbs were not homes but hives—machines of sentience that once governed planets, now left in orbit as relics of their vanished makers.

Looking at this skyline, it is not hope or fear that comes first—it is reverence. These silent guardians of the skies are reminders that history may not be linear. That what we consider future may merely be memory misfiled. And that the sky, ever patient, keeps secrets larger than we dare imagine.

Do you think these cities are waiting—or watching?