mumbling
"Nooo… I ammm…"
A whisper, fragile and slurred, barely escaping my lips.
"Aden…?"
a soft, dreamy voice, distant and floating. Like breath through frost.
"I…"
"Adrien!!."
a louder voice, sharper, closer
"I said I'm not a…"
"Aden...?"
"Adrien!!."
"Aden, are you okay?"
"Adrien, wake up!!."
"Oh god!, Ade—!"
I gasped,
"Hah…
Haaah…
Haaa—hhh—"
My lungs heaved. My eyes snapped open as if dragged upward by force. My chest refused to calm, every breath scraped raw.
My body was soaked in sweat. My hands—shaking. My mouth, dry. The air around me felt thin, distant, like I'd woken up beneath water.
I turned my head too fast.
The world swam.
A splitting pain roared across the base of my skull like a struck bell, then again — pounding, rhythmic. I groaned, curling inward, clutching my forehead.
Everything felt wrong.
Too bright. Too heavy. Too sharp around the edges.
The wooden door creaked open, slow and reluctant.
kkhhhhhrrrkk
The sound scraped across my ears like nails on slate.
*thump*
A sharp pulse cracked through my head. I flinched.
The pain wasn't deep — not sharp like a knife — but wide, as if my entire skull had turned into one slow, thrumming ache.
Like my brain hadn't caught up to the rest of me yet.
slow groan of tired hinges. The sound pierced straight through the pain in my head, making me wince as if someone had driven a nail through my skull.
My mother stepped inside, wiping her hands on a damp apron, eyes immediately narrowing as they scanned my condition.
"Oh no... another headache?" she murmured, walking over and laying a calloused hand on my forehead.
I tried to sit up, limbs sluggish, breath shallow. She gently helped me to the bedframe, propping me upright before stepping back.
"I'll get you some water."
As soon as she left, I placed a hand on my chest. My heart galloped but held a rhythm. I ran my hands over my arms in slow motions, almost absentmindedly.
Not sore, I think to myself.
A tight breath escaped me. The headache still roared, but the rest of me felt... ordinary enough.
I turned toward the window and unlatched it. The wooden shutter groaned open, releasing a blade of pale morning light and the biting scent of chimney smoke and damp earth.
Noise surged in.
A cart thundered past, wheels clattering over uneven stone. Somewhere above, a tram screeched its rusted protest up the slope. A hawker's voice rose, barking the day's prices for half-stale bread.
I winced.
Grinveil didn't believe in gentle mornings.
Across the narrow street, a shopkeeper rattled open his shutters, broom in hand. A handful of kids sprinted by, one dragging a bent pipe against the rails just to hear it scream.
Same soot. Same wood rot. Same headache.
Behind me, my room sat in its usual half-chaotic state.
> Rough stone walls braced with timber. A sagging bed, a low chest stuffed with worn shirts, and a crooked shelf lined with a chipped cup, a broken compass, and a stone cube etched with fading glyphs— the kind no one in Grinveil remembered how to read.
A gift to my grandfather by a strange men for his kindness.
He said it might be useful.
Its meaning unknown.
...
My mother returned, carrying a clay cup, steam curling from its rim.
"Still warm," she said. "Bit of leafroot. For the head."
I accepted it, grateful for the heat against my palms.
She sat beside me, brushing strands of damp hair from my forehead. Her hand, though work-worn and rough, moved with practiced gentleness.
"You were mumbling again," she said.
I stayed quiet, sipped. Bitter. Earthy.
"Maybe we should cut the night herbs," she sighed. "Or lower the dose. It's not right, waking like this."
"It wasn't the herbs," I said, voice low.
She paused, then stood.
"I'll heat breakfast. Come out when you feel steady."
The door closed behind her with a soft thud.
---
The kitchen smelled like toasted barley and old firewood. My mother stirred something thick in a blackened iron pan. She didn't glance up as I entered.
"Sit."
I obeyed.
The table was low and round, wood worn smooth by years of elbows and plates. A bundle of salt sat near the edge, wrapped in oiled paper. My father's chair sat empty—he was always gone before the sun, chasing work.
She placed a plate before me: porridge with goat curd and a streak of root jam.
"You'll eat all of it."
"I eat."
"You don't finish."
I didn't argue. I just began eating, slowly, letting the warmth seep through the cold in my ribs.
Outside the window, Grinveil yawned and stretched itself awake. Rooftops dripped. Laundry swayed on shared lines. A man grunted as he pushed a cart laden with old iron and empty barrels.
My mother leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.
"You still look pale. Like someone who fought ghosts all night."
I looked down at my bowl.
"We could ask Father Thorne to stop by. Just to check your humors."
"It's just the weather."
"It's always the weather with you."
She pulled down a small cloth pouch and handed it to me. "Go see Madam Lerra. We need dried bittergrass. If she's out, ask for tyvek root."
The pouch clinked heavier than usual.
"She's overcharging again?"
"She's Madam Lerra. Of course she is."
I squinted. Honestly, I sometimes wondered if Madam Lerra was part bat. She had the eyes for it. The ears too. Probably hung upside down in her spare time.
"Right," I muttered, tucking the pouch into my coat.
I grabbed my coat from the hook.
"Adrien," she called, "look people in the eye today."
I nodded.
"And no wandering. You always find the quietest place to get lost in."
---
Grinveil's streets stretched in crooked webs, packed dirt and old timber gutters. The homes were taller than they had any right to be, thick-walled and smoking from every chimney like sleepy giants.
Lines of laundry zigzagged above the street. Pulley baskets creaked with goods passed between floors. Dogs barked. Vendors shouted. Everything smelled faintly of wet stone and old fire.
Grinveil.
Nestled between crooked hills and tangled woods, Grinveil was a place forgotten by most maps, yet alive with secrets. The houses here were tall—too tall for a village of its size—built from dark timber and pale river stone. Each home held oddities: windows that faced nothing but empty air, doors permanently sealed, chimneys that hummed on nights when the wind turned cold and sharp.
No one in Grinveil ever used curtains. It was said that hiding your windows invited things in.
Or just because the people are poor
The people worked with wood, iron, and herbs. Woodcutters, blacksmiths, herbalists, and goat herders formed the backbone of daily life. But behind the visible trades were the Sweepers, who cleaned forgotten corners, and the Recorders, copying documents no one read. Children were assigned mentors at eleven, chosen by temperament—but sometimes mentors appeared before the children did.
I walked past a bakery taking in the exhaled sweet warmth as I passed. Just ahead, stalls creaked open, their canvas roofs sagging from last night's dew.
A dog with one ear trotted by with half a boot in its mouth.
"Oi, Adrien!"
I didn't stop.
"Where you off to, dreamboy? Gotta whisper secrets to the dirt again?"
Mik Kelter. Same sharp voice. Same empty sneer. Flanked by Ren Brale and Tos Vick. Shadows with legs.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," Mik said, stepping in front of me.
"Bet he talks to spoons," Ren said.
"Bet his spoons talk back," Tos added.
I tried to sidestep. Mik grabbed my sleeve.
"Heard your mum invited a priest over," he said, lowering his voice. "They gonna cut your dreams out?"
I pulled free and walked.
Their laughter followed like gnats.
As i walked away a voice soon caught me..... Again...
"Those buffoons bothering you again?" said a boy around my age, striding over with that usual half-grin.
"You know, you could always ask me for help. I'd be happy to knock a few heads for you."
"I'd rather not start a fistfight in the middle of Grinveil ellis" I muttered.
"Suit yourself," ellis shrugged. "Still, someone ought to trip Mik into a manure cart. Preferably head-first."
Despite myself, I almost smiled. Walking away.
"Adrien! Wait up!"
Said Ellis Marren, the cobbler's son. Lanky, a little too eager, with streaks of dye on his sleeves and always carrying the scent of tanned leather.
He jogged over, slightly out of breath, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Hey, uh… thanks again. For that thing with the measurements. You know, the leather cuts? That weird calculation you muttered a few days ago—it worked. Fit the order exactly."
"told you" i say, trying to act cheerfully despite my headache
"Yeah, well, Da thinks I'm secretly apprenticing with a guild mathematician or something. You made me look brilliant."
I managed a faint smile. "Glad it helped."
"Anyway, just wanted to say thanks." He paused, then added with a grin, "You're strange, Adrien. But it's the good kind."
With that, Ellis gave a half-salute and loped back toward his family's workshop.
I stood for a moment, watching him disappear into the smoke and steam of morning Grinveil.
Weird. But not the bad kind.
I shook my head and turned toward the market road.
I stood there for a moment, confused, then shook my head and kept walking.
---
At the edge of the village, near the forest, lay an old house, different from the others
Madam Lerra's crooked home leaned beside the old village well, its eaves draped in dried herbs like bunting for a witch's holiday.
I knocked twice.
Inside, a cough. A thump. Shuffling.
Then the door creaked open.
She appeared, swaddled in three shawls and smelling like burned licorice.
"You again," she rasped.
"Morning. Mum needs bittergrass. Or tyvek if you're out."
She sniffed. "Of course she does. Come in. Wipe your boots."
Inside was steam and jars and shadows. Plants hung from the beams. A goat blinked at me from a corner.
"Young boys with no sleep," she muttered. "Always lookin' through things. Never at them."
I stood still. She rummaged.
"Seven coppers. Air tax."
"Air tax?"
She pointed upward. "Breathing's gotten expensive."
I handed her the coins. She plucked them from my hand like a hawk snatching prey.
"Tell your mother to boil it twice. Half a cup only. Unless she wants you sleeping through harvest."
I nodded.
She squinted. "You hear about the woodcutters?"
"No."
"Second gone missing this month. Hollow ridge."
"Wolves?"
"Or teeth that think."
I gave a polite nod.
She flapped a hand. "Go on. And tell your mum you're too soft. Fog would carry you off like a kitten."
As I leave the house, the sound of galloping hoves makes my head turn as i see a carriage walk in, A clockwork carriage .
A hulking brass-and-steel carriage lumbers past, its legs moving like a metal beast, each The carriage rolls forward on sturdy iron-rimmed wheels, its body a blend of dark lacquered wood and polished brass, adorned with softly ticking gears embedded along the sides like decorative filigree. Though pulled by a pair of snorting black horses, the carriage itself hums faintly with mechanical life — tiny pistons shifting beneath the frame, vents at the rear releasing occasional puffs of steam. Lanterns with rotating lenses flicker on its corners, casting shifting patterns across the cobblestones, while a chimney-like exhaust at the back hints at an inner engine meant to assist with braking or speed on steep roads. Despite its classic silhouette — arched roof, shuttered windows, and a high driver's perch — it moves with a strange rhythm, as if the gears inside aren't just turning wheels, but keeping time with something unseen.
"A mechanical carriage?? Here???? "
I frown, thinking what relation the owner of this carriage has with madam lerra."
I say looking at the fascinating vehicle before me
'Hmmm… which model is that?" Adrien muttered, eyes following the gleam of brass and steam. "I heard they even made clockwork cart horses for it — though only nobles can afford those.'
I think to myself as i look at it for a few more seconds,before walking away
'better get away now before i get into trouble'
---
The sky had deepened by the time I returned. The air felt thicker. The noise louder.
Streetlamps flickered without flame, glowing faintly in the night as "ghost-light."
Inside, the house felt still. My mother took the pouch, nodded at the instructions, then glanced toward the window.
"Rest a bit. We've got a visitor later."
"Who?"
She hesitated. "Father Thorne. Just to talk."
I stared at her, then the wall, then the floor.
>"For the love of H… "
Mother Lily's hand stopped mid-stir, her head turning toward me.
...whatever's left," I muttered.
The old word hovered at the edge of my mind. The one we were told never to use....