The smell of fried eggs drifted through the flat long before Lucian opened his eyes. For a while, he stayed tangled in his blanket, staring at the ceiling and letting the sound of the spatula scraping against the pan filter into his half-dreaming mind. His muscles felt heavy, his head stuffed with that foggy weight that only came from sleeping too deeply and too long.
A soft clink of plates. The faint hiss of oil. The rhythmic scrape of a knife on wood.
"…You planning to sleep until the Bureau declares you missing?"
Retsu's voice cut through the haze like sunlight slipping past shutters.
Lucian groaned, rolling onto his side. "That's rich, coming from someone who's been up before dawn since… what? Thirteen?"
"Fourteen." Her tone was light but edged with pride. "Now get up before I eat your share."
He dragged himself upright, rubbing his eyes. His room was barely more than a bed, a chair buried under a pile of clothes, and a small desk where dust collected faster than he could wipe it away. He pulled on the same dark shirt from yesterday—it smelled faintly of damp fog—and shuffled toward the curtain that split his space from hers.
The kitchen half of the flat was a patchwork of lived-in mess and quiet order. Mismatched mugs sat beside a chipped kettle. A stack of folded dishcloths leaned like they might collapse at any second. The single window was open just enough to let in the morning chill, and the light outside was pale and watery, filtered through the constant mist of the Ash Wards.
Retsu stood at the stove, hair tied back in a loose knot, sleeves rolled to her elbows. The frying pan hissed as she flipped an egg with a motion so smooth it was almost lazy.
Lucian leaned against the wall. "This feels suspicious."
Her brow arched without looking at him. "Suspicious?"
"You don't cook breakfast unless you're buttering me up for something. Last time you did this, I ended up hauling water for Mrs. Kova for two hours."
"That was character building," she said, sliding an egg onto a plate. "You should thank me."
"Oh, thank you, dear sister, for the manual labor and sore shoulders."
"Anytime." She smirked faintly, pushing a plate toward him on the counter.
They ate in easy quiet for a while, the kind that only came from years of knowing each other's rhythms. Outside, the muted bustle of the street drifted in—vendors calling out in sing-song voices, the creak of cart wheels, the distant, muffled chime of the Clockspire.
Halfway through her toast, Retsu said, "I'll be gone a day or two."
Lucian glanced up. "Work?"
She hummed in agreement. "Something's stirred on the east side. The Bureau wants extra eyes on it."
He frowned. "You're not going near the docks, are you?"
Her gaze slid to him—calm, unreadable. "Not your concern."
"That's not a no."
"That's me saying don't start." She reached into her coat, pulling out a pouch of money and sliding it across the table. "20 silver. Should cover food and any other essentials you think you need. Don't spend it all on that garbage tea you like."
Lucian eyed the money, then her. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. Just…" She leaned back in her chair, looking at him like she was measuring something she didn't quite want to say aloud. "…don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."
He smirked. "Define stupid."
"You'll know when you're about to do it."
She stood, grabbed her coat from the peg, and shrugged it on. "Lock the door after me."
The latch clicked shut.
"What a workaholic..well, can't blame her, alone it is then.." Lucain sighs
He stood, walked over to the sink, slid his plate into the sink, and opened the fridge.
Inside: half a lemon, a jar of pickled onions, and a single egg.
He shut the door. "...Fantastic. Guess we're doing the market run early."
The flat felt emptier with Retsu gone. Even the fog pressing against the window seemed quieter. He moved toward the curtain at the far end of the room, tugging it aside.
His little half-room wasn't much—a bed pushed to the wall, a rickety desk half-buried under old notes and an unwashed mug, the chair that doubled as a coat rack. He stripped off the shirt from last night, tossed it onto the chair, and pulled his black coat from the backrest. It smelled faintly of rain and smoke—comfortable, in a way. He buttoned it over a plain dark shirt, buckled his belt, and slid into his dress pants. Nothing flashy. Nothing anyone would remember.
The oxfords went on last. Scuffed, but polished enough to pass. He paused with one hand on the laces, staring at the floor for a second too long before shaking it off. Just the market. In and out.
Pulling the curtain shut behind him, he crossed the flat, unlocked the front door, and stepped out into the Ash Wards.
The morning mist hit first—cool, damp, carrying that old smell of metal that had seeped into the district decades ago and never left. The street sloped down in front of him, the cobblestones slick with dew. Gaslamps lined the narrow way, their yellow light soft against the pale fog.
Vendors were already set up in the market square ahead, their voices rising —hawking fresh bread, fish on ice, wilted vegetables, and anything else that could be sold before the day ended. A cart rattled past, pulled by a pair of tired-looking horses, the driver a fat man, cigar in mouth, half-dozing in the seat.
Lucian slid his hands into his coat pockets and started down the slope, the sound of the city slowly wrapping around him. Somewhere in the distance, the Clockspire began its slow chime, each note rolling through the mist like ripples on top of water.
The market was already breathing by the time Lucian got there. Steam clung low to the ground, drifting between the wooden stalls like it belonged to the place.
"Morning, Lucian," Merlo called, his voice worn but steady. He was leaning over a counter stacked with jars, some had cinnamon bark and cracked pepper visible through the glass, and others had various spices and fruits. "You look half-dead. Trouble sleeping?"
Lucian smirked faintly. "No, trouble waking."
The spice seller laughed, his shoulders rising and falling under his patched vest. "Ah, to be young and lazy."
Lucian leaned on the counter, scanning the jars. "Uhhhh...let me get that tea you swore last week was 'good this time.'"
"Ahhh, you mean the raspberry cinnamon batch...It was," Merlo protested, shuffling toward the back. "You just have no taste for the finer things. This week's batch? Slightly less bitter. Only makes your tongue feel like sandpaper for a minute instead of two."
Lucian chuckled. "Sold."
He took his pouch out of his coat and handed him 1 silver coin, and Merlo slid him a paper bag filled with tea bags. "Go see Alma for eggs. Tell her I sent you—maybe she won't charge you double."
"Appreciate the charity," Lucian said, pinching the bag with his fingers, holding it before moving deeper into the square.
A fish seller stood by a block of melting ice, slapping a silverfin-looking fish down hard enough to send scales glittering into the damp air. "Argyros! Want a cut? Fresh enough to bite back!"
"I'll pass," Lucian said, sidestepping a splatter of water on the stones.
A flower seller yelled his name, her apron smudged with soil, waving at him as she rearranged a bucket of beautiful yellow and purple flowers. "Lucian! I just got these flowers imported. Would you like some for your sister?" she asked.
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Does she look like the flowers type?"
"No. That's why you should."
"Another day, Ella, she's out on the job. You know how much of a workaholic she is."
"ahh, really..well, when she's back, please come by.. I'm sure she'd appreciate some flowers from her dear brother."
He gave a dry smile and nodded, and continued walking.
The square narrowed into an alley lined with awnings. A butcher was arguing with a customer over the weight of a cut, a tailor bent over a sleeve with a mouth full of pins, and somewhere behind it all, the dull clang of a blacksmith's hammer echoed like a heartbeat.
Lucian found Alma exactly where she always was—half-hidden behind a counter piled with baskets. She wore a bright yellow dress, adorned with small white flowers, that reached just past her knees. A soft white blouse with slightly puffed sleeves rested off her shoulders, her hair was ginger and pinned up in a crooked knot, and her green eyes had a scowl of someone who'd been up before sunrise.
"Merlo sent me," Lucian said, leaning just far enough over the counter to catch her eye. "Said you'd give me a fair price on eggs."
Alma snorted without looking up from sorting her baskets. "Merlo's a liar. 4 silver ."
Lucian crossed his arms. "Drying out my silver, huh.. "
"You know what fine." Sighing, she finally looked at him, lips twitching like she was holding back a smile. "2 silver if you carry these to my cousin's stall after." She jerked her chin toward a stack of crates.
Lucian weighed the offer. "Fine. But if I get a hernia, I'm sending you the bill."
The exchange was quick—a basket of eggs,2 silver coins, and a promise that he'd deliver the crates before leaving.
By the time he stepped back into the open square, the air had shifted.
He couldn't say how.
The chatter still rose and fell, the smell of frying dough still clung to the air—but something in the rhythm was off. Like a song played just a fraction too slow.
Lucian adjusted the paper bag filled with the tea bags pinched between his fingers, glancing around.
A droplet of water slid from a stall's awning… and hung there.
Just for a moment, a second.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice. But long enough for him to feel the skin along his neck prickle.
The droplet fell, and the world's tempo snapped back like nothing had happened.
Lucian stood there a second too long, eyes darting to see if anyone else had noticed.
No one had.
Lucian shifted the paper bag of tea into his coat pocket and bent to hook his arm around the three small crates Alma had shoved toward him. Each one was rough and damp wood, edges biting into his forearm through the fabric of his coat, the faint rattle of eggs and packed vegetables inside.
"Just drop 'em off at my cousin's stall—big counter, all the jars of spices lined up like soldiers," Alma said, already turning back to her baskets.
Lucian tilted his head toward her. "And then I come back for my eggs?"
She pointed at him without looking up. "If you don't, you can tell your family why breakfast tomorrow's toast without the eggs."
"Well, I'd better hurry then," he said dryly, chuckling, adjusting the crates.
The narrow lane between stalls was clogged with people. Market-goers leaned into one another to talk, hands clutching purses tight against their sides. Somewhere to his left, a man had laughter sharp enough to make a pair of birds disperse from a rooftop.
Lucian started forward, keeping his steps slow and measured so he didn't jostle the crates. He passed a baker fanning the steam from fresh rolls, the smell of sweet dough curling up into the cool air a boy weaving between the crowd with a bundle of folded linen under one arm an old man in a brown hat, tapping his cane along the cobblestone floor in a rhythm that made Lucian's shoulders unconsciously match its beat.
The hum of the city was steady—footsteps, chatter, the low grind of cart wheels over cobblestone. But the further he went, the more he felt… off. Not dizzy, not exactly. More like a faint vibration under his skin, a deep note no one else could hear, thrumming through the air between one breath and the next.
He glanced toward the Clockspire's silhouette through the fog, as if it might be chiming again. It wasn't. The hands were still.
Another step—
And the world skipped.
No blur. No blackout. One moment, he was halfway between Alma's stall and the spice counter, weaving past a woman in a blue shawl—
—The next, he was ahead of her.
Closer to the counter. Too close for the distance he'd thought he had left.
The crates in his arm hadn't shifted. The crowd was in different positions—someone who'd been mid-step before was now turning to laugh at a joke he hadn't heard. The air itself felt wrong, like the end of a song played a half beat early.
Lucian slowed, scanning the street. The hum inside him was gone. The vibration had cut clean. Around him, people moved on like nothing had happened—bartering, shouting, counting coins. Not a single head turned in his direction.
He tightened his grip on the crates.
What the hell…?
A bead of water rolled off the edge of an awning ahead. He found himself watching it the way he had that droplet earlier—expecting it to hang in the air again. But it didn't. It fell, splashing against the stone in a perfect, unremarkable drop.
Lucian's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. Not here. Not with this many eyes.
He kept walking.
The jars of cinnamon and cracked pepper were in view now, glinting faintly through the mist. Merlo's counter.
But as he moved toward it, his mind kept replaying the gap.
It wasn't like he'd lost his balance, or tripped, or gotten distracted. Something had pulled him forward—skipped the middle like it didn't matter. Like a piece of time had been carved out and tossed away, leaving him standing where he was meant to end up anyway.
And deep in his chest, where the strange hum had started, he swore he could still feel the faintest aftertaste of it—an echo, low and resonant, like the string of an instrument still trembling long after the note was played.
He wasn't sure whether to call it terrifying… or something worse.