THE THIRD TIME I WAKE UP in Brumdn Cove, I have a headache, a sore back, and—for some reason—the sharp sense I'm being stared at by someone who's deeply unimpressed with my existence.
I crack an eye open.
Yep.
Toad is sitting on the stool by the wall, arms crossed, face blank, eyeliner glowing faintly like two blue comets parked under her lashes. Her hair—pulled into a short, choppy ponytail—matches the glow, though hers is darker than I remember, maybe cobalt.
"You drool in your sleep," she announces, like this is the kind of information I should write down and carry in my pocket forever.
"Thanks," I croak, blinking blearily. "I was hoping someone would document that."
"You're welcome," she says without missing a beat.
I sit up with a groan and take in the room again. Still rustic. Still quiet. But there's something about the walls now—a soft trickling sound in the distance. Like water running somewhere beneath the floorboards.
I glance down at my hand. The burn's still there but it was healing. Scabbing.
Toad catches my stare. "You kept mumbling names when you were out."
"Did I say yours?" I ask, trying to force a smile.
"No," she says, "but you did say 'please not the meatball barrel' like seven times. So. Whatever fever dream that was—I'm not judging. Much."
I close my eyes and sigh. "Of course I did." Again, where was Foras?
"Granny says you lost your memory."
"I… don't remember," I deadpan.
She raises an eyebrow. "Hilarious."
Before I can come up with another award-winning line, the door creaks open.
The familiar old woman enters again—composed, graceful, a stark difference to Toad. She wears a long robe in the same pastel blue, like no one in this town has any other fashion sense, and her pale silver-blue hair is tied in a simple knot behind her. There's something serene about her presence. Still. Regal.
"Feeling better, child?" she asks, her voice gentle.
"Yes, ma'am," I say quickly, sitting up straighter.
She places a folded cloth on the table and nods to the girl. "Nia, would you check the reed pots? The wind shifted."
The girl—Nia, apparently, and definitely not Toad—grumbles but stands. "If the outer clay's cracked again, I'm blaming your mystery stray."
And with that, she strolls out, her blue eyeliner dimming slightly as she mutters to herself.
I wait until her footsteps fade.
"She's charming," I say.
"She is seventeen," the woman replies smoothly, as if that explains everything. Honestly? It kinda does.
"Thank you," I say, lowering my voice. "For letting me stay."
The old woman nods once. "You were found unconscious near the East Ridge. The guards brought you here. Your injuries were strange, but treatable."
She sits across from me. Her gaze sharpens slightly. "You spoke of things in your sleep. Names. Places. Creatures."
I swallow. "I… don't remember really much." This was a tad bit true.
She studies me. Not unkindly—but with the gaze of someone who's seen enough to know when something doesn't line up. After a beat, she simply says, "Very well."
Relief trickles through me. And yet—I get the distinct feeling that if I slip up even a little, she'll know exactly which lie I'm leaning on.
"You may stay," she says, standing. "But you will help. No name, no past, no coin. You will earn your meals. Nia is tasked with overseeing your work until you can stand on your own."
Fantastic.
Nothing like an unpaid internship under the guidance of a sarcastic teenager with laser eyeliner.
Brumdn Cove is quiet, again—but not sleepy.
Far away from Nia's house, the city grows crowded. And bigger. It curves around a cliffside inlet where the sea crashes below. I catch glimpses of it between rooftops, where narrow alleys open up like veins to the open blue. The houses are built from weathered stone and sea-burnished wood, almost grown out of the landscape instead of placed there.
Everywhere, there's the sound of water. Sometimes just a whisper. Sometimes loud enough that I feel the dark water in my ears.
And not just the sea, but trickling channels cut into the stone. Mini aqueducts loop between houses like veins, some feeding into moss-covered basins, others leading to gently rotating wheels that seem to power light fixtures or heating systems. Even the lampposts hold pale-blue glass orbs, glowing faintly like bottled moonlight.
Nia walks beside me, arms swinging lazily.
"Don't talk to the glassmakers," she says suddenly.
"What?"
"They're weird. They think drinking saltwater makes you more honest."
"…What."
"Exactly."
She leads me down a path toward a low stone wall that overlooks the ocean. Several glass pots line the wall, each holding reeds, soil, and slow-dripping water from clay funnels above them. Like a garden of glass instead of flowers and vegetables.
"Granny says the pots feel the shift before the storms come," she explains, crouching beside them. "We don't have magic, not really. Not like the Capital folk. But we have ears. And clay. And old women who don't sleep." She is weirdly chatty today but I don't complain. I grab into all the bits and pieces. Maybe The System will pop up in a bit. Maybe this was some cryptic insight into the next quest.
"Sounds effective."
She snorts. "You're not from here."
Almost a week and that is all she has to say? "I've noticed," I mutter.
"Hair's wrong," she adds. "Eyes, too. But you're not dangerous. Not really."
"How do you know?"
"If you were, your eyes wouldn't be so… tired," she says. "People who want to hurt others usually sleep well."
I blink at her.
"You get that from the eyeliner?"
"No," she says. "From watching my uncle. He's on the guard."
There's a moment of silence.
Then she points to one of the pots. "See that one?"
The rim has a fine white crack, glowing faintly.
"Pressure's up," she murmurs. "Storm's coming."
"Do I need to worry?"
"Only if you're dumb enough to sleep outside."
"Noted."
Later that evening, I sit alone in the back room. The bed is smaller than the one at home. My arm still aches. And Foras is—thankfully—out of the barrel but banned from appearing anywhere in front of humans before sundown. Toad—Nia couldn't get a word out of me and I pretended that she was just hallucinating a monster hiding behind. It worked well.
He sits on the window sill of my almost barren room, watching the moonlight ripple across the aqueduct outside.
"You think they'll find out?" I whisper.
"You mean the scary grandma or the snarky one?" he whispers back. "Because I think one already has and the other's planning your funeral."
"Comforting."
He leans forward, balancing his weird meatball body on twiggy elbows. "Still no System?"
I shake my head. "It's like she's… shut out."
"Huh," he says. "Maybe she's taking a vacation. Hope she brought sunscreen."
I let my eyes close for a moment, breathing in the briny air.
For now, the next quest is yet to come. And I've been stranded in Brumdn Cove without any clear goals. No timers. No whispering commands. No glowing HUD.
Just me. And a floating meatball. And a seaside town that feels more alive than anything else in this game world so far. Which is ironic because in a way, the city was as sleepy as my mother's supposed childhood town from where she ran away.
Something about that is both reassuring and terrifying.
And I could feel something in my bones. Not the chill of The System or the ache when I think of home. But this… lull.
And if this state is a lull… the next storm is going to be big.
t o b e c o n t i n u e d