The city was still half-asleep when the first bell of dawn rang.Its chime, distant and hollow, rolled through the mist-choked streets of Eidengrad—a sound too weary to wake anyone who wasn't already awake. Smoke crawled out of chimneys like ghosts escaping the weight of winter, and the stone roads gleamed with a thin layer of frost.
From his window on the third floor of a leaning brick tenement, Elias Renn watched the city wake. He'd been up for hours, though he hadn't really slept.
The coal stove in the corner was dying, its glow dimming to a single ember. The room was small, filled with the smell of iron and damp wood. Behind the thin wall, he could hear his sister's soft breathing. She was twelve. Still young enough to dream without guilt.
Elias rubbed his eyes, the kind of motion done more from habit than purpose. His reflection in the cracked mirror looked pale and tired—dark hair in disarray, a shadow of a beard that refused to grow properly, and eyes too hollow for someone only twenty-two.
Another day, he thought. Another day pretending there's still something left to find.
He put on his worn coat, patched at the elbows, and stepped outside. The morning wind carried the city's usual cocktail of coal dust and metal—bitter and sharp enough to sting the nose.
Down on the street, people were already moving: workers in soot-stained uniforms, clerks clutching ledgers, and the ever-present patrols of the Church Guard, their white cloaks fluttering faintly under the gray light.
The Church of the Sacred Veins had its hand everywhere in Eidengrad. Their symbols—veins of silver running through black marble—adorned every public wall. Elias never paid them much attention. Faith was a luxury for people who hadn't yet run out of questions.
He joined the small crowd waiting outside the Ironwright Factory, one of the many workshops owned by the capital's industrial guild. He'd heard they were hiring. Again. They were always hiring—mostly because they were always breaking people.
"First time here?" a man beside him asked, voice muffled through a scarf.
Elias nodded. "Yeah."
The man chuckled, a dry sound. "Don't hope for much. They'll take you if you can still stand after twelve hours in the heat."
Elias smiled faintly. "Then I'll probably pass."
When the factory doors finally opened, the line began to move. Steam hissed, and the air grew hotter. From within, came the rhythmic clang of metal against metal—a heartbeat of industry that refused to die.
By noon, the interviews were done. Elias walked away empty-handed.
"Overqualified," they said this time. The word tasted like mockery. He had studied mechanics and engineering at the Imperial Institute for four years, only to find every gate locked to those without titles or bribes.
As he walked back through the crowded streets, the sky darkened. Not from clouds—but from smoke. Always smoke.
He stopped by a small café, one of the few places in the lower quarter where you could still sit for a coin and a thought. The air inside was thick with the smell of burnt beans and old paper.
At a corner table sat Arthur, a friend from the university days—though friend might've been too strong a word. A familiar face from a more hopeful time.
"Elias Renn," Arthur greeted with a crooked grin. "Still chasing ghosts?"
Elias sat opposite him. "You mean jobs."
Arthur shrugged. "Same thing in this city." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Have you heard the rumors? About the sound under the eastern district?"
Elias frowned. "Sound?"
"Workers claim the ground hums at night. Like the heart of something buried deep."
Elias smirked. "Probably the pipes. The sewers down there are older than the Empire itself."
Arthur's grin didn't fade. "Maybe. Or maybe the gods are restless."
Gods. The word lingered like a shadow between them.
By evening, Elias made his way home through alleys steeped in fog. The gas lamps flickered, their light swallowed by the gray. Somewhere distant, a train screamed its metallic cry.
When he reached the door of his building, the first snow began to fall—soft flakes that melted the moment they touched the ground.
His sister was already asleep when he entered. A single candle burned on the table beside her, casting trembling light on the faded family photo pinned to the wall. His brother Jonah's handwriting was scrawled on a note beneath it:
"I'll send more next week. Try not to waste it."
Elias sighed, sat on the edge of his narrow bed, and stared at the ceiling. The pipes above groaned with the same tired rhythm they always had.
He thought of Arthur's words. The ground hums at night.
"People hear what they want to hear," he muttered.
But later, when the candle had died and the room was swallowed by silence, he woke to a sound.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
It came from below the floorboards.Soft, steady—like the beat of a faint heart.
He sat up, listening. His sister stirred but didn't wake. The sound continued.
Elias whispered, "Probably rats again…"
He lay back, pulling the blanket to his chest. But as his eyes closed, another sound followed—so quiet he wasn't sure if he heard it or dreamed it.
"…Eli-as…"
The voice came from beneath the floor.And then, nothing but the hum of the sleeping city.