Dawn arrived with gray clouds pressing against the rooftops, making Merrow feel smaller than usual. I carried my crate of nails across the docks, the boards creaking underfoot like they disapproved of my presence. The river smelled sharper today, muddy with yesterday's rain, and the gulls were unusually loud, arguing over scraps that hadn't yet hit the water.
I didn't care.
My work was simple: lift, move, stack, repeat. Ordinary. Predictable. Comfortable. Nothing heroic would ever happen to me here, and I liked it that way.
Yet Merrow has a habit of being inconvenient.
I noticed them before I realized they were a problem: three figures in armor that didn't belong to the city, moving like predators through the morning mist. They didn't shout. They didn't make a scene. They just walked. The kind of confidence that could kill a dozen men without raising a voice.
I stopped. Observing is cheaper than acting.
The first one, tall with a scar across his cheek, glanced in my direction. I didn't flinch. Most people would, but I'm not most people.
They passed the dock where I was working, but something about the way they moved set my teeth on edge. My head started to throb—not the usual dull ache that comes with lifting heavy crates—but a sharp, insistent pressure behind my eyes, like someone tapping on the inside of my skull.
"…kill."
The word brushed my mind before I recognized it. I stopped stacking nails, freezing mid-motion. There was no one nearby. Just the river, gray and patient, and the strangers walking past like they owned the fog.
I frowned. Not pain. Not hallucination. Recognition. The voice was quiet, intimate, the sort of thing you feel in your bones.
I ignored it.
Ignoring it has always worked.
By midday, the city became louder. Merchants shouted about prices that didn't exist. Children tripped over their own laughter. A preacher warned passersby about sin as if anyone had time to listen. I moved along, unnoticed, counting steps as a way to remind myself that I still existed.
It's a strange sort of immortality, being unremarkable.
Then the chaos arrived.
A scream split the morning air, thin and desperate. I looked up from my crate to see a man attacking another with a blade that glimmered too bright to be practical. People scattered. Merchants slammed shutters. The gulls stopped arguing as if they, too, were afraid.
I set the crate down gently. Nails are expensive. Bodies are not.
The fight was close enough for me to see the patterns: thrust, parry, dodge, repeat. One of them moved with deadly efficiency, calculating distance, timing, and momentum like a machine. The other fought with emotion, wild swings fueled by pride and anger. Predictable. The emotional fighter went down first.
Most people would have run. I didn't. I watched.
The survivor, calm and silent, noticed me. He didn't smile. "You watching, dock rat?" he asked.
"Learning," I said.
He laughed. Not cruelly, not kindly—just amused. "Care to help with the bodies?"
I shook my head. I already had work. "Not my problem."
He shrugged and carried the bodies toward the river, efficient and unconcerned.
By evening, the docks were quiet again. I carried crates back to storage, muscles aching, arms stiff. The head throb returned, sharper this time, and I pressed a hand to my temple.
"…kill."
The word was clearer now. I froze mid-step. My cheap sword hung at my side—not because I was planning to use it, but because habit makes sharp objects polite companions.
Nothing stirred in the street. No one approached. The word had weight, though. Insistent, patient, like it had been waiting for me all day.
I ignored it.
That has always worked.
After my shift, I walked home along the canal. The water reflected the early lights of the city, crooked lamps and the occasional torch flame flickering against stone walls. Merchants were closing their stalls. Children argued about whose turn it was to light fireworks. The city smelled of smoke and bread, ordinary smells that made breathing predictable and therefore tolerable.
I passed a group of soldiers unloading a crate that smelled like oil and old secrets. One of the men, taller than the rest, had eyes that measured the world and found it wanting. He didn't smile. He didn't talk. He simply moved with the confidence of someone who already owned the day.
I didn't look away. Observation is cheaper than confrontation.
Then a scream cut the air. It was different this time—closer, human, panicked. I glanced toward the alley and saw three figures attacking a merchant. The tall man stepped forward, calm as ever, and in two movements, ended the struggle. No yelling. No flourish. Bodies collapsed with the inevitability of falling bricks.
The head throb returned. Sharper. Louder. Insistent.
"…kill."
I paused. My cheap sword hummed faintly in its scabbard, like a dog recognizing its name. I didn't reach for it. I didn't have to. The voice wasn't demanding. It was observing. Patient. Waiting.
I didn't acknowledge it aloud. I never do. I simply continued walking home, keeping the city between me and the world that seemed intent on showing its teeth.
At the baker's stall, I bought a loaf of bread to eat on the way. A girl, probably no older than sixteen, argued with him about the size of her purchase. She insisted it had shrunk since morning. The baker told her she had grown greedier. I smiled quietly, enjoying the theatre.
She noticed me. "Do you think this is fair?"
I studied the bread. "It looks guilty."
She laughed, a sharp, unafraid sound, and bought two loaves out of spite. I bought one. Hunger is reliable.
We walked together for a few moments. She told me her name was Lira, daughter of a potter, and that she dreamed of seeing the capital, maybe marrying a hero, maybe owning a shop that never cheats its customers.
I said nothing about dreams. Mine are expensive and unpaid.
At a corner, we separated. She waved. I waved back. Politeness costs nothing.
Night returned, quiet and ordinary except for the head throbbing behind my eyes. The room smelled of wood and dust. I ate bread slowly, considering soup but lacking motivation. Outside, the festival banners hung from ropes, promising peace won by strangers. Children practiced songs about heroes, merchants rehearsed prices for tourists, priests prayed for futures they would never see.
The whisper returned, soft, intimate, precise.
"…kill."
The cheap sword at my side hummed faintly. Not demanding, not commanding—simply present.
I ignored it.
I always ignore it.
I lay on the bed, listening to Merrow breathe through streets and walls, alive and unimportant. I counted coins, sufficient for rent but not for dreams. Perfect balance. I looked at the banners and considered the city's faith in heroes who might never arrive.
Ordinary. Predictable. Tolerable.
The whisper didn't return again tonight. I assumed it was satisfied with observation. Perhaps it is patient. Perhaps it waits for the moment when survival demands it.
For now, I am still ordinary. Recently reincarnated, lightly employed, morally indifferent. I breathe. I exist. That is enough.
The voice may return someday. When it does, I will not hesitate.
And somewhere, in the quiet space between thought and bone, I know it waits.