Merlo's head came up the second Lucian stepped into the shadow of the counter."Well, that was quick. Either you sprinted or Alma finally stopped talking your ear off."
Lucian set the crates down with a muted thud, careful not to shift the contents."She made me promise I'd come back for my eggs after this," he said, straightening. "Figured if I didn't, she'd send someone after me with a frying pan."
Merlo's laugh was short, amused. "Wouldn't put it past her." He reached for one crate, prying open the lid to glance inside. "Good. Still in one piece. You look a little pale, though. Market crowd getting to you?"
Lucian shook his head. "Not exactly."
Merlo raised a brow. "Then what?"
What do I even say? That I was here, then I wasn't—like someone tore a page out between two lines of a book? That for a second, the air felt like it was pressing in on my skin from the inside out?
"Nothing," Lucian said finally, adjusting his coat. "Fog's heavier than it looks. Makes the air feel strange."
Merlo shrugged, leaning on the counter. "Ash Wards air's been strange since before either of us was born. Don't overthink it."
Easy for you to say…
He could still feel it—that faint echo in his chest, buried under bone. A steady, low vibration, almost like a second heartbeat that didn't belong to him. If he focused too much on it, the rest of the market noise seemed to dip lower, as though his mind was tuning itself to some other frequency.
Lucian pulled himself out of the thought before it could spiral."I'd better go. Eggs to pick up, remember?"
"Tell Alma she still owes me for last week," Merlo called after him.
The walk to Alma's stall felt sharper somehow. Every texture seemed more defined—the wet grit of the cobblestones under his shoes, the faint hiss of boiling water from a kettle somewhere to his left, the creak of a leather strap as a man adjusted the sack over his shoulder.
He spotted Alma's yellow dress through the mist before reaching the counter. She didn't look up until he set the silver on the wood between them.
"Efficient," she said, sliding the basket toward him. The straw cradled a neat cluster of eggs, their shells dull and warm from sitting in the sun.
"Trying to keep my promises while my reputation's still intact," Lucian said, lifting the basket.
She smirked. "Shame. You'd be more interesting with a worse one."
He didn't answer—just shifted the weight of the basket to one arm, gave her a nod, and turned toward the narrow street leading home.
The crowd's noise faded behind him into the fog like it didn't want to follow. The eggs were warm against his side, the paper bag of tea rustling quietly in his coat pocket.
Here, the streets thinned out. Fewer stalls. More brick. The smell shifted from bread and spice to damp stone and coal smoke. Gaslamps clung to the walls, their light breathing in the mist, making halos that followed him as he walked.
Somewhere ahead, an old clock shop had its window open, gears ticking faintly in the cold.
Or maybe that wasn't the shop.
Tick… tick… tick…
It threaded itself through the sound of his steps—sharp, precise, too close.
A carriage rattled by, wheels jolting over a loose cobble. The driver cursed under his breath. A man shook a rug from a second-story window, sending dust into the fog. Normal things.
The ticking kept going.
Lucian shoved his free hand into his pocket, eyes fixed ahead. The sound was syncing with his steps now, like it wanted to match him. Every time his foot hit the ground—tick. Every time the other lifted—tick.
Another sound—pop, soft, like a record needle skipping.
And then—
He was further ahead.
It wasn't running. Not a blur. One moment he was near a pair of kids drawing chalk faces on the street, the next they were far behind him. The preacher's voice that had been droning nearby was gone, replaced by the groan of a swinging shop sign overhead.
The hum was back—low, resonant, crawling under his ribs.
No. Not again.
He glanced over his shoulder. The street was unchanged. No one looked at him. The ticking got louder.
He passed under an archway. The air thickened. Steam hissed from a vent, freezing mid-air for half a second before drifting on. A cart at the far end jolted forward without the space between, like a frame had been cut from the world.
The vibration in his chest deepened. Not pain—just a constant thrum, as if his bones were resonating with something he couldn't see.
The ticking sharpened—louder—until it filled his head.
POP.
The air froze.
The cart-driver was mid-step, one boot hanging above the ground. Steam hung in a solid sheet. A bird was caught in mid-flap, one feather suspended beneath it.
Lucian's breath hitched.
Somewhere, faint but real, he swore he heard static.
No, keep it together. You're not going crazy.
Retsu's voice cut through his head: Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone.
He clung to it, forcing his breathing steady.
Another pop—motion returned. The cart moved. The bird vanished. The street carried on as if nothing had happened.
Lucian walked faster. The ticking softened, fading into the scrape of his shoes and the low hum of the Wards. The vibration stayed, coiled in his chest like an unwelcome tenant.
His building emerged from the fog—three stories of flaking brick and grime-streaked windows. He took the steps two at a time, keyed the lock, and stepped inside.
Silence wrapped around him like armor.
He locked the door—once, twice, a third time for good measure—and stayed there a moment, forehead against the wood, listening. The faint trace of breakfast eggs still clung to the air.
It should've been safe.
It didn't feel safe.
He set the eggs and tea on the counter. The hollow thud seemed too loud in the stillness.
Tick. Tick.
His eyes went to the clock. It had always been there. Always ticking. But now it felt like each click was carving into the quiet.
"…What the hell was that?"
The words came out low, almost to himself.
He pressed a palm over his eyes until red static bloomed behind his lids. The vibration was gone—but it had left something behind. A ghost note under his skin.
Okay. Breathe.
Retsu would be here in a day or two. Maybe less. He could hold it together until then. She'd believe him. She had to.
"…Right," he muttered, voice dry.
But his hand still wouldn't stop shaking.
Lucian hunched over the counter, trying to steady his breathing, but his chest wouldn't settle.It was like something heavy had been lodged behind his ribs. Not pain—just there.
It gave a slow, deep pulse.
Not a heartbeat.Something lower.
The next breath pulled it closer, like the air in his lungs was feeding it. A faint tremor ran through his sternum, up his spine, into his jaw. His teeth almost buzzed.
And the more he noticed it, the more everything else… faded. The ticking clock, the creak of the building—muffled. The air felt thick, like it was leaning in on him.
Then it hit.
A sudden jolt from the center of his chest, sharp enough to knock his breath sideways. His knees dipped. He caught himself on the counter, knuckles whitening. His stomach turned, and a hot-cold rush crawled up the back of his neck.
"...Shit—"
It wasn't normal. It wasn't even close. Felt like something had just shoved its way through him and barely fit.
The taste of metal spread under his tongue. The clock's ticking wasn't steady anymore—sometimes lining up with that deep beat in his chest, sometimes slipping.
He'd seen this before. Not this, but…
Flashes of the Ash Wards came back—fog curling around old brick, kids barefoot in the street, crouched over a few smooth stones. The stones would rise between their hands, rolling and dipping in the air like they were caught in a tide. The kids would pass them back and forth without touching them, laughing like it was nothing.
Back then, he hadn't cared how they did it. Just another thing you didn't look at for too long in the Wards.
But now—
This thing in his chest… the way the street had jumped earlier…
It felt the same. That pull in the air. That weight.
Only those kids never looked like it was ripping them apart from the inside.
Another surge rolled through him—sharper. His vision staggered. The corner of the room twitched, like a frame of it had been cut out and sewn back wrong.
The hum inside him swelled until it felt like his ribs were going to crack—
And then it slammed shut.
Lucian gasped, bent over the counter, sweat cold along his hairline. The weight in his chest eased, but it didn't leave.
Whatever it was… it was his now.
And if kids could toss it around like a street game… maybe he could figure it out.
If it didn't kill him first.