They called it the Fracture.
The day the sky split open and other worlds started leaking through.
Decades later, Duskport still looked like a city stitched together by someone in a hurry. Half steel, half ruins. Half memory, half mistake. Some nights, lights shimmered where there shouldn't be any. Most people learned not to look too long. Those who did… changed.
Nora Vale knew these streets like she knew her heartbeat — quick, stubborn, a little uneven. Courier by day, survivor by habit. Brave enough to talk back, smart enough to know when not to.
She had one weapon: a slim silver knife, dull with use and full of stories she never got to hear. Her mother's last gift before disappearing. Nora called it "Rent money." It kept her alive more than once.
That night, the rain came down mean. Streetlamps blinked out one by one as she walked home, the way guilty men avoid eye contact. The city smelled like wet metal and warnings.
Then she felt it — a tug behind her ribs. Not pain. Not fear. Just pull. Like the tide had found her heart and wanted it back.
"Not tonight," she muttered.
But her feet didn't listen.
Pier Thirteen was condemned. People joked the ghosts there had better attendance than dock guards. The kind of place even smugglers said, "Nah, not worth it."
And yet, here she was.
The mist was thick, cold, heavy. The pier creaked under her boots. A figure stood at the edge — coat dark, posture still, like he was listening to something below.
"Bad night for a stroll," he said without turning. His voice cut through the rain — calm, wrong, familiar somehow.
"I could say the same for you." Nora kept her hand near her knife.
He smiled, just barely. "Most people run when they feel it."
"Yeah? I deliver packages. Running's kind of my brand."
That was the last normal thing she said before the water moved.
It rose like it had been waiting. A shadow, all claw and teeth, pulling itself from the black with a noise that didn't belong in this world.
Nora froze. Then she moved — badly. Knife out, breath shallow.
The stranger stepped forward with a grace that made time hesitate. A curved blade flashed once — silver light, hiss of steam, and the thing split like fog meeting fire.
Another shape lunged, smaller, faster. Nora's arm moved before she thought. Her knife caught it. Just a scratch. But the thing screamed — high, sharp — and collapsed into nothing.
Silence. Just the rain. Just her heartbeat.
The stranger studied her, eyes pale as stormlight.
"Silver," he said. "Good instinct."
"I wasn't aiming for instinct. More like panic."
He gave a half-smile that somehow looked older than the city. "Keep it close. Not that it'll save you from what's coming."
"Cryptic and dramatic. You must be fun at parties."
"Fun's a luxury for worlds that still make sense"
Before she could ask what he meant, he stepped into the mist and was gone. No splash. No sound.
Only the waves below, rolling too slow, like something big was turning in its sleep.
⸻
Back in her apartment above the pawn shop, Nora peeled off her jacket and stared at her reflection in the window. Her wrist glowed faintly under the skin — a soft crescent of light. Not a scar. Not a tattoo. Something alive.
She yanked her sleeve down.
"Bad dream," she told herself. "Just weather."
The radio crackled to life on its own.
"…minor seismic disruption near the east wall. No risk to the public…"
Sure. And rats don't steal bread.
She switched it off and leaned against the window. Far out on the water, a shimmer ran under the waves — violet, brief, impossible.
The mark on her wrist pulsed once, like an echo saying yes.
Morning came dull and gray. Duskport looked normal — which was worse.
When the world ends, you expect noise. Not this quiet.
At the courier hub, Jalen was already there, scowling into his coffee like it owed him money.
"You hear the docks ate a man last night?" he said.
"Docks are hungry," she replied.
He gave her a look. "You always joke when you're nervous?"
"Yes." She took the stack of parcels. "It's a coping mechanism. Keeps me cute."
He didn't smile. "Just… stay away from the water, alright?"
⸻
By afternoon, the city was buzzing — not loud, but tense. Rumors had a way of multiplying in Duskport, like mold.
A barge missing. Street clocks skipping backward. A kid gone missing near the piers. The Ministry called it "routine malfunctions."
Right. Routine.
She cut through the market and stopped at Corin's café. Steam, tea, and gossip. Corin poured her a cup without asking. "They've been moving people," he said quietly. "Night trains. No manifests."
"Relocating?"
"That's one word for it."
The radio behind him sputtered.
"The Ministry denies reports of Rift activity near Duskport. The Fracture remains contained. Citizens are advised to remain calm."
Corin snorted. "The day they say remain calm is the day you shouldn't."
⸻
Outside, the rain turned silver in the streetlights. Nora cut through an alley. A man was waiting at the end of it — coat torn, one eye rimmed in faint metallic sheen.
"You shouldn't walk alone," he said.
"Thanks, stranger. I'll put that on a mug."
He grinned. "Drifters like you don't last long when the whispers start."
Her stomach dipped. "Whispers?"
"Minor rifts. The kind they pretend don't exist." He leaned closer. His breath smelled like ozone. "There's a Surge coming. You'll know it when the air screams."
She didn't move. "And what should I do when it does?"
He smiled wider. "Pray you're the right kind of monster."
Before she could blink, he was gone. One step back and he melted into the mist.
⸻
Nora made it two streets before the air changed. A low hum pressed against her eardrums. Birds scattered. A street clock hiccupped — tick, tick, back, tick.
The sound wasn't loud. It was heavy.
She reached the square just in time to see the world tear.
A warehouse — one she'd delivered to that morning — shuddered. Its edges bent inward like heat warping glass. Then it collapsed silently, folding into a pinhole.
For half a second, there was nothing.
Then sand poured upward out of the hole. Real sand — golden, hot, wrong. It fell across the cobblestones, steaming in the rain. People screamed. Others froze.
Someone shouted about gas lines. Another said explosion. No one said what it really was.
Nora stepped closer, because curiosity kills faster than fear. The sand rippled faintly, and for a heartbeat, she saw a temple beneath it — columns, carvings, a staircase leading down.
Then it was gone. The street was just a crater, damp air, the taste of salt.
Her wrist burned. The mark pulsed in time with the hum, as if answering it.
Somewhere across the bay, a whirlpool turned. The harbor lights flickered and died.
The radio in a nearby kiosk blared by itself.
"Cyclone warning in effect. Stay indoors."
Everyone wanted to believe it. Cyclones make sense. This didn't.
Nora turned and walked home. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. The world was changing, and pretending it wasn't would get her killed.
At her apartment, she locked the door, sat on the floor, and stared at her knife. The silver looked darker now. Heavier. Alive.
The city outside held its breath.
And somewhere, beneath all that silence, the tide whispered again —
The next wave is coming.
—————————
End of Chapter One