Caelum had moods the same way people did.
Tonight, it brooded.
Fog clung to the upper tiers like a shawl, smudging the glow of distant lamps until their light looked bruised. Smoke slithered slowly from the chimneys of the Weaveries—never sleeping, never slowing—blending with the mist until the sky became a single slate sheet of restless grey.
Down here, in the Worker's Quarter, the world held its breath.
The streets usually muttered at all hours—voices, clattering carts, clinking tools—but now they were quiet, muffled as though wrapped in wool. Even the neon signs sputtered more softly, their crackle dampened by the thin drizzle that tapped rhythmically on gutters and old iron pipes.
Arin Vale walked through the hush with long, steady strides.
He was tall for someone raised in the Quarter, with a lean build carved by years of hauling crates and climbing scaffolds. His coat—a faded umber thing patched more times than he cared to admit—hung loose on his frame, brushing the tops of boots scuffed from work, not fashion. His hair was a dark, copper-brown, perpetually mussed by weather or sleep. And his eyes… they were grey, but not the cold kind. They held a softness he tried to hide, a tired gentleness that made people trust him before they meant to.
His hands were his most telling feature: rough, callused, marked by pale scars that spidered up his forearms. Not all of them were from labor.
Some were older than his memory.
He exhaled, the cool air scraping his lungs. Fog curled around him, pale and soft, brushing his cheeks like a passing hand.
The familiar corner brought him to Ysen's shrine. Even through mist, the candles burned low—freshly replaced. Mrs. Dalen's grandchildren tended them, though Arin doubted they understood the old ideals of Honest Deeds, Fair Balance, Quiet Duty. The world had moved past such things.
Still, he respected the ritual.
He leaned against the low stone wall, letting the faint warmth of the candles touch his chilled hands. The carved idol of Ysen stared back—stern, gentle, patient enough to outlast weather, war, and human stubbornness.
"You don't know me," Arin murmured.
Silence answered, and he found comfort in that.
A breeze stirred the shrine's ribbons. Their flutter almost sounded like whispered speech. Arin rubbed the bridge of his nose. For days, the air had felt… wrong. Quicker to shift. Sharper in the lungs. Static pricked the back of his neck whenever he turned too fast.
Once—twice, maybe—he could have sworn someone called his name.
He blamed sleeplessness. Or stress. Or Caelum's usual oddities. Yet something still prickled beneath his skin—subtle, like a thread pulled taut.
He straightened, scanning the alleyways. Crates stacked against walls. A shutter banging softly. A stray cat slinking across a fence. Nothing strange. Nothing dangerous.
So why did the quiet feel weighted?
Footsteps echoed behind him—measured, familiar.
"You're out late," Lira said.
She was shorter than him, compactly built, with broad shoulders and deft hands stained faintly blue from dye work. Her skin was a deep brown softened by the lantern glow, and her eyes—dark, sharp, and restless—missed nothing. She wore her hair in tight braids pinned back with metal clasps she'd forged herself, simple but precise.
Where Arin looked quietly worn, Lira looked battle-ready even when tired.
And tonight, she looked tired.
"Couldn't sleep," Arin said.
"Didn't think you could." She brushed a wet strand from her cheek. "You've looked restless all week."
"You've been watching me that closely?" His tone tried for wry.
"If I didn't, you'd walk straight into a hole in the street."
He snorted. "One time."
Her gaze sharpened. "You feel it too, don't you?"
Arin stilled. "Feel what?"
"The air." She swept her hand around them. "It's wrong tonight. Thick. Like the city's waiting."
Fear stirred in him—quiet, sharp. He hadn't expected someone else to notice.
"What do you think it is?" he asked softly.
"I'm not sure." Her fingers brushed the pouch of casting stones at her belt—a nervous habit she rarely showed. "But keep your guard up."
"My guard is always up."
"Then keep it higher."
Silence settled between them—comfortable, yet edged with unease, as if both sensed the same unseen thread tightening.
"Walk with me?" Lira asked.
Arin nodded.
They moved through the streets, puddles rippling beneath their steps. A dog barked faintly, then cut off. Fog thickened, swirling pale and slow, as if trying to shape itself.
They spoke of small things—broken roofs, late shipments, the neighbor who shouted at pigeons like they owed him rent. Arin clung to the smallness like a rope.
But halfway down the northern lane, something tugged at him. He glanced back toward Ysen's shrine.
The candles flickered too violently for the gentle wind.
He looked away. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe his sleepless mind was chasing patterns.
But the city felt too quiet. Too aware.
When he and Lira parted near the southern lane, Arin's unease had sharpened. Fog hung low, drifting like pale cloth. Rain clouds pressed heavy above the rooftops.
Caelum felt like it was holding a breath. Holding a secret.
And somewhere behind him, in the alleys he had walked all his life, something shifted.
A shadow forming. A thread tightening. A beginning unraveling.
Arin walked on, unaware. The night was not done with him. Not by far.