Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Ash and Iron
The village never truly slept. Even at night, there was always something stirring. Voices drifted from the tavern, a cart rattled over wet stones, and boots scraped along the lane before fading into the silence. By day, the square smelled of olives and wool, and by night it grew quieter but felt no kinder.
Pedri knew the rhythm too well.
He came home late after the forge. Smoke lived in his clothes. Iron dust clung under his nails no matter how hard he scrubbed. His palms were split and sore. His shoulders burned from the hammer’s weight. Sparks had kissed his skin until it stung.
The work was endless. He made blades for men who did not think before they swung them. He made nails for doors that would still not shut right. He made chains for carts that would fail again before winter’s end. He straightened what others bent, fixed what others broke, and was noticed only when he failed. His master called him steady, which was a polite word for quiet. Customers liked him because he did not argue. He nodded. He worked, he delivered.
He smiled when they looked his way, because it was easier, because it kept the peace. The smile never reached his eyes. When the forge closed, when the hammer was laid down, the silence of the world pressed in until it hurt.
Tonight was colder than most. Rain had come and gone, leaving the stones slick and shining under the lamps. He walked fast, clutching his satchel against him.
The lamps were useless. Their weak, yellow glow shivered in the damp air, spilling just enough light to remind him how much deeper the shadows went.
Children whispered about shadows that did not belong to men. Market women spoke of noble families who lived richly but were never seen by day. Dockworkers swearing that certain wagons left the port full and returned empty, except for the stink of iron and rot.
Pedri didn’t believe it. He couldn’t afford to.
Rumors did not pay rent. Monsters did not repair broken hinges. Fear did not feed him.
And yet, the village seemed to watch him.
A door slammed in the distance, making him flinch. Pedri breathed out, shoulders tense. The streets curved, carrying him toward his small room he had near the river. He passed a row of oil lamps, some lit, some not. The ones that had burned out left the stones drowned in shadow.
He had almost reached his turn when he heard a faint step. It was careful, like a footfall that did not want to be heard. Pedri stopped and turned slowly.
There was nothing.
The nearest lamp flickered and then steadied. His throat felt dry, but he forced a quiet laugh. “Rats,” he muttered under his breath, though he was not sure who he was trying to convince.
The sound didn't follow when he quickened his pace, but the feeling of being watched stayed with him. It was a heavy weight that prickled on the back of his neck, so sharp it was hard to breathe.
Finally, he reached his room. It was a cold, spare space with thin walls and an even thinner bed. A single lamp gave off a small, tired light. He lay down, completely exhausted yet unable to find peace. His body begged for rest, but his mind refused to shut down.
Somewhere beyond those walls, beyond the smell of the river, the village was hiding something. He could feel it in the air, heavy and close, as if the night itself leaned in, watching and waiting.
But Pedri did not believe in monsters.
Not yet.