Soren
Soren sat on the back balcony of Milla's bakery, tucked behind a wall of empty flour crates. From the street below, no one could see him.
From up here, the world was a dull roar of cartwheels and shouting merchants. Pip, the small fox, was a warm weight on his lap, purring as Soren rubbed his ears.
The warm breeze rustled his hair as he sat against the stone wall.
He finally had time to detach and just breathe.
Before the accident, Soren had been a stevedore at the southern docks, but his heart wasn't in the heavy lifting. He had a secret obsession: clockwork.
Back at the docks, he used to spend his breaks in the harbormaster's office, fixing the broken sea-chronometers that tracked the tides.
He loved the tiny, clicking gears. He loved the way a thousand small parts worked together to make one steady system.
His dream was to save enough money to leave the docks and apprentice as a master clockmaker in the High-Tier. He didn't want to move crates forever; he wanted to build things that lasted.
He pulled a small brass scrap from his pocket. It was a piece he'd scavenged from a broken timer in Milla's kitchen.
Without his tools, he couldn't do much, but he still found himself filing the edges with a stone. He craved the subtle "click" of a gear fitting into place. He craved the feeling of being useful, instead of just being a "Signature" hiding in the dark.
He wanted to build something for Eira.
His thoughts drifted to her. She had been gone for hours in the High-Tier, a place where people like them were treated like dirt.
He hated being the one who stayed behind.
Soren stood on the bakery balcony, his eyes scanning the street for the flash of a gray cloak.
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Eira should have been back by now. The sun had dipped below the horizon, but the back door remained shut.
Panic began to prick at his chest. He couldn't wait any longer. He ducked inside the bakery, nearly colliding with Milla as she hauled a tray of cooling loaves.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Soren quickly apologized, catching the tray. "Do you know where Eira is?"
Milla stopped, her expression clouding with worry. "She hasn't come back. I thought she might have stayed at the High-Tier longer than expected, but..." she trailed off, glancing toward the front windows. "Go see Mrs. Gable. If anyone knows where she went, it's her. But Soren-" she grabbed his arm. "Be wary of Kaelen. The Wardens are patrolling the main street. Keep that lantern hidden in your cloak."
Soren nodded, his jaw tight. He tucked his lantern deep into the folds of his heavy jacket and slipped out the back.
The trek to the apothecary shop was a blur. He moved through the alleys like a ghost, his heart hammering against his ribs until he reached the shop's side entrance.
Mrs. Gable looked up from a bubbling pot, her face etched with exhaustion.
"Soren? What are you doing out?"
"Eira," he panted. "Is she here?"
Mrs. Gable sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. "She stopped by an hour ago. She told me she wouldn't be staying at the bakery tonight. She also took a satchel of dried valerian and poppy thistle and said she was going home. To see her father."
Soren felt a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. "Where is it?"
After receiving directions, Soren sprinted. He didn't care about the patrols or the black ice that littered the cobblestones. He ran until he reached a small, silent house on the edge of the district. The garden was overgrown, and the windows were dark.
He pushed at the front door. It wasn't locked.
The air inside was stale and smelled of dust and bitter herbs. In the center of the dim parlour, a figure lay on a low cot.
Soren froze. It was Master Elian. Even in the dimly lit room, he could see the man's eyes. They were wide, fixed, and as hollow as they had been on the riverbank. It was a living death.
Eira was crouched beside the cot, her forehead pressed against her father's hand.
She was sobbing.
Soren stepped forward, his boots creaking on the floorboards. He moved slowly, trying not to startle her. "Eira?"
He inched closer, his hand trembling as he reached out and gently touched her shoulder.
Eira lurched away, her eyes wild and bloodshot. "Don't touch him!" she shrieked, scrambling back against the wall. "Don't you dare touch him!"
"Eira, wait-it's me," Soren said, holding his hands up, palms out. "It's Soren."
She blinked, her chest heaving. The pupils of her eyes were blown wide, fixed in a glassy stare.
On the small table nearby sat an empty vial. Soren recognized the scent. It was a powerful sedative, a medicine meant to numb the mind and make the world feel sluggish. He had taken the same thing when his mother had died.
"Soren?" Eira whispered, her voice trailing off.
He moved toward her again, kneeling in the dust. The horror of the hollow-eyed man on the bed was right there between them, but he couldn't leave her like this. "I've got you. Can I... can I hold you?"
"No," she snapped.
She tried to stand, but her knees buckled immediately. The sedative had stripped away her coordination, and she began to tilt toward the sharp corner of the bedside table.
Soren gently caught her before she hit the floor. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into the warmth of his heavy cloak.
She stiffened, her hands balling into fists against his chest.
"No," she said again, her voice muffled against his sweater. "Get off me. You can't be here. You shouldn't be here."
But she didn't push him away. She was fighting herself.
A few long moments passed, the only sound being the raspy breathing of the man on the cot.
"Do you want me to let go?" Soren whispered.
Eira gripped the fabric of his cloak, her fingers locking tight. "No."