The next morning crept into Eidengrad like a thief.No sunrise, no warmth—just the slow brightening of the mist that clung to the streets like an old wound refusing to heal.A low hum came from the factories in the eastern district, a sound so constant it had become part of the city's breath.
Elias Ren sat at the small wooden table, staring at a bowl of cold porridge.Across from him, his sister Mira was trying to fix the broken handle of her school satchel with a bit of twine.Her fingers were red from the cold, her breath visible in the air.
"Eat," she murmured without looking up.
He stirred the porridge absently. "You should go before you're late."
"I'm not hungry," she replied—then, as if to contradict herself, her stomach growled.
Elias pushed the bowl toward her with a faint smile. "Then eat mine."
Mira frowned but didn't argue. That was the thing about children in Eidengrad; they learned early that arguing wasted energy better saved for surviving.
When she left, the apartment fell quiet again.Elias remained seated, staring at the wall where the damp had formed patterns resembling veins—thin, branching lines spreading out from a single dark center.He traced one with his eyes, feeling an odd pull in his chest, like a whisper just beyond hearing.
He shook it off and stood. The day wasn't going to wait for him.
The streets were alive now—if such a word could be used for something that seemed to breathe through smoke and ash.Vendors shouted half-heartedly, carts creaked, and the faint tolling of the Church bells marked the hour.Somewhere, deep in the industrial quarter, a siren wailed: another accident, another worker lost to the machines.No one even turned their head anymore.
Elias crossed the central square, boots scraping frost from the stones.At its center stood the Statue of the Martyr, a colossal figure of a woman holding an iron heart in her hands.Pigeons roosted on her shoulders, their droppings streaking the once-sacred metal.Beneath the statue, beggars huddled together, sharing the warmth of their misery.
He paused there, not out of reverence but habit.Every citizen of Eidengrad passed the Martyr each morning—it was almost a ritual.The heart she held was said to contain a fragment of divine metal, a gift from the First God before the world was "fractured."The priests said it symbolized hope. Elias saw it as a warning: even gods could be broken.
He reached the mechanical registry office, a squat stone building near the western gate.It smelled of oil and old paper.Inside, clerks moved with machine-like precision, stamping, recording, never looking up.He handed in another form—another futile attempt to find work.The clerk, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, looked at him briefly, then stamped the page without a word.
"Any openings?" Elias asked.
The man shrugged. "If there were, you'd see them posted on the board."
The board was empty. It had been for weeks.
Elias thanked him anyway and stepped back into the cold.
By afternoon, the sky had dimmed again—though it was hard to tell in a city that never truly brightened.He found himself in Old Haven, the oldest district of Eidengrad.The cobblestones here were uneven, blackened by soot and time.Tall iron pipes ran along the sides of the buildings like veins feeding the city's heart.Now and then, steam hissed from a crack, releasing bursts of heat and the faint smell of rusted blood.
He stopped at a small repair shop.The faded sign above the door read "Ardan & Sons — Mechanical Repairs."
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of grease.Ardan himself was there, a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, with a beard as grey as the city sky.He looked up from his bench, squinting.
"Well, if it isn't young Ren," he grunted. "Still looking for honest work, eh?"
Elias smiled faintly. "Is there any left?"
Ardan laughed, a short, dry sound. "Depends on how honest you're willing to be."He gestured to a broken automaton on the table—a brass construct shaped like a raven."Think you can fix this old thing? It used to deliver messages for the Church. Haven't had the heart to scrap it."
Elias examined the device. Tiny gears, warped wiring, and a cracked ocular lens.It was delicate work—but something about the mechanism felt strangely familiar.Almost… alive.
He adjusted a few screws, rewired a connection, and with a faint spark, the automaton's eyes flickered open.A soft mechanical caw escaped its throat.
Ardan whistled. "Still got it, lad. If only the world cared about skill anymore."
Elias smiled without answering.
The automaton turned its head toward him—just slightly—and for a moment, he could've sworn its metal beak whispered something.Not words exactly, but a rhythm… like breathing.
He blinked. The sound vanished.
"You alright, Ren?" Ardan asked.
"Yeah," he said quickly. "Just tired."
As evening settled, Elias returned home.Snow was falling again—lazy, half-melted flakes that disappeared before touching the ground.In the distance, the bells of the Church of the Veins began their nightly chime.They said the ringing purified the city, driving away corruption.Elias wondered if anything could drive away what was already inside it.
When he reached his building, he paused.The streetlamp outside flickered once, twice, and went dark.He thought he saw something move in the mist—a shape, or maybe a shadow.But when he looked again, there was only the silence of snow.
He climbed the stairs. Mira was asleep again, curled up beneath a thin blanket.He sat by the window, staring out at the city.
For a while, there was only the hum of machinery.Then—faintly, beneath it—something else.
A pulse.Deep, steady, and impossibly distant.
Like the heartbeat of the world itself.
Elias pressed a hand to his chest.And for the briefest moment, he felt it answer.