The markets of Dustwall woke before the sun. Not with shouts, not with color, but with quiet bargains and the scrape of wooden wheels. Every morning, I would wake to the rhythm of clinking coins—twenty copper and two silver, the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow.
That morning, the wind was colder than usual. The kind of chill that felt like silence wrapping around your shoulders. I sat by the edge of the well with a chipped bowl of grain, watching as the baker lit his kiln across the lane. Fenn clung to my side, eyes still half-shut with sleep.
"Yul," he mumbled, "why's the sky so white?"
I looked up. The clouds hung low, too smooth, too still. Like someone had painted over the world and forgot to let it dry.
"Just a heavy morning," I said. "The kind that makes the smoke hang low."
He nodded, though I wasn't sure he understood. He rarely asked questions. That was Elna's job.
She came out a moment later, hands dusted with flour, hair tied in a fraying string. Her eyes scanned the sky too, then narrowed. "It's not just smoke. Look."
Thin strands of ash fell like snow. Slow, quiet. They melted when they touched skin, but left a strange warmth behind.
"Something burned beyond the middle ring," she murmured. "It must've been big."
"Do you think it was a warehouse?" I asked.
"No. They would've rung the bell."
Dustwall had no bell tower. We only heard the alerts secondhand, like echoes in the belly of a beast. Fires, riots, breaches—the kind of things that happened on the other side of the walls, where nobles lived with their silk robes and mana lamps.
We had none of those things. Only stories.
Later that day, I wandered past the old granary near the south fence. The building had long since been gutted by rot, but a boy my age named Cale had found a broken ladder leading to the attic. We sometimes climbed up there to trade scraps—paper, coins, carved stones.
But today, I was alone.
Inside, the air smelled of dry wood and rust. I climbed the ladder slowly, careful not to wake the birds nesting in the beams. When I reached the top, I didn't find parchment or treasure.
I found a girl.
She was sitting in the corner, knees hugged to her chest, staring at the wall. Her hair was tangled, a dull brown streaked with gray dust. Her dress looked torn, but not from wear—more like she'd clawed at it herself.
I froze.
She didn't move.
"…Are you alright?"
She blinked. Her eyes were strange. Not wide with fear or anger. Just… hollow. Like they were looking through me, into something I couldn't see.
I stepped closer. She didn't flinch.
Then she spoke.
"Did you hear it too?"
My throat tightened. "Hear what?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The name. The name not spoken."
I stared at her.
"The city has bones," she said, curling tighter into herself. "And they remember. Even if we forget."
I brought her bread that evening. She didn't eat much. Just held it between her fingers like it was too warm.
"Do you live here?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"Where's your family?"
"They fell asleep," she said. "I didn't."
Something about her tone made my skin crawl. Not from fear—again, never fear—but from a familiarity I didn't understand.
"What's your name?" I tried.
She looked up.
"My name was Sel."
"…Was?"
She nodded once, then pointed at my chest. "But you still have yours."
She said it like it was rare. Like names were things that could be taken or lost.
That night, I told Elna about the girl.
"You brought her food?" she asked.
I nodded.
"She didn't threaten you? No weird looks?"
"Nothing like that. Just strange words."
Elna folded her arms. "Maybe she's sick. Some get the fever and never come back from it."
"She didn't seem sick."
She gave me a long look. "You still hear the voice, don't you?"
I hesitated, then nodded.
"I think… she hears it too."
Elna sighed, brushing ash off the windowsill. "If it gets worse, you tell me. Promise."
I promised.
But I didn't say that I wanted to hear more.
The next day, Sel was gone.
I checked the attic. The granary. Even the baker's kiln. No sign of her. Only a folded piece of cloth left behind, shaped like a bird.
I took it home and placed it beneath my bed.
That night, the voice returned.
Louder.
Clearer.
"Yul… etheren… kal'meir..."
The syllables twisted like smoke, familiar yet foreign. They danced behind my eyes, leaving behind shapes. I saw stone walls, cracked with age. Symbols etched in metal. A library beneath a city, filled with voices that whispered without sound.
And again—my name.
Yul.
But this time, not as a call. As a question.
When I woke, Elna was already at the hearth, sewing a torn satchel.
"You twitched all night," she said without turning. "Nightmare?"
"No."
"Vision?"
"…Maybe."
She set her needle down. "You're changing."
"I know."
"Not just growing. You've always been strange, but lately it's different. You don't flinch when the wind howls anymore."
"Should I?"
She smiled faintly. "Maybe not."
We sat in silence for a while. The fire cracked softly. Fenn mumbled in his sleep.
Then Elna said something I didn't expect.
"If you ever leave Dustwall… I won't stop you."
I looked at her.
"But take me with you."
That evening, as I sat by the window, the voice didn't come.
Only the wind.
And somehow, that was louder than all the whispers.