Soren
Soren groaned deeply as he rolled over, shielding his eyes from the bright rays of sunlight.
Every muscle in his back felt like it had been knotted and pulled in a tight lock while he slept. The wooden floorboards hadn't done him any favours; sleeping on a thin mat meant his body was digging into every ridge and crack, his hips ached with a dull, throbbing heat.
He stared at the peeling ceiling, his breath hitching in a small, ragged cough.
'Maybe I'll just stay home, he thought. The idea was warm. He could just stay right here. He could pretend the world outside the shack didn't exist.
He didn't want to deal with the freezing mist, the heavy pickaxe, or the way people stepped off the path when they saw him coming.
He just wanted to close his eyes and disappear into the quiet for another hour.
But the shack was already losing its heat, and his stomach gave a sharp, empty twist. He was hungry
"I'm up," he muttered, the words sticking in his dry throat.
A small, scruffy shape shifted in the corner. It was Pip. The fox's fur was patchy and stained a dull, charcoal gray, eyes reflecting a faint violet tint.
Pip always seemed to watch Soren with a heavy, tired intelligence. However, today the fox looked just as sore as he was, stretching his thin legs with a low whine.
"Not today, Pip," Soren muttered, pulling his blanket higher. It ripped. He groaned."Go back to sleep."
The fox didn't listen. He let out a low, persistent whine and nipped at the edge of the torn blanket.
"I said no," Soren rasped, his voice cracking. "There's nothing out there but ice and people who wish I'd drown. Let me sleep."
Pip huffed, a sound that almost sounded like a sigh, and flopped his heavy, cold tail across Soren's face.
"Fine. You win," Soren grumbled. Soren forced himself to sit up. His spine popped once, then twice, then painfully a third time.
"You're a menace. You know that?"
He reached for his lantern on the crate next to his mat. The violet flame was low, pulsing weakly against the glass like a tired heart. He shivered, pulling his threadbare coat over his shoulders. No matter how many layers he put on, he could never quite shake the feeling that he was made of ice.
He stepped outside, his boots crunching on the frost-covered porch. The walk to the Lower Quarter felt twice as long as usual. His shoulders were still bruised from yesterday's hauling, and the cold air bit at his lungs.
He spent the next two hours suspended by a rope over the churning canal, hacking at the frozen buildup on the massive iron gears. The work was mindless and exhausting. The mist from the river coated his skin in a layer of grit, and his hands went numb within twenty minutes. The workers moved around him like he was a ghost. They didn't speak to him. But he didn't think much of it. He was lucky to even get this job.
"Hey, boy!" his foreman, Miller, shouted from the pier. "Don't head off yet. The mulch delivery for the Upper Terraces is late. Take these crates up to the Hanging Gardens. Now."
Soren wiped a smear of grease from his forehead. "The Gardens are halfway up the cliff. I just did a double shift."
"And you'll do a triple if you want to get paid," Miller snapped, kicking a heavy wooden crate toward him.
Soren sighed. He didn't have the energy to argue. He looked at Pip, who was waiting by the stairs. "Stay here, Pip. It's too many steps for your leg."
He hoisted the crate onto his shoulder.
His knees buckled, but he steadied himself. Step by step, he began the climb. The wood dug into his bruised shoulder, still sore from sleeping on the floor. He kept his violet lantern tucked out of sight, the dim light pulsing against his thigh.
He was a few yards from the Garden entrance when it happened.
Snap!
A massive cloud of deep, rusty red exploded over the railing above him. Soren ducked, dropping the crate as red dust rained down like sand. A shrill, panicked scream echoed off the cliffside.
"My eyes! I can't see!"
Three girls stumbled out of the Garden door, coughing and flailing. They scrambled past him, gasping. Soren stood up slowly, brushing the red powder off his coat.
It smelled like crushed peppers. He looked toward the gate, expecting to see a fight.
Instead, he saw a girl.
She was standing in the middle of the fading red haze, clutching a garden trowel. Her white apron was stained with dirt, and her lemon-yellow lantern was vibrating with a frantic, sharp light.
Her eyes locked onto his.
Soren froze. This girl looked at him with a shock that felt like a physical blow. It was at that moment that he realized his coat had shifted. The violet glow of his lantern was pulsing right in her line of sight.
The girl's eyes widened. She took a half-step toward him, her mouth opening, but Soren quickly turned away. He didn't want to be blamed for this.
He grabbed his crate and disappeared back down the stairs into the fog. His heart was hammering harder than it ever had at the docks.
He didn't look back, but he could still feel that yellow light burning into the back of his head.