"You're late."
Eve kept her eyes on the mud sucking at her boots.
A man stood in front of her, stacks of papers cradled on his forearms. His face tanned and brown as his shirt, framed spectacles fractured across the bridge. The crack hid his disgust.
"Five minutes early is on time. On time is an hour late."
A grunt bellowed from behind him.
"Princess thinks her shovel's made of silver", Garret spat, kicking loose earth over Eve's collar. "This ain't the Lower Moats where they sweep dust for coins—"
A boom hit, and the air shivered. The Administrator's baton cracked against Garret's knuckles, a short whimper escaping his locked jaws.
"Quiet."
The calm word pierced deeper than wind or anger. He turned to a youth beside him. "This is the kind of attitude you need to beat down, Arya. Let no warden's authority go unrespected. Obedience is bled. Not taught."
Arya flinched. Even the brown shirt couldn't hide his green ears. For a moment, his eyes met Eve's, noticing her steady pupils.
Eve didn't wipe the mud on her shirt. She stood there, quiet as a church in prayer, not a single wrinkle marring her face
"To your stations", Arya barked, though his pitch flopped like the skin of drums, wavering off the beat.
The Administrator strode away. Further stations awaited his sagely shadow.
Eve watched his receding frame stomp. Her head hung low, silently ruminating her tardiness. The bazaar's blockade forced a threefold detour. Gour, really, if one accounted for the winding roads. In the end, mustering speed didn't save her from reprimand. But she was used to vain stares, and pointed words alone couldn't puncture her skin.
The Sun's embrace poured from above. Thick winter fog did little to dampen It's blessings as the shadows shrank like scalded rats.
"Morning's gaze", Garret muttered, wiping sweat. He crossed his chest with mud-streaked fingers. "Rot won't stir while His eyes are open." Facestealer can't snatch us now, though the thought went unsaid.
From behind, an arm gripped Eve's shoulder. She jerked free—swatting the hand away. Her hand flew to her neck, fingers tracing invisible scars. Eve turned to face the intruder.
It was Bran. He pressed a stolen roll into Eve's palms, oil-stained and drenched—cold as bones. His frail back shivered, like a lonely leaf in autumn.
"I saved you breakfast. Eat. You'll need it."
Eve tucked the offering into her pocket, dipping a slight nod in gratitude. She didn't linger for long. Her fingers found a shovel abandoned by weaker hands, the handle worn smooth where calluses should've been. She hefted it, testing the balance.
Too light. But it will do.
Her gaze swept the surroundings.
To the left, the moat's edge yawned right under the city's jagged teeth. Twisting fence and barbed wire gnawed between their edges like receding gum: the Quarantine Line. Watchtowers stood like crumbling molars along the jawline of Taint, vanishing into the distance.
Rain nibbled on her skin as she dug. The moat's belly clutched at her shovel; rags, rusted nails, the decaying carcass of a creature dripping entrails, or oil. She shook it free.
"Moat's bounty", someone joked.
Eve's knuckles split open. Blood slicked the wooden handle, seeping through its damp fibres. Morning demanded sweat, and the earth demanded flesh. Behind her, Uncertainty loomed, demanding something greater.
The sea's beauty was a lie it told to the desperate. It promised endless potential, but delivered only despair.
"They say we need to dig wider", Bran wheezed, heaving mud. "We're just stitching a wound that never heals."
Garret snarled, "You think this is play? We dig because Morning commands it." Deep folds crunched his forehead. "His Light won't save slackers."
Garret clenched the bronze charm on his armband, tied to his wrist with cheap leather and scraps of cloth. Morning's work would not catch a heathen's ill. Not today.
For some time, only winds and frustration hummed as shovels squelched against muddy meat.
Bran looked around, the cold breeze brining his cheeks, finding each wrinkle.
"You know, the Lightkeeper's been summoned", he broke the silence.
Heads turned to the pristine sandy canvass—meeting the only blemish anywhere on it's complexion.
The Lighthouse stabbed the sky: an ancient sentry, breathing air thick with salt and Rot. It's beam scoured the waves. Every grain of white sand hid red blood; every ripple of the sea concealed maws that swallowed hope. The Light revealed all, or maybe too little.
"I see the higher ups scuttle their eyes. Like they're trying to look behind their heads", Bran added.
"They walk faster, but think twice about every step. More Blackcoats buzzing around the city too."
His voice chilled to a whisper, "The last time he was summoned...ships docked from distant worlds."
"Who knows, maybe the days of slogging dirt can come to an end", he grumbled—kicking a rusted bottle somewhere far.
"You talk tall", Garret spat. "The only thing out there is death." A slight tremble carried down the spine of his shovel. "Old ships got lucky. Now, the devil lurks the depths".
"You speak of Apep", Mara chimed.
"Damn right." Garret stomped his boot in mud. "They say he sired ten thousand snakes. His children drag in anything foolish enough to brave Uncertainty."
"That's just the thing", said Bran, a knowing grin playing his lips. "They say Apep's dead."
Garret paused in disbelief. His eyes widened. "Bullshit! That things been haunting the harrowed waters for centuries. And you say it died?"
"It's true", Bran replied. "The Lighthouse keeps company—assistants, apprentices and such. Couldn't keep it hidden for long. It was front page gossip on the First Light three weeks back. And now the Lightkeeper's summoned? Fat coincidence."
Garret stared at him incredulously. "You read those rags? Bigger fool than I thought."
"That's drunk talk. Besides, even if the rumours were worth a damn, visitors ain't nothing to dance about. They harbour disease and misery. More alien horrors to plague Taint."
Bran threw a look at the sprawling city.
"They carry medicine. Knowledge and technology. New crops that could nourish millions. A world of possibilities, literally."
"Hardened air seemed like magic once. Then we learned what glass is. You're too quick to judge, Garret. If Rot was all the seas offered, it wouldn't be called Uncertainty."
"Try telling that to a man who's seen his children's skin peel like fruit." Mara spat in the dirt. Her knuckles white—balled into a fist. "Last time they came, they drowned us in Blights. Lesions bloomed on skin like mould, spreading like dust in the air. Half the city fell before doctors found a cure."
Bran heaved a sack of clay on his shoulders. "Church says to toil for His glory. The politicians speak of floods. Tell me, what glory does a stretch of mud inspire?"
Bran's shovel hit a rock with a curse. "Thirty years of this back-breaking torment...Ships come and go, but we stay buried", he groaned, his dark eyes clouding with wistful longing. The words hung in the air like salt.
"Church calls it ritual", Mara cut in—voice cracking. "I call it slaving away. But still, Morning blesses our lives. If there's a chance the moat staves off ruin, it means our prayers in sweat saves lives."
Garret's shovel hit the earth with a sickening thud.
"Your dreams are dangerous, old man. It'll see you dead in a bag before it curses us all."
Bran rested on his tool, a gaunt shoulder pressed on its shaft. His head turned to face the sea. "If dreams came easy, they wouldn't be dreams." His lips twitched. A smile came slow, like dawn over the moats. Earned, not given.
Bran turned to his side, pointing with his chin.
"What do you think, Arya? Heard anything from your brother?"
Arya jolted at the sudden address.
"We don't share work. Being a Night comes with rules."
"What now, you telling me you ain't spilling the beans with us when you don the stars? C'mon. For old times sake!"
Arya's smile didn't reach his eyes. "My service will keep you breathing. That's payment enough."
Eve listened in on their banter with quiet intensity. She never stopped to rest. Her shovel bit deep. Clean, strong and efficient. The barrow sagged with her piles. "Witch", Garret cursed under his breath with a scowl. Thick phlegm spit into the earth in anger. Garret scooped with renewed venom. His back bent lower, winding his elbows further and harder. In the trenches, weakness wasn't rewarded.
When he thrust with his weight, the shovel clinked.
Not rock. Or bottle.
A sinking premonition arrested his gaze.
He dug. Mud flew.
The earth cleared to reveal what he struck.
Garret bent down, reaching.
Quivering fingers brushed away the soil caking a dark fabric.
Something pale beneath, the unmistakable curve of bone.
His pulse hammered like swelling waves.
An arm, torn clean at the shoulder. The cloth bore the Sun at dawn. Morning's symbol. Now drenched in mud and something darker that wasn't mud at all.