Everyone in Lowreach learned the same lesson early:
If the wind stops, run.
When it happened, Eli was counting rusted nails.
Three hundred and twelve. Three hundred and—
The air hesitated.
Not stopped. Not yet. Just… paused. Like the world had forgotten the next breath.
Eli froze.
Around him, the market noise thinned. Voices dulled. A banner mid-flap hung stiff, threads trembling but unmoving. Even dust seemed unsure whether to fall.
Then the wind died.
Panic arrived a heartbeat later.
Stalls collapsed as people shoved past one another. Someone screamed the old warning. Someone else prayed. Eli didn't do either. He grabbed his bag and ran for the stone arches at the edge of the square, lungs already burning.
The Still was never instant. That was the cruel part. It crept, thickening the air, making each breath feel borrowed.
By the time Eli reached the arches, his chest felt packed with wet cloth. He stumbled, caught himself on the stone, and ducked inside just as the first body hit the ground behind him.
Inside the arches, the air flowed again — weak, but alive.
Eli slid down the wall and sucked in breath like it might be taken back at any second.
Outside, Lowreach fell silent.
The Still passed after seven minutes.
Seven minutes was generous. Some towns got less.
When Eli finally stepped out, the square looked wrong. Too neat. Too empty. No wind meant no mess — just people exactly where they'd collapsed, eyes open, faces peaceful in the most horrible way.
Collectors would come soon. They always did.
Eli turned away before they arrived.
He lived above a shuttered tannery, where the smell kept most people away. That suited him. He locked the door, leaned against it, and waited for his hands to stop shaking.
The wind owed him nothing. He knew that.
Still, when the knock came, his stomach sank.
Three knocks. Slow. Patient.
No collector knocked like that.
Eli opened the door a crack.
The man outside was wrapped in pale cloth, stitched through with thin metal threads that hummed softly, like a plucked string. His eyes were clear gray, too calm for Lowreach.
"A Breathkeeper," Eli muttered.
The man smiled. "You ran well."
"I didn't break any laws."
"No. You broke mathematics."
That was worse.
The Breathkeeper stepped inside without waiting for permission. The room's single candle bent toward him, flame stretching unnaturally.
"You inhaled eight times during the Still," the man said. "You should have managed three. Four, at most."
Eli's throat tightened. "I've got strong lungs."
"You have unpaid breath."
The words landed heavy.
Every child learned the myth: the world had a fixed number of breaths. Most people used theirs slowly. Some burned through them fast. And a very few — accidents, miracles, mistakes — took more than they were allotted.
Those people didn't die right away.
They accrued debt.
"I didn't ask for it," Eli said.
"No one ever does," the Breathkeeper replied gently. "But the wind keeps accounts."
He reached into his robe and produced a thin glass disk. Inside it, faint lines pulsed like fog caught in crystal.
"This shows what you owe," the man said. "And what will happen when the debt comes due."
Eli looked.
He wished he hadn't.
The image wasn't of death. It was of stillness spreading, radiating outward from him. Streets freezing. Rooms suffocating. People dropping where they stood.
Starting with everyone closest to him.
"When?" Eli whispered.
"Hard to say. Days. Weeks. Depends how recklessly you breathe."
Eli laughed once, sharp and broken. "So what, I just… stop?"
The Breathkeeper's smile faded.
"There is another option."
Of course there was.
"You can work it off," the man said. "We send you where the wind has already failed. Where the Still lingers. You survive, you bring balance back with you."
"And if I don't?"
"Then the world collects its breath through you."
Silence filled the room. Real silence. Heavy.
Eli thought of the market. Of the banner frozen mid-air. Of people who never even realized they were suffocating.
"What happens if I say no?" he asked.
The Breathkeeper stood. "Nothing. At first."
He paused at the door.
"But the wind is patient. And it always gets what it's owed."
When the door shut, the candle went out.
Eli sat in the dark, breathing shallowly, afraid that every inhale might be the one that tipped the scale.
For the first time in his life, he understood the real horror.
Not dying.
Being the reason others did.