The eastern quarter stank worse than usual.
Blood in the gutters.
Damp soil that would never sprout again.
Burnt crops ground into dust.
Tonight, the stench clung heavier than smoke, crawling into Harun's throat and refusing to leave.
The old waterwheel turned slowly behind the mill's cracked wall. Each rotation lifted blackened water, sluggish as tar.
Every thud was a giant's heartbeat, pounding into the ground beneath Harun's blistered feet.
His calf still burned where the black dust had kissed him back in the square.
He tried to hide the limp, but every step betrayed him with a flash of pain.
His head stayed low. The Mask angled to shadow the tremor in his jaw.
Faces turned toward him in the lane—gaunt men with sharpened sticks, children crouched in ash with soot-streaked cheeks, hollow-eyed women clutching cloth bags that held nothing.
Fear hung thick between the walls.
Fear and hunger.
"Medic!"
The shout cracked the air like a snapped beam.
A boy barreled from a doorway. Twelve at most. Flour dust turned his hair white. His lips were pale, bloodless.
"Here!" he cried. "Please—this one!"
He tugged Harun's sleeve with the desperation of someone who had already been ignored too many times.
Harun steadied him. Nodded once.
"Your name?"
"Finn," he said, voice cracking.
"Then lead, Finn."
The boy shoved the warped door wide. It scraped stone, loud as a saw chewing bone.
Inside, the air curdled—sweet, cloying, like fruit sealed too long in a jar.
A low pallet sagged in the corner.
A girl lay on it, smaller even than Finn. Her chest rose in shallow bursts.
A rag pressed to her mouth was already soaked black.
Two children huddled beneath a blanket, wide-eyed, silent.
A woman knelt at the girl's side. Sleeves rolled, hands raw from scrubbing.
She looked up. Eyes flicked to Harun's Mask.
She flinched, then tightened her grip on the kitchen knife in her hand.
"Help her," she said flatly. "Or get out. We don't have room for both."
Harun set his satchel on the lopsided table. The leg wobbled under the weight.
"I'll help."
He crouched by the girl. The satchel was nearly bare—cloth, a cracked jar of willow bark, half a bottle of alcohol. Not enough.
The Mask burned faintly against his cheek, whispering like an ember.
Truth: Not blood. Lining. Smoke and spores.
The girl—Neve—coughed again. Her chest fluttered, lips blue, eyes glass-bright.
"Sit her up," Harun said.
"She can't," the woman whispered. "She goes grey."
"She's drowning on her back."
He slid an arm under Neve's shoulders. "On three. One—two—"
On three, he lifted.
Neve gagged. Choked. Black ichor streaked her mouth. Her eyes widened, then darted away.
Harun pressed a damp cloth to her chest.
"Breathe. Just breathe, girl."
His gaze cut to the stove.
"Fire. Steam. Now."
Finn was already feeding splinters into the iron mouth. Sparks caught. The pot muttered. Steam rose, blurring the air and dampening the rot.
The Mask breathed with Harun. Hot. Hungry. Almost eager.
Truth: Elevate. Heat. Time, if not poisoned again.
"Your name?" Harun asked the mother.
"Maera." She said it like a challenge.
"Good," Harun murmured. "Fetch every rag. Salt, too, if you have it."
Maera gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "Salt? Do you think we live in the upper ring?"
"Sometimes birds have bread," Harun said quietly.
Her mouth twitched—half a smile, half a wound. She dragged open a drawer. Pulled out a clay jar. Dropped coarse grains into his palm.
Harun pressed them between his fingers. Drew a crescent on the floorboards, between the pallet and the black smear staining the planks.
The bead of tar-dark residue rolled toward the salt. Touched. Recoiled with a hiss.
The wheel groaned outside. The whole room held its breath.
Above them, a board creaked.
Slow. Deliberate.
Harun froze. Palm heavy on Neve's chest. His heartbeat counted itself in the silence.
The Mask warmed.
Truth: Above.
The sound came again. Closer.
Maera's eyes flicked to the ceiling. Finn's flour-dusted face drained whiter still.
The younger children burrowed deeper under the blanket.
Harun rose from the stool. His chisel slid into his grip, metal rasping against cloth.
The stairwell door creaked wider.
Lantern glow spilled down in thin yellow ribbons.
A man stepped through.
Work coat. Clean gloves.
Ledger hugged against his chest.
His face was pale, carved like wood left too long in the cold.
His eyes found Harun's Mask—
and did not blink.
The room's air thickened, the salt hissed faintly, and Harun felt the Mask press harder against his cheek.
Truth: This man isn't here to heal. He's here to count.