The attic smelled faintly of dust and damp wood, a mixture Elias Graye had grown accustomed to. The sloped ceiling forced him to stoop whenever he moved, and the single window was warped, its glass fogged with age. He had pushed his telescope—cracked along the brass tube, salvaged from his dismissal at the Observatory—against that pane of glass, stubbornly making it work.
Through it, three moons hovered above the Crater Sea.
One was full and pale, one chipped like a broken coin, and the third—a jagged crescent—glowed faintly green.
Elias adjusted the focus, muttering under his breath. "Too dim… too unstable… not natural."
Of course, no one listened when he said such things. No one cared that the moons shifted in ways that defied every model, or that their surfaces glittered like glass under sunlight. At the university, they had laughed at him. At the Observatory, they had called him Moon-Mad Graye. Then came the dismissal letter: unsuitable temperament, erratic conclusions, damaging to the institution's reputation.
Now he sat in a leaking attic, scribbling notes on scraps of paper, his salary reduced to tutoring a grocer's son in arithmetic.
He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and leaned into the telescope again. Tonight, the chipped moon flickered—just once, a strange stuttering of light as though its surface had turned to glass catching fire.
Elias froze.
He whispered, almost amused, "You shouldn't be able to do that."
Outside, faintly, came a low humming sound—like glass under strain, like a wineglass when wetted and rubbed.
Three sharp knocks rattled his door.
Elias startled, the pencil in his hand jerking across the page. He shuffled to the door and cracked it open. Mrs. Penwick, the landlady, loomed in the dim light of the hallway lamp. Her shawl was pulled tight, her sharp nose red from the autumn chill.
"Mr. Graye," she said, her tone thick with disapproval, "it's the fifteenth again."
Elias rubbed at his temple. "I'm aware of the calendar's cruel consistency, Mrs. Penwick."
Her eyes narrowed. "Consistency is a virtue, sir. Punctual rent doubly so."
"I'll have it soon," Elias lied smoothly. "The boy I tutor shows sudden promise. His father is sure to be generous."
Mrs. Penwick gave a sniff that suggested she believed none of it. "You have until Sunday." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "And I do not appreciate noises at night. Humming, footsteps, muttering. This is a respectable house."
Before Elias could answer, she turned with a rustle of shawl and clomped down the stairs.
The humming outside grew louder.
Elias closed the door softly, frowning. He went back to the window. Beyond the rooftops, the fog rolling off the Crater Sea glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the hum. His skin prickled.
Curiosity gnawed at him. He grabbed his worn coat, stuffed his notebook into the pocket, and descended the narrow stairwell.
The streets of Grayharbor were thick with mist, the gas lamps struggling to cast halos in the gloom. The air carried brine, tar, and the ever-present smoke from factory stacks. Dock bells clanged faintly in the distance. And beneath it all—the hum, vibrating faintly through the stones of the street.
Elias followed it toward the harbor.
A crowd had already gathered at the water's edge, murmuring in nervous awe. Dockhands, sailors, idlers from the taverns. Their breath puffed in the cold night as they craned to see something hauled from the Crater Sea.
Through the fog, Elias glimpsed it: a chunk of glowing glass, jagged and shimmering, large as a man's chest. The dockworkers strained as they pulled it onto the planks with ropes and hooks. The shard pulsed with pale light, etched with lines that seemed to shift and crawl when looked at directly.
Someone whispered, "Moon-glass…"
Another, more superstitious, muttered, "Shardfall. Bad omen."
The glow painted every face strange and hollow. Elias couldn't look away. His fingers itched for pen and paper.
One dockworker, broad-shouldered and drunk with bravado, reached to touch the shard. His fingertips brushed the surface—
—and he collapsed, screaming once before his throat locked tight. His eyes rolled back, foam bubbling at his lips. The crowd surged back with a collective cry, yet no one could flee. Their gazes were shackled to the glow.
Elias felt it then. A whisper that wasn't sound but meaning, sliding into his thoughts:
"Kaelith."
A word that meant nothing, yet left a taste of rust and cold in his mouth.
He stumbled back, clutching his head. Around him, others murmured or whimpered, dazed.
Then boots thudded against the planks. A squad of men in dark Bureau uniforms pushed through the crowd. Brass buttons gleamed, batons drawn. The Bureau of Safety—the city's secret guardians against "anomalous threats."
"Clear the docks!" one barked. "Step back! This object is seized under Bureau authority."
The crowd hesitated, then scattered reluctantly, muttering curses. Two men lifted the shard into a heavy iron crate lined with runes that glowed faintly blue as the shard touched them. The screaming dockworker was dragged aside, limp and silent now.
Elias lingered at the edge, torn between fascination and dread. He wanted—needed—to know more.
But one Bureau officer turned his head. His eyes, shadowed under the brim of his cap, locked with Elias's. The faintest curl of recognition—or suspicion—crossed his face.
Elias's stomach dropped. He forced himself to turn, to melt back into the fog. His footsteps echoed too loud on the cobblestones as he hurried away, the whisper still gnawing at the edges of his mind.
Kaelith.
It followed him all the way back to the attic.
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