Anvil woke up to the clanging of iron and the hiss of steam somewhere outside his thin walls. He shifted on the mattress, which groaned beneath him, every joint in his body aching like he had worked a week's task in a single night. His head pounded—a dull ache that reminded him sleep in Kargoth never did him much good, no matter how lucky he felt. The twin moons still hung pale in the sky, their gradually fading blue and pale light slipping through cracked shutters and painting everything in a ghostly wash.
Already, Kargoth's pulse had hammered through the walls—carts rattling over busted cobbles, merchants shouting, and the steady thump of machines from deep in the industrial belt. The city breathed in smoke, sweat, and iron, and let it out in a suffocating tune. 'Kargoth never really slept,' Anvil thought, running a hand through his tangled hair, trying to rub the grime from his palms.
By mid-morning, the enforcers were operating en masse. Donned in their ubiquitous black coats, shiny leather boots, and the insignia of the Enforcement Policy hanging on their chests, they moved through the streets like a tide one couldn't stop. From people's perspective, these ones were quite different, more composed with more older men among them. They seemed to be of higher ranks compared to the ones that used to scroll the markets. Laborers paused suddenly when an enforcer passed. Merchants kept silent, and all around the conversation faded to an uneasy silence.
Anvil had just gotten to the market square when he espied these enforcers. The moment he saw them, he tightened his chest. He stealthily slipped into the market crowd and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Even before he stepped into the market streets, the usual whispers could be heard again.
"Did you hear?" hissed a slim man to his friend, his eyes flicking left and right. "Old man Riffler from the north warehouse was gone these two nights. No sign of him. Vanished, just like that."
"Gone, you say?" said the other, a burly man with soot on his body. "And the Weaver boys, both fallen sick. Doctors got baffled. No cure, no warning."
Not far off, a shoemaker leaned towards a butcher. "Told you those southern roads aren't safe. People missing there too. Traders heading for Ironhold talk of bodies on the roadside, carts left like the plague swept through." The people, though unpleased by their presence based on past events, obviously knew why the enforcers, especially the older ones, were patrolling the streets now. The high-ranking enforcers rarely patrol the streets and it was only on dire occasions like this they show up.
Anvil almost stopped, but made himself keep moving. The rumors swirled around him like a heavy fog, pressing on his chest. "Careful," a street sweeper muttered, his broom resting on his shoulder. "Enforcers are taking statements. Say only what you must, or you might be next."
Slightly astonished at this, Anvil shot the sweeper a strange look. 'What do you mean?'
When Anvil reached his post, which was a yard space of stacked iron bars at the edge of the industrial district, the enforcers were already there, interrogating his coworkers. The laborers were taken into a cobbled square around there, getting questioned one after another. Anvil watched the scene, pretending like there was nothing wrong with him seeing it. However, his stomach immediately twisted — betraying the anxiety that he would get interrogated next— as the tall gaunt man next to him, and which he recognized from previous jobs, was led away too. Through the tiny space left open by the dangling curtains while the man was taken in, Anvil could make out some young enforcers who seemed to be the subordinates to the older ones. They were busy jotting down everything the interrogated said... or didn't say.
'I'll be next,' Anvil thought, pursing his lips slightly. Ever since arriving, he had always wanted to hide away from attention that will get him... noticed. 'It's fine, Anvil.' He consoled himself.
Just then, his friend, Gibbons —the one who spoke about the influential Anvils at Ironhold — slipped in through the yard gates, none the wiser about the ongoing interrogation. His hands were shoved in his coat, and his eyes were always as sharp as ever.
"Morning, Anvil," Gibbons called, tipping his hat. "City's woken up, eh?"
"Woken up enough to make me skip breakfast," Anvil grumbled, brushing the soot off his coat. "Enforcers everywhere, but men are disappearing and workers dropping sick. Feels like Kargoth's brewing a mess not even the moons can see through."
His friend lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder. "Heard talk down at the docks. It's not just laborers going missing. Merchants too. More folks vanishing along the southern road to Ironhold."
Anvil frowned. "Huh, I know. But southern road… I was planning to head to Ironhold myself."
His friend shook his head. "Don't. That road's more than just rough, mate. It's dangerous. Bodies, sick folks, and people went without a trace. Wait for things to settle, I advise." He leaned in closer. "And listen—they say even men at the eastern works are falling sick. Better to keep your head down and stay out of the inquisitors' line of sight." Anvil bent over and said bluntly. "Heh, I hear you."
Minutes later, it was Anvil's turn. This time, he and the rest of the labourers were called at once, into the cobbled square. He felt his heart thumping as the enforcers' eyes browsed through the crowd. One of the high-ranking enforcers approached him. He was tall and looked impatient. Without wasting any time, he asked,
"Name?"
"Anvil… sir," he replied, giving a quick nod.
"Occupation?"
"Haul iron, sir. Do some deliveries, too," he added carefully.
"Few days here?" the enforcer pressed, squinting.
"Yes, sir. Just transferred from the market district," Anvil shot back immediately with care. His anxiety was about to take the better of him!
The young enforcer that accompanied the interrogator scribbled in his leather notebook. "Know anyone who's traveled south lately?" the interrogating enforcer continued.
Anvil hesitated for a while and thought carefully. One wrong word could cause him trouble, so he had to choose his words carefully. "I've heard nothing, sir."
Nearby, a labourer was whispering something.
The enforcer only caught part of what he said and snapped, "Speak clearly!" The man swallowed hard, shook his head, and managed to mumble some vague things. One could feel the tension in the square — it pressed in from all sides.
Moments came and went, which seemed endless. Anvil answered each question carefully, pretending not to know when he could get away with it, and admitting things when he couldn't avoid it. Each and every question felt as though it was an exam. Each of the enforcer's deliberate pause in sound seemed to last forever, waiting for him to trip as he watched with his piercing eyes.
When they finally let him go, he hurried into a cramped alley and released a quivering breath. "Ahh... that was close..."
At that moment however, he spotted four men moving two heavy wooden barrels. He mived closer to an edge, curiosity getting the better of him. He caught something though. The way the men were handling the barrels were too cautious. 'They are hiding something... what must they be hiding?'
Smuggling, maybe.
... Or something worse. He almost turned away, but then, he caught a glint of silver on one of the men. On the man's finger, was a barely visible, strange and abstract ring as the man shifted the barrel. The glint disappeared in a blink, but Anvil saw it, and a sharp unease pricked at him upon seeing it.
'What's with the rings and necklaces?I feel uneasy about them whenever I see one.'
By dusk, he reached his new apartment, a little bit wider and not far from the Blackforge border. He stepped in, paused just inside the doorpost, and let his eyes roam the space before moving further. The walls were covered in faded damask which were yellowed a bit by smoke. The wooden floor too was dark brown and polished smooth. The air inside his new 'pristine' apartment smelled like wood and old fires. On his immediate left, there was a slim oak table with a brass lamp on it, and a small wardrobe behind it. A desk was stationed under the window, the top arranged with papers and ink put in order, together with a firm-backed chair waiting for him. And right in front of him, his new, soft, beautiful, lovely, comfortable and wonderf—
'—Now, that's enough.'
—bed had an iron frame, with fresh linen and a woolen blanket, good for warmth, neatly folded over it. On the bedside table, a brass clock was ticking quietly beside a ceramic basin. The table had a short bookshelf containing some old, worn books. His jacket hung from a rack by the corner on his diagonal left. This place appeared steady and quiet, as though he could breathe without struggle here. He ran his hand across the desk, caught his own tired reflection in the walnut wood-framed mirror, and quietly closed the door behind him. At last, he was alone... and alone in this comfort if a place. The urban sounds quieted into silence outside.