Merlin walked with Master Wintrell back toward Halewick's boarding house under a muted afternoon sky. The city's pulse had quickened somewhat: more pedestrians moved along the cobblestones, their voices weaving a low tapestry of gossip and routine. Metallic clanking echoed from distant workshops, and a faint aroma of roast chestnuts drifted from a corner vendor's brazier. In this subtle swirl of noise and scent, Merlin guided Wintrell through quieter streets, choosing paths where the scholar's contemplative silence might not be disturbed by the press of a crowd.
Wintrell seemed preoccupied, his gaze flicking between rooftops and the slim glimpses of distant towers. Occasionally, he tapped his cane softly against the stones, as if testing their strength. Merlin observed him from the side of his vision—cautious and curious. The scholar's inquiry at the Eightfold Library and his interest in the old shrine told Merlin this man was no mere traveler. Something about Wintrell's demeanor and precise words suggested he was on the cusp of discoveries both delicate and dangerous.
Still, Merlin maintained a mask of quiet professionalism. He spoke little unless Wintrell addressed him directly, nodded politely to passersby, and ensured his pace matched the scholar's exacting stride. After all, he had a role to play: the trusted guide, the unobtrusive assistant whose presence was as ordinary as a chair or a lantern.
They turned a corner and reached a modest bridge spanning a narrow canal—one of many that threaded through Storshallow. This particular bridge had wrought-iron railings twisted into patterns of leaves and moons. The water below moved sluggishly, reflecting distorted images of old brick façades. Just as they stepped onto it, a curious scene unfolded: three women stood on the far side in hushed conversation, dressed in attire that suggested minor nobility or at least well-to-do merchant families. Their gowns were trimmed with lace and ribbons, broad hats pinned with silk flowers, and gloves of a delicate cream hue. Each held a handkerchief, embroidered with neat initials.
As Merlin and Wintrell approached, the women paused their talk, casting quick, guarded glances at the pair. One woman—the tallest, with keen grey eyes—offered a polite nod. Another tilted her parasol, feigning disinterest. Yet Merlin had learned to read subtle cues: these ladies were whispering secrets, he suspected, not idle gossip about fashion or theater. A flicker of worry lingered in their eyes. Before Wintrell could speak, Merlin dipped his head courteously.
"Good afternoon, ladies." He offered a gentle smile, pitched his voice low and calm. The women exchanged looks, hesitant. Perhaps they wondered what business a scholar and a servant might have on this quiet bridge.
Wintrell, ever the observer, raised an eyebrow at Merlin's greeting but said nothing. One of the women, her voice carrying a faint accent—perhaps from a neighboring region—stepped forward. She wore a hat of pale green and her cheeks were flushed. Her companion, in a cream bonnet, touched her arm as if to caution silence.
But the green-hatted woman chose to speak, choosing her words carefully. "Are you gentlemen from this district? We were… discussing certain recent occurrences. Nothing you'd find of interest, I'm sure."
Merlin sensed an undercurrent. He kept his posture open, non-threatening. "We know the city well enough, madam," he said softly. "Is something troubling you? Storshallow is usually peaceful."
Her eyes flicked to Wintrell, perhaps noting his refined attire. "It's… there have been rumors of strange incidents at night. Near the old canals," she whispered. "Odd lights, noises as if something scraping under the bridges. A few boatmen claim to have seen shapes moving just beneath the water's surface." Her voice trembled slightly, as if uncertain whether to believe these tales herself.
Wintrell's expression sharpened with interest. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "How recent are these rumors?"
The woman hesitated. Her companions looked uneasy, shifting their weight and tightening their grips on their parasols. Yet curiosity or concern overcame reticence. "In the past fortnight," she admitted. "A fisherman claimed that after moonrise, the canal near the old warehouses glowed faintly. He said he heard whispering in a language he couldn't recognize. People laughed at him, of course, called him a drunkard. But others have begun to mutter similar stories—no one dares speak too openly. The Overlords don't like such talk. It upsets the city's… harmony."
Merlin noted Wintrell's subtle inhale, the glimmer in the scholar's eye. He recognized that look—the hunger of a man collecting puzzle pieces. Merlin remembered Wintrell's quest for esoteric texts, his interest in artifacts and old rites. Perhaps these rumors aligned with something the scholar had read.
The scholar inclined his head graciously. "I see. Thank you for sharing. We mean no harm. We are merely passing through, interested in the city's lore."
The tallest woman nodded stiffly, relieved to be done. She and her companions drew closer together, exchanging muted words before walking off, their skirts swishing softly on the damp stone. As they departed, one murmured, "Careful what you ask, gentlemen," over her shoulder—a gentle warning.
For a moment, Merlin and Wintrell stood alone on the bridge, listening to the quiet lapping of water. A breeze stirred, carrying the scent of moss and canal algae. Merlin decided to say nothing, curious if Wintrell would comment first.
Eventually, Wintrell tapped the tip of his cane against the railing and looked sidelong at Merlin. "Strange rumors. Whispered voices, unnatural lights—just what I would expect in a city that tries to hide its older mysteries."
Merlin kept his expression mild. "Perhaps it's superstition, Master Wintrell. Fishermen and boatmen have always spun tall tales."
"Possibly. But consider the timing," Wintrell replied, his tone thoughtful. "We have wards and sigils in the Eightfold Library's corridors, old shrines bearing moon symbols, and now talk of odd happenings along the canals. This city hums with a tension that's not entirely mundane. I've studied enough histories to know that where artifacts and old gods' remnants lie, reality can fray at the edges."
He seemed poised to say more, but he caught himself, turning his attention fully to Merlin as if gauging him. "You've been helpful so far. What do you think of these rumors?"
Merlin considered carefully. The body he inhabited carried memories that might explain how best to respond. Merlin-the-assistant was pragmatic, curious but not overly bold. "I think," he said slowly, "that many stories arise from fear and coincidence. But the library's existence, and the shrine you showed me—those aren't superstition. They're real places with real histories. If unusual events are unfolding, it might mean something stirred from the past, something people prefer not to acknowledge."
Wintrell's eyes narrowed slightly, as if wondering how a mere servant could be so measured in his thinking. "A diplomatic answer. You seem to have an aptitude for caution, Merlin. That's wise in a world where some truths are dangerous to know."
They continued walking. The canal's path led toward a quieter neighborhood of stacked apartments, each with a small balcony. Laundry flapped in the breeze, and voices drifted from open windows—lullabies, an argument over rent, laughter at a shared joke. In these ordinary sounds, the city reassured them that life went on, mysteries or no.
By the time they reached the boarding house's avenue, the sky had warmed to a lighter hue, and a scatter of sparrows hopped along the gutter. Mistress Halewick's establishment stood as it always did: sturdy, unassuming, a bastion of normalcy in a world that seemed to be tilting imperceptibly toward strangeness.
Before entering, Wintrell paused at the stoop and turned to Merlin. "You've served well today. I'll be returning to the Eightfold Library tomorrow. I may have need of your guidance again, and possibly your discretion. If I require you to speak with others who know the city's history—or to find old maps—will you assist me?"
Merlin bowed his head slightly. "I will, Master Wintrell. As long as it does not bring trouble to Mistress Halewick's house."
Wintrell's thin smile suggested he appreciated the man's loyalty. "Understood. I pay for discretion. Just ensure you remain discreet."
They stepped inside to the familiar scents of bread, soap, and old wood. Annabelle passed through the hall with folded linens, pausing just long enough to acknowledge Merlin's return with a flicker of relief in her eyes. Mistress Halewick, wiping her hands on her apron, greeted Master Wintrell with professional warmth and Merlin with a curt nod. Betram hammered at something in the back room, creating a steady rhythm of metal on wood.
All seemed as it should be—yet Merlin knew that was only appearance. Beneath Storshallow's polite façade, people whispered of strange lights and sounds. In quiet corners, Wintrell pursued forbidden knowledge. The cellar at the boarding house waited with its locked cabinet and cryptic symbol. The Eightfold Library contained sealed manuscripts that could twist one's understanding of the world.
Merlin retired to his attic room for a brief respite before evening chores. He stood by his small window, watching swallows dart across a mellow sky. Had he truly been on the brink of death in another world, only to awaken here, in this intricate puzzle of old gods and mechanical wonders? The thought still unsettled him, but a part of him felt… not exactly grateful, but intrigued by the chance to discover something profound.
He must remain cautious. He must learn without exposing himself. If Wintrell represented a path to knowledge, so be it—Merlin would follow, quietly, gleaning what he could. And if the city's whispers led down darker paths, he would remember that he was no hero, just a man caught in the web of a world far stranger than he ever imagined.
In the soft hush of his room, as late afternoon shadows stretched across the walls, Merlin vowed to watch and wait. The truth would come eventually—secrets always floated up if one was patient and observant. All he needed was time, and Storshallow, with its silent shrines and murky canals, seemed more than willing to provide it.