The world swayed. It wasn't the slow, predictable rhythm of a rocking chair or the gentle pull of the ocean's current. No, this was unsteady, jarring, like being carried over uneven ground by hands that weren't entirely in sync.
Castin groaned, his mind sluggish, caught between waking and unconsciousness. Shapes flickered in the dim lantern glow, stretching unnaturally before snapping back into place. The warm scent of damp stone and burning oil drifted around him, mixing with the distant murmur of voices, soft, almost melodic, layered beneath the heavier footfalls of those carrying him.
"Damn, he's heavier than he looks," a voice grumbled, slightly out of breath.
"You're just weak," another muttered in response. "Quit complaining and keep moving."
Castin smirked, or at least he thought he did. "Ya'know… if you wanted to carry me, all you had to do was ask." His voice was rough, hoarse from exhaustion, but the words slurred together, lazy.
A chuckle. "He's awake."
"Barely."
The world shifted again, his body rocked as they moved through the underground city. He tried to focus, blinking sluggishly, but everything looked hazy, figures moving through the tunnels, silhouettes slipping between flickering lights, shadows cast by lanterns swinging from overhead beams. The marketplace was winding down for the night, yet the city still pulsed with life.
A group of rats skittered past, their eyes catching the glow of oil lamps as they darted between crates. Further ahead, merchants packed away the remnants of their stalls, muttering amongst themselves. The scent of stale bread, spices, and something vaguely metallic lingered in the air, wrapping around him in a strange, disorienting cocoon.
"You're lucky Castin," came a smoother, more familiar voice. The Rat King. "Not many get a personal escort through my city."
Castin let out a slow breath, rolling his head slightly toward the voice. "Don't suppose I could get a drink while I'm at it?"
The Rat King chuckled. "I think you've had enough excitement for one night."
His eyelids grew heavier again. The world blurred at the edges, his thoughts slipping into half-formed dreams that mingled with reality. Somewhere in the distance, a woman laughed, a warm, genuine sound that melted into the lantern-lit haze. For a second, just a second, it reminded him of Elena's laugh. The thought drifted through him like a ripple on water, present and fleeting all at once.
The weight of his body became heavier, his limbs like lead. He was slipping again. Voices rose and fell around him, words merging into indistinct murmurs, fading in and out like waves against the shore. He felt the moment they crossed into a quieter district, the air changing, the scent shifting from the bustle of the market to something warmer, something familiar.
"Almost there," Matias muttered.
A door creaked open, and Castin felt himself being lowered onto something softer than stone but still firm beneath him. A cot. The scent of baked bread and aged wood curled around him, grounding him for a brief moment before his body finally gave in.
As darkness took him fully, the last thing he heard was the Rat King's voice, steady and certain.
"Rest while you can, Castin. We'll talk soon."
The next thing Castin registered was warmth.
Not the blistering heat of battle, not the stale, stifling air of tunnels too deep beneath the earth, but warmth that felt lived-in, familiar. The kind that curled into the bones of a home. The scent of baked bread and woodsmoke lingered in the air, heavy but comforting, seeping into the fabric of the worn cot beneath him. His muscles, sore and stiff, protested as he shifted slightly. For a long moment, he simply lay there, eyes closed, letting himself take in the stillness.
Then, a voice broke through the quiet.
"You've been asleep for seventeen hours."
Castin cracked one eye open, vision still blurred at the edges. A figure sat beside him, barely more than a shadow in the dimly lit room. He didn't need to focus to recognize the voice.
The Rat King.
"Well, if you didn't wake me up it would have been eighteen." Castin muttered, his throat rough. "Guess I really needed the beauty sleep." He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly before blinking up at the ceiling. "Where the hell am I?"
"Edgar's shop." The Rat King's voice was steady, as unreadable as always. "You're in the back room. It's safer than the palace for now."
Castin pushed himself up slightly, ignoring the dull ache that rippled through his ribs. "Safer from what?"
The Rat King regarded him for a moment before answering. "Tell me what you remember."
The words carried more weight than Castin expected. He frowned, rubbing a hand across his temples, trying to shake the lingering haze from his thoughts. Pieces of the last day, or however long it had been, came back in flashes. The ruined quarter, the claw marks in the stone, the wreckage of something too advanced to belong there.
Then the machine.
He exhaled sharply, fingers curling into the rough fabric of the blanket draped over him. "That thing," he said, his voice quieter now. "The machine that was controlling the rat. It wasn't just some scrap tech, was it?"
The Rat King tilted his head slightly, his expression betraying nothing. "No."
Castin let out a breath, his frustration mounting. "That's it? Just 'no'?"
A faint smirk tugged at the edges of the Rat King's mouth. "I was waiting to see if you'd figure out the rest."
Castin scowled. "I'm too tired for riddles. That thing, whatever it was, it wasn't some accident. Someone built it, someone used it. And I don't think it was the first of its kind." He met the Rat King's gaze. "Nikodemus. He's connected to this, isn't he? Those were his men, they might as well have said as much."
The Rat King leaned back slightly, exhaling as if weighing his words. "Nikodemus' influence still lingers in Rat City, whether I like it or not. But you already knew that"
Castin's jaw tensed. "I saw what was left of the quarter. Whatever happened there, it wasn't just time that destroyed it."
"No," the Rat King admitted. "It wasn't."
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sound of the city outside, muffled voices, the creak of wooden beams, the faint hum of life carrying on just beyond these walls. The Rat King studied him, his glowing eyes flickering in the dim light.
"You're sharp, Castin," he said finally. "That's why I can't have you running loose just yet. You'll stay here for now."
Castin huffed a tired laugh. "That supposed to be a kindness or a prison sentence?"
"A kindness," the Rat King said easily. "And a precaution." He stood, adjusting the cloak draped over his shoulders. "Edgar will look after you. Rest while you can."
Castin watched as the Rat King moved toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. "You're caught in the current now, Tall One. Best start learning how to swim."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Castin alone with the weight of everything that had just been said, and everything that hadn't.
The scent of fresh bread pulled Castin from the haze of sleep. It was warm, rich—the kind of smell that belonged to a home, not a place he'd expect to wake up in. He blinked against the soft golden glow filtering through a small, dust-coated window, its light flickering gently against the walls. Not sunlight—there was no true morning down here—but the steady burn of a lantern outside, casting a warmth that mimicked the passage of time in a place where day and night blurred together.
The cot beneath him creaked, softer than the cold stone and debris he'd been used to, but still firm enough to remind him he wasn't in some luxurious palace.
No, he was in a shop. Edgar's shop. The Rat King's so-called 'safe house.'
A low murmur of voices carried through the wooden walls, accompanied by the rhythmic scraping of a blade against a cutting board. Castin's stomach grumbled in response, reminding him that whatever had been keeping him on his feet these past few days hadn't been food. He forced himself upright, wincing slightly as the movement sent a dull throb through his ribs.
Just as he swung his legs over the side of the cot, the door creaked open.
"Ah, you're up," came a deep, steady voice. Edgar.
The man stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint dusting of flour on his sleeves. He was broad-shouldered, sturdy, with a face that had seen its fair share of long nights and hard work. His sharp eyes studied Castin, but unlike Matias or the Rat King, there was no scrutiny, no weighing of intent—just quiet assessment. The look of a man who had seen too many strangers pass through his door and knew better than to expect anything from them.
Castin exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. "Smells better than what I'm used to waking up to."
Edgar huffed, stepping further inside. "I'd hope so. Bread's fresh." He gestured toward the main room beyond the door. "Come on. If you're up, you might as well eat."
Castin didn't need to be told twice. His body still ached, but the smell of food was enough to push past it. He followed Edgar out of the back room into a small but well-lived-in space, filled with shelves of baking supplies, hanging dried herbs, and the faint glow of a fire nestled in a stone oven. The heart of the shop.
A wooden table sat near the counter, where a small loaf of bread and a bowl of something steaming waited for him.Edgar pulled out a chair, nodding toward it before settling down across from him.
Castin sank into the seat, tearing off a piece of the still-warm bread. "Gotta say," he muttered between bites, "beats the hell out of ration packs."
Edgar smirked slightly, watching him eat before speaking. "Rat King said you had a rough time out there."
Castin scoffed. "Yeah, you could say that." He swallowed, letting the warmth of the meal settle in his stomach. "Didn't expect to wake up here, though."
"Didn't expect to have you here," Edgar admitted. "But the Rat King trusts you enough to keep you under my roof. That's saying something."
Castin paused, chewing over both the words and the bread. Trust. That was a dangerous thing to give him.
He leaned back slightly in his chair. "You don't seem too thrilled about it."
Edgar shrugged. "I don't make a habit of housing people I don't know. But the King's word holds weight." He tilted his head slightly. "Still, doesn't mean I won't be keeping an eye on you."
Castin huffed a dry laugh. "Yeah, I'm getting used to that."
For the first time, Edgar's expression shifted into something less guarded—something closer to amusement. "Good. Means you'll keep yourself out of trouble."
Castin eyed the bread in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. "You always been a baker?" he asked, tone more casual now.
Edgar smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Long enough. It's a good trade down here—people always need to eat."
Castin nodded slowly. "Yeah… I used to bake too." He exhaled, the words settling into the space between them before he realized how heavy they felt. "Me and my daughter. Elena."
Edgar's brow lifted slightly at the wording. "Used to?"
Castin hesitated, his grip tightening on the edge of the bread before he loosened it again. He didn't meet Edgar's gaze, only stared down at the table. "Yeah." His voice was quieter now. "Used to."
A silence stretched between them before Castin shifted slightly, clearing his throat. "You live here alone?"
Edgar studied him for a moment before shaking his head. "No. My wife, Elizabeth, and our daughter, Emma, live here too. They help run the shop." His tone softened slightly at the mention of them. "Emma's got a knack for making a mess, but she's learning."
Castin smirked faintly, sensing the warmth in Edgar's words. "Sounds like a handful."
Edgar chuckled. "More than you know." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I used to bake with someone too. My son, Eli." His expression darkened slightly. "He was taken during the calamity in the ruined quarter." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "So I understand where you're coming from, Castin was it?"
Castin glanced up, caught slightly off guard by the shift in Edgar's tone. He didn't expect understanding, not like this. He swallowed, nodding slightly. "Yeah. Castin."
Edgar nodded, then stood, moving toward the counter where a ball of dough waited. He dusted his paws with flour and began kneading. "Hand me that sack of flour, will you?"
Castin raised a brow but complied, standing with a slight wince before grabbing the sack and placing it near Edgar.
The baker nodded in thanks before kneading again. "Ever still bake?"
"Not in a long time," Castin admitted, watching the rhythmic press of Edgar's hands against the dough.
"You should," Edgar said simply, before glancing at him. "Go on. Try it."
Castin hesitated, but then stepped forward, rolling up his sleeves before pressing his hands into the dough. The familiar push and pull of it, the texture beneath his palms, it was oddly grounding.
After a few moments of quiet kneading, Castin broke the silence. "That so-called calamity…" he started. "What really happened?"
Edgar let out a slow breath, eyes fixed on the dough. "Aye, a calamity," he murmured. "One that tore a hole in this city, and in the people left behind."
His hands pressed into the dough with more force, his expression tightening. "The explosion took everything from us. Families, homes… my son." He exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders evident. "And the man who caused it? He's still out there, somewhere."
Castin was silent for a moment, his hands stilling over the dough. Then, quietly, he spoke. "Elena had leukemia." His voice was steady, but the weight in it was unmistakable. "She fought. Harder than anyone I've ever seen. Every treatment, every setback, she kept pushing." He exhaled, shaking his head. "And when the end came, when she couldn't fight anymore… it was like all that strength we used, all that effort, it made the loss hurt even more."
He looked down at his hands, pressing them deeper into the dough. "You asked if I still bake. Truth is, I haven't done much of anything in the months since she passed."
Edgar was silent for a moment, then he nodded, kneading the dough a little slower. "Maybe it was about time for that to change." Castin glanced at him. "What do you mean?"
Edgar's hands didn't stop moving, his voice thoughtful. "Life has a current. It pulls us forward, whether we want it to or not. Sometimes, we—."
Before Edgar could finish his answer, the door to the shop swung open, and the faint sound of voices filled the room.
Elizabeth stepped inside first, carrying a basket of supplies, her sharp gaze immediately settling on Castin. Behind her, Emma darted in, her smaller frame moving past her mother as she took in the unfamiliar figure at their table.
"You're the man from before," Emma said suddenly, tilting her head. "The one walking with the Rat King."
Castin blinked at her, caught off guard. "You saw me?"
Emma nodded. "Mhm. I was playing with the others. We all saw you." She stepped closer, inspecting him without hesitation. "You look like you got beat up."
Elizabeth gave Edgar a look, but he only nodded toward Castin. "This is Castin. He's staying here for a while."
Elizabeth pursed her lips before setting the basket down. "Is he?" Her tone wasn't unkind, but it was measured, cautious.
Edgar sighed, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Rat King's orders."
Emma, unfazed by the tension, climbed into a chair across from Castin and leaned her elbows on the table. "Did you get hurt fighting bad guys?" she asked, eyes bright with curiosity.
Castin smirked slightly, shaking his head. "Not exactly."
Emma hummed as if considering his answer, then grinned. "Well, you look like you could use more food."
Edgar chuckled, nodding toward the remaining bread on the table. "She's got a point."
Elizabeth, still watching Castin carefully, exhaled. "Just don't make trouble."
Castin raised a brow. "Not planning on it."
Elizabeth gave him one last look before turning away to unpack the supplies, but Emma remained where she was, studying him with an open curiosity that Castin wasn't sure how to deal with.
For the first time in a long while, he found himself part of something quiet. Something normal.
And he wasn't sure what to do with that.