Dark Whisperer

The front door of the stone house groaned as the morning chill seeped through its weathered frame, the freezing air twisting through the ancient stone walls and mingling with the fading warmth within. Shoes, well-worn and muddy, lay scattered by the entrance—small pairs belonging to girls, their faded laces evidence of countless days in the town fields and by the lake. The absence of larger boots was palpable, empty spaces where they might once have stood.

The hallway was narrow but filled with memories. Mementos hung along the walls—carvings, faded pictures drawn in childish hands, and the signs of soft scrapes, little bumps and bruises acquired through the years. Everything about the house spoke of care, a meticulous order imposed by the lady of the home. Yet, tucked into every corner, were traces of something sweeter—handmade wreaths, tiny, mismatched decorations that added a playful charm. Lina’s touches, no doubt—her wild, lovable energy still bubbling over even in her absence.

At just twelve, Lina was small for her age, her figure slight and delicate, but her personality shone like a beacon above it all. With auburn hair, a perfect match to her mother’s, usually tied into playful pigtails that bounced with every step, she carried an unmistakable brightness. Her wide, bright eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief and curiosity, making her appear full of life and mischief even when still. She always wore frilly dresses, typical of town girls, though she somehow made them her own, adding an extra layer of charm to her every move. There was nothing extraordinary about her appearance—she looked like any other town girl—but to those who knew her, Lina’s warmth and boundless spirit made her unforgettable.

Having moved from the kitchen, where the first hearth was now burning steadily, Ada knelt beside the second hearth in the main seating area. Beside her sat a well-worn basket filled with split logs and kindling, the wood stacked neatly, ready for the day's use. The basket itself, made from sturdy woven reeds, had been carried from room to room so often that the handle had started to fray. Ada had filled it with care earlier in the morning, knowing how important it was to keep the fires alive, especially during these still-chilly spring mornings.

She reached into the basket, grabbing a few smaller pieces of kindling, and carefully arranged them over the faintly glowing embers in the hearth. The fire here had gone out overnight, but the coals still held enough heat to bring it back to life. She added one of the split logs next, positioning it at an angle to allow for proper airflow. Her fingers, though cold and stiff, moved with the practiced precision of someone who had done this countless times before.

Once the wood was in place, Ada leaned forward, her face close to the hearth, and gently blew on the embers. A soft glow bloomed from beneath the ashes, flickering and catching the kindling. The flames began to lick at the dry wood, crackling softly in the quiet room. Satisfied, she sat back on her heels, watching as the fire took hold, warmth slowly radiating outwards.

She picked up the basket, now lighter after her use of several logs, and set it aside. The house, built with thick stone walls and narrow windows, held onto the cold more than the wooden houses further up the hill, so it took time for the warmth to truly fill the space. The stone hearth in this main room was older than the one in the kitchen, its edges smooth from years of use, darkened with the remnants of many winters past.

Ada dusted the ash from her hands onto her apron and stood up, giving the fire one last glance. It was burning steadily now, flames curling and twisting around the wood. The soft crackle of burning logs and the faint warmth filling the room brought a sense of calm.

With the hearth in the main room restored, Ada moved toward her room to gather herself for the day. She would check the fires again later, but for now, the house was finally waking up to the day’s warmth.

As she made her way down the narrow hallway, the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath her feet echoed in the quiet, her mind already turning to the tasks ahead.

Ada stepped into her room, her gaze sweeping across the organized chaos that had come to define her little world. The space was small, but every inch of it felt personal, filled with the remnants of her restless creativity. Inside, the bed was perfectly made, the linens taut and clean. It stood at one side of the room like an island of calm in a sea of creativity.

The rest of the space was a stark contrast—sculptures in varying stages of completion lined shelves and the floor. Books stacked haphazardly against the walls, some open, others teetering on the verge of collapse. Small scraps of parchment, half-finished sketches, and odd trinkets collected from the village and the surrounding hills cluttered the shelves and corners. A few rough-carved figurines—her attempts at woodcraft—sat next to jars filled with different types of charcoal and pencils. It was a mess, but it was her mess, a space where her mind could wander without interruption.

It was a storm of brilliance, and it was Ada’s domain.

Her sketchpad lay open on the small table in the corner, where it had been the night before. The half-finished outline of a creature from one of the old village stories stared back at her—something she’d started drawing before sleep had pulled her away. The smooth, worn cover of the pad held hundreds of her ideas, rough beginnings and elaborate designs, most of which would likely never see completion. Still, it was her quiet rebellion against the rigid expectations of town life.

She walked over to the table, moving aside a pile of books and loose parchment to make space. Her fingers lightly brushed the corner of the sketchpad, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. It was tempting—so tempting—to lose herself in her work, especially before the day's inevitable demands pulled her away.

But she didn’t have long.

Ada lowered herself to the floor, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the scattered sketches and half-finished projects. The wooden floor beneath her was cold, but she didn’t care. In this small moment, it was just her and the paper. She reached for her pencil, twirling it between her fingers for a moment before setting it against the rough surface of the sketchpad.

Her eyes flicked back to the creature she had started the night before. Its form was incomplete, one of the arms still a rough outline, the details of its face not quite right yet. With a focused gaze, she began adding depth to the shadows, refining the lines of the creature’s twisted limbs. The pencil moved swiftly, each stroke deliberate, the world outside fading as her mind sharpened in on the sketch.

The stillness of the house pressed in around her, and for a few precious hours, Ada felt like she could breathe, like her thoughts could unfurl freely on the paper. She knew it wouldn’t last. The morning sun was rising higher, and her responsibilities for the day—tending to the errands her mother had assigned—were waiting just outside the walls of her little sanctuary.

But here, now, she could steal a bit of time for herself.

She glanced toward the window, watching as the light filtered through the frost on the glass. Soon enough, Marin would come calling, and the day would begin in earnest. But for now, she let herself get lost in the strokes of her pencil, her mind working through shapes and lines as she filled in the sketch, her hands moving with a practiced rhythm.

She could already hear her mother’s voice in her mind, reminding her that creativity wasn’t going to put food on the table. But Ada knew that these stolen moments mattered—if not to anyone else, then at least to her. And perhaps that was enough.

For a few more minutes, it was just her and her art, before the rest of the world came knocking.

“Has it always been this cold this early?” Ada’s pencil paused, the tip hovering over the page as she listened to the muffled sounds of the house coming alive around her. From down the hall, she could hear the faint murmur of her mother’s voice, Elara, already giving orders for the day. Lina’s familiar, cheerful tone answered back, though the words were lost in the walls, reduced to faint echoes. Ada smiled to herself at the sound of her younger sister’s voice, always so bright in the mornings, no matter the chill that crept through the cracks in the stone walls.

Her thoughts drifted as her hand idly twirled the pencil. Winter in Halrest had always felt like a long, slow endurance. The biting cold that seeped into every room, no matter how many fires you kept going. The lake, once so lively in spring and summer, now lay still and frozen at its edges, its dark depths shrouded in mist. The town’s usual hum of activity had slowed to a crawl, replaced by the heavy weight of survival.

It wasn’t like the other seasons, where the village seemed to burst with life and movement. Winter was harder, quieter. The work was different too—more about mending what had been broken, cleaning what had been worn down by the long months before. Every family spent hours preparing food, preserving what they could for the weeks ahead when the lake and fields wouldn’t give so freely. And Ada, like the rest, was no stranger to the demanding tasks that came with it.

There was always something to fix, something to clean. Whether it was the mending of worn clothes, the constant sweeping of dirt and snow that found its way into every crack, or the chopping and stacking of firewood—winter was relentless. Even the cold itself seemed to mock them, creeping into the houses no matter how well-sealed the doors and windows were. The work never truly ended, it just shifted with the seasons.

Through the walls, she could just make out the sound of Elara’s voice again, firmer now, giving another set of instructions to Lina. Ada caught a few words—"bread," "stables"—but let them fade away as her mind turned back to the image of the village. Everyone in Halrest, from the youngest to the oldest, had their part to play in keeping the town running through the winter.

Her mother would call her soon enough, and the list of chores would begin. There was mending to be done, a trip to the fishmonger, and food that needed to be gathered and prepared for the week ahead.

And it would all have to be done with the same sense of duty that Halrest demanded from all its people.

The village was unforgiving in that way. You worked because you had to, because there was no other choice. The lake gave and the lake took—everyone knew that. Elara had drilled it into her and Lina for as long as she could remember. Everything had its place, its purpose. And during the winter, that purpose was survival.

Ada’s fingers tightened around the pencil as she brought it back to the page, determined to steal a few more moments for herself before the demands of the day caught up with her. But her thoughts were already slipping, moving away from her art and back to the cold reality of the town outside.

In Halrest, winter was more than just a season—it was a test. A test of patience, of strength, and of how much one could endure before the thaw came again.

A soft knock at her door drew Ada’s attention. She turned to see her mother, Elara, standing in the doorway, her tall, slender frame backlit by the early morning light that filtered through the hallway. Elara’s deep blue eyes, resembling the still waters of a lake in midsummer, softened as they settled on her daughter, though a slight furrow in her brow hinted at the constant weight of responsibility she carried. She adjusted the woollen shawl draped over her shoulders; its fabric worn but immaculately kept much like everything else in her life.

“Ada, you’re up early,” Elara remarked, her voice even and controlled, though there was a warmth beneath it that only her daughters were privy to. She stepped further into the room, her tall figure moving with a quiet grace. Despite her thin frame, there was strength in her presence, a purposeful air that came from years of hard work and dedication to the town. Her bold features and high cheekbones giving her an almost noble appearance—striking, even after years of repetitive strain had left fine lines around her eyes and mouth.

Ada turned her head to her mother. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I might as well get things started.”

“I thought it was Lina’s turn to tend the fire,” Elara continued.

Her auburn hair, streaked with darker hints, was tied back neatly, with only a few strands of hair peeking out from beneath the perfectly placed straw hat that sat atop her head, the brim casting a shadow over her sharp, beautiful features.

“She didn’t wake up,” Ada said with a shrug, turning one of the larger logs over. “Figured I’d just do it.”

Elara moved closer, her boots tied flawlessly, the sturdy leather creasing slightly as she walked. She was dressed, as always, in a long cloth dress under a practical leather jacket, her gloves—men’s gloves, tightened at the wrists for better fit—peeking out from under her shawl. Everything about her appearance was neat, in place, a reflection of the woman herself—structured, dependable, and strong. Her presence filled the room, but not in an overbearing way. It was more like a force that couldn’t be ignored, a calm authority.

“That’s twice this week,” Elara remarked, her tone neither praising nor scolding, but somewhere in between. “You’ll wear yourself thin if you keep picking up her slack.”

“I can handle it,” Ada muttered, though the weight of responsibility was evident in her voice.

Elara glanced at the half-finished sketches and carvings scattered around the shelves. Her eyes lingered for a moment before returning to Ada. She didn’t comment on the mess of creativity, though Ada could feel the unspoken judgment. Instead, Elara’s fingers brushed absentmindedly at the curious pebble around her neck, a smooth stone with a faint red hue that caught the light just right, suspended by a simple string.

“I see you’ve been busy,” Elara said, her tone neutral but with a hint of quiet approval. There was always an undercurrent of expectation with her mother. Elara never showed much emotion, and yet there was a shared acknowledgment between them—a recognition of the weight each carried in different ways.

“I try,” Ada replied, a touch of sarcasm edging her words, though the weariness in her voice was genuine.

Elara’s sharp eyes softened slightly as she watched her daughter draw. “You do more than try, Ada. You’ve been carrying a lot lately.”

Ada’s hand froze over her notepad, her mind unwilling to linger on her mother’s words. “It’s just what needs doing. Same as everyone else.”

“You’ve got a talent for taking on more than your share,” Elara said, folding her arms as she spoke. Her tone was gentler now but firm, as always. “That’s not a bad thing, but there’s a balance. This town… it demands much from us. From you.”

Ada stood up letting out a breath, feeling the weight of her mother’s words settle on her. “I know, Mother. I’ll get to everything.”

Elara’s brow furrowed. “I am not asking for everything, Ada. Just that you remember your place in this town, your responsibilities—what it means to contribute. It is not just about getting things done; it’s about being a part of something bigger than yourself.”

Ada let out a short, humourless laugh. “You mean the way you do? Always putting the town first, before anything else?” There was an edge in her voice now, a flash of the frustration she’d been holding back.

Elara’s gaze hardened for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. “This is not about me, Ada. This is about you. You are young, and it is easy to think you have all the time in the world to figure things out. But you do not.”

Ada turned away, looking down at her scattered sketches on the floor, her fingers brushing absentmindedly over the papers. “I know my responsibilities, Mother. I just wish...”

Elara waited for her to finish, but when Ada didn’t continue, she sighed softly. “There will be time for the rest later, Ada. For now, focus on what matters today. The fishmongers, the stables, and that poor family down by the shore. They need the help.”

Ada nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’ll take care of it. Like always.”

Elara’s gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned back towards the hall. “...and Ada, make sure Marin helps— and don’t wander off again."

Ada offered a small, knowing smile as she stepped outside, the cool morning breeze brushing her face. "I’ll keep on task. Promise."

Elara gave her a gentle nod, a sign of trust.

“I know you will,” she said quietly, her voice softening just enough to remind Ada that, despite everything, they were family. Without another word, Elara turned and walked towards the door, her footsteps quiet but steady as she left the room to begin her own day.

As the door creaked shut behind her, Ada stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of her mother’s expectations pressing down on her once again. She sighed, picking up her sketchpad and sinking down onto the floor, hoping to lose herself in her drawings—if only for a little while longer before the real day began.

Lina appeared then, her bright smile lighting up the room. She bounced in, as if the cold outside hadn’t even touched her. “I was supposed to do the fire!” she chirped, but there was no regret in her tone. “Oh well. Thanks, Ada!”

Ada shook her head with a grin, feeling the warmth of her sister’s energy radiating through the house. “You’ll have to make up for it in the fields later,” she teased, glancing at Lina as she busied herself tying her hair back.

“Pffft. Easy,” Lina declared with a dramatic wave of her hand. “I'll pick up a stick or two and call it a day.” She winked and skipped out of the room just as quickly as she had come, her steps light and carefree.

“You’d better pick more than that, or you’ll be out there ‘til nightfall!” Ada called after her, her voice carrying a note of sisterly warning.

Lina’s cheerful laughter echoed down the hall as she moved toward the kitchen. “I’ll pick enough for both of us. Besides, I’m faster than you anyway!”

“Faster at running your mouth, maybe!” Ada shot back, shaking her head as a smile tugged at her lips. It was the same banter every morning, and yet it never got old.

As Lina’s footsteps faded, Elara’s voice called back from the kitchen, firm but patient. “Lina, don’t forget to make your bed before we go!”

“Yes, Mother!” Lina’s replied, as cheerful as ever. The sounds of fumbling followed as she tidied her bed and grabbed what she needed.

Ada could hear the rhythmic sounds of the house continuing around her, the familiar morning bustle. Yet, a sense of quiet stillness began to settle. The town, too, seemed hushed—a stillness that wasn’t usual. It was the kind of silence that filled a space when everyone was holding their breath. Waiting.

She glanced out the window, where the fog rolled in off the lake. The mist twisted in delicate patterns, silver tendrils curling through the trees, as though it had a life of its own. The townsfolk called it the gods’ breath, a blessing that protected their waters and provided for them. But Ada was not so sure.

Elara voice ran out then, “Ada,”

Ada rose, moving to open her door and look to her mother,

“Yes Mother?” she replied.

Elara was pulling on her cloak as she stepped toward the front door, Lina trailing behind with a loaf of bread tucked under her arm. Elara’s voice was gentler now, drawing her daughter back to the present. “You know the lake is our life. We owe everything to it. Everything has its place.” She adjusted her cloak, giving Ada a look that carried both command and reassurance.

Ada nodded absently. With a final responding nod, Elara and Lina turned to leave the house. Ada watched as the door closed behind them, the familiar sounds of their footsteps fading into the early morning air.

Left alone for a moment, Ada sighed and turned to get ready for the day. She crossed the room, dodging the piles of books and clothes strewn about her corner. “I really need to clean up in here,” she muttered under her breath, tripping over a stray boot in her haste.

After wrestling with her scattered belongings, Ada finally managed to find her winter clothes. She tugged on her boots, feeling the familiar weight of them as she tied the laces tight. Once dressed, she made her way toward the kitchen, ready to face the tasks of the day.

As she moved, she could hear the distant sound of Marin’s voice outside, cutting through the crisp morning air. He was already waiting for her, just as he always was—on time and with that familiar teasing tone that never failed to bring a smile to Ada’s face.

A knock echoed through the small home, but not just any knock. It was the rhythmic, familiar rap—two quick taps, a pause, then three more taps in succession—that made Ada’s lips twitch upward before she even opened the door. It was their signal, a secret greeting shared since they were children, a small rebellion against the mundane rhythms of town life. She knew exactly who stood behind the door.

“Well, look who decided to show up today,” Marin called, his grin wide as he leaned casually against the doorframe. The early light cast a golden hue over his tall frame, highlighting the contrast between him and the rest of the town boys. Where others were merely common, Marin stood out—he was towering for his age, his broad shoulders and muscular build a testament to years of arduous work. The tan faded skin of his arms and neck, so familiar among the townsfolk, seemed to glow under the morning sun, yet there was something about him that set him apart.

Ada leaned against the door, arms crossed, but there was no hiding the smirk tugging at her lips. “Some of us have work to do.”

Marin chuckled, his deep voice a pleasant rumble as he straightened up. “And some of us make work look easy.”

“You mean skipping your turn at the fishmongers?” Ada teased, arching an eyebrow as she stepped aside to let him in.

He shrugged, the grin never leaving his face as he stepped inside the warm house. “Details, details.”

“So… fishmongers first, what else?” Marin asked, his eyes lingering on hers with a warmth that made her cheeks flush ever so slightly.

Ada tried to ignore the flutter in her chest as she remembered the list of tasks her mother had given her. “Stables and a home near the lake… Old Daron’s.”

Marin’s grin widened mischievously. “Old Daron, huh? Think he’ll regale us with another thrilling tale of his heroic fishing days? Maybe this time he’ll tell us how he once caught a fish ‘this big’—” Marin spread his arms wide, nearly hitting the side of the doorframe, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “—using only his sheer charm.”

Ada couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and genuine. “If we’re lucky, he might even throw in a lesson on ‘how to woo a lady using only fish tales.’ You could take some notes,” she teased, nudging him playfully.

Marin’s gaze softened, and his smile turned more serious, though still playful. “I don’t think I need any fish tales to impress a certain someone,” he said, his voice low and teasing, but there was a flicker of sincerity behind his words.

Ada rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t fade. “You’re hopeless.”

He shrugged again, but his eyes never left hers. “Maybe. But at least I’m hopelessly charming.”

She closed the door behind him, still shaking her head, but her heart fluttered at his words. “What am I going to do with you?”

Marin gave her a sidelong glance, his smile softening even more. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something. You always do.”

For a moment, they just stood there, the morning light casting soft shadows around them, and Ada felt the weight of the day lift ever so slightly. With Marin by her side, the tasks ahead didn’t seem so daunting.

Ada closed the door after letting Marin in, glancing back at him with a quick smile. “Give me a moment to finish up,” she said, her voice light as she moved toward the kitchen. Marin nodded, leaning casually against the wall, his hands in his pockets as he watched her flit through the house with practiced ease.

She reached the small table in the kitchen and grabbed a neatly wrapped bundle of food—leftovers from the night before, prepared by her mother. With a satisfied nod, she tucked the bundle under her arm and then hurried to her room. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly as she moved, and behind her, she heard the familiar creak of the floorboards as Marin followed her down the hallway.

“I won’t be long,” she called over her shoulder, disappearing into her small room. Marin leaned against the doorframe, his presence quiet as she made her way to her desk. Her sketchpad was sitting where she had left it, still open to a half-finished drawing from the night before. Ada stared at the lines, her brow furrowing in concentration, her fingers itching to finish what she had started.

“You’re always drawing something,” Marin observed, his tone easy and familiar. There was a gentle admiration in his voice, but no real weight behind his words—it was just a part of who she was, and Marin accepted it as easily as he accepted everything else in Halrest.

Ada glanced up at him, her lips curving into a small smile. “It’s how I make sense of everything,” she said, sitting down in the centre of the clutter that surrounded her. Her fingers grazed over the page as she absentmindedly picked up her charcoal and began to add more lines to the sketch. “The village… the work… sometimes it just feels like too much.”

Marin tilted his head slightly, leaning against the doorframe as if the conversation was routine. “I don’t know, it’s just what we do, right? Keeps everything running. Besides,” he added with a faint grin, “It’s not so bad. There’s always something to do, and at least we know where we stand.”

Ada sighed, setting her charcoal down for a moment. “Yeah, but doesn’t it ever feel like we’re just going through the motions? Like we’re meant to do the same thing every day until we’re old and gray?”

Marin shrugged, his grin never faltering. “Maybe, but it doesn’t bother me. I like it here. It’s home. There’s comfort in knowing what’s expected of you, don’t you think?”

Ada looked at him, the warmth in his voice a stark contrast to the unsettled feeling in her chest. “You never wonder if there’s more? More to see, more to do?”

Marin chuckled, shaking his head. “Not really. I like it here—working with my hands, contributing. It’s a good life, Ada. Why question it?” He smiled at her, genuine and reassuring. “Besides, you’re always thinking about things differently. That’s your way. But me? I’m happy with what we’ve got.”

Ada’s heart sank a little at his response, though she knew it was true to who he was. Marin loved Halrest—the routine, the work, the stability of it all. He was everything the town valued: reliable, steady, and content. But it didn’t stop the restless feeling in her from growing.

She glanced down at her drawing, the lines now fading in the morning light. “I guess I just think too much,” she said with a small laugh, brushing off her deeper worries.

Marin stepped into the room a bit more, crouching down next to her, his eyes scanning the sketchpad. “You know, I like that you’re different. The way you think about things. It’s part of what makes you special.”

Ada’s cheeks flushed at his words, though she tried to hide it by focusing on the lines of her sketch. “I’m just tired, that’s all,” she said, brushing off his compliment even though her heart warmed at the sentiment. “Tired of the same routine every day.”

Marin rested a hand on her shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring. “It’s a good routine though,” he said softly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Ada smiled softly, her worries still lingering beneath the surface. “Maybe,” she replied, her voice soft as she stared down at her drawing one last time. Then, with a small sigh, she closed the sketchpad and slipped it into her satchel along with the bundle of food.

Standing up, she gave Marin a playful nudge. “Come on, let’s get going before we’re late. Fishmongers first.”

Marin straightened, his usual grin returning. “Right. Fishmongers, stables, Old Daron’s. Let’s see if we can get through it without any more lectures.”

Ada chuckled, pulling her satchel over her shoulder as they headed for the door. “If we’re lucky,” she said, stepping outside into the cool morning air. The sun was just beginning to rise higher in the sky, casting a soft glow over the village as they started their walk south toward the fishmongers, side by side.

She looked at him, his warmth and sincerity so at odds with the restlessness that gnawed at her insides. He meant every word he said. And why wouldn’t he? Halrest had been good to him. He was a respected, admired, natural leader even at his age. People looked up to him. And she… well, she didn’t know what people saw in her. Just another girl trying to fit in.

As they passed a neighbour’s house, Ada noticed the low pile of wood stacked outside the door, the way the shutters rattled in the cold wind. Without missing a beat, Marin’s gaze followed hers, and he frowned.

"They’re low on firewood," he said, his voice thoughtful. "I’ll ask Old Bram if he has any to spare. He’s always got more than he needs this time of year."

Ada couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration as she watched Marin. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t wait for someone else to solve the problem. He just acted, quietly and without fanfare. It was moments like this that made her realize how much she respected him—and how different they were.

"You’re really good at this, you know," she said, her voice soft.

Marin smiled, shrugging as if it were nothing. "It’s just my duty. We all have a part to play."

They continued south, the weight of the town’s simple life pressing in on Ada once again. For Marin, that weight seemed to fit perfectly, like a well-worn coat. But for her, it chafed.

Their conversation drifted into lighter topics as they walked through the town, Marin teasing her about her lateness, and Ada laughing despite herself. But even as she smiled and joked with him, a part of her mind remained distant, caught in a web of questions she couldn’t yet answer.

The town of Halrest was a simple one; it had always been here, or so it felt to Ada, as if the town had grown up from the earth itself rather than being built by human hands. The homes, made of grey stone and rough timber, were clustered together in tight rows, practical and plain. Each house was built with the harsh winds of winter in mind, designed to trap warmth and keep the bitter cold out. The smoke that curled from the chimneys was as familiar as the people themselves—steady, constant, a reassurance that life, however hard, went on.

The stone buildings, especially those closer to the centre, were ancient, their facades worn smooth by time and weather. In between the older stone homes, newer wooden ones had been tightly wedged, squeezed into every available space as the town expanded. These wooden homes were huddled close together, their rooftops low and cramped as though they, too, sought shelter from the wind. The roads were a patchwork of dirt and cobblestone, the stones peeking up between the ruts in the dirt where wagon wheels and boots had worn the earth down over the years. As Ada and Marin moved southeast, she noticed how the roads gradually became more stone than dirt, as if the heart of the town itself had a stronger foundation, rooted deeper in history.

It was a life that made sense, Ada had to admit. It followed a cycle, the kind of life where every action had a purpose. The townsfolk honoured the gods they believed watched over them, their devotion tied to the lake and the land that sustained them. There was peace in that, Ada supposed. But lately, it felt more like a kind of quiet suffocation.

As she and Marin stepped into the main street of Halrest, the cold nipping at their cheeks, Ada couldn't help but notice how familiar everything felt. The town was stirring to life, the distant sound of a door creaking open, the crunch of boots on frosty ground, voices carried on the wind. The fog was heavier today, clinging to the buildings and thickening the air with a damp chill. She should’ve already been out here, helping with the morning’s chores, but her thoughts had drifted again, as they often did now. Still, the town looked the same as it always had.

Directly ahead of them in the distance rested the lake. People whispered that it had moods of its own, some saying it could even tell the future if you knew how to listen. It was the kind of superstition that made sense here, in a town that depended so much on the water or so she thought.

"Everything in its place," Marin’s voice broke through her thoughts, nudging her back to the present. He smiled, his breath clouding the air between them. "For the lake," he added, a playful mockery of the town mantra.

She shook her head with a small laugh. "You say that like you believe it."

"Don’t you?" he teased, his eyes twinkling. He had that way about him, a way to make even the most ingrained town traditions seem lighter, less oppressive. It was part of why people already saw him as their next leader, even though he wasn’t in charge yet.

They arrived at the fishmonger's, a small shop near the water’s edge. The air around it always smelled of salt and damp wood, even when the boats hadn’t gone out. The wooden beams of the shop creaked as they approached, the building old and weathered by years of exposure to the elements. The tools needed sharpening—old blades and hooks that would have usually seen more use by now, but the fishing had been slow. Too slow.

"I don’t see why we bother," Ada muttered as they entered, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck. The air inside the shop was warmer, but only just. "It’s not like they’re using the tools."

Marin shot her a grin, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. "Everything in its place, Ada. For the lake." He couldn’t help himself, the joke still lingering between them as the shopkeeper appeared.

The fishmonger greeted them with a nod, his large hands still dusted with flour from whatever he’d been doing in the back. His eyes were tired, the kind of tired that came from long nights waiting for things that never came—like a good catch.

"Start working on what I’ve left for you over there" he says as he points to a small table near the edge of the room with two seats, his voice thick and raspy. "I’ll leave you to it."

He disappeared into the back room, leaving Ada and Marin to work in the front of the shop. Ada reached for the first tool, a well-worn fishhook, its point dulled from use. She grabbed a small file from the counter and began to sharpen the tip, her hands moving in practiced motions.

Marin, sitting across from her, picked up a larger hook and set to work with a whetstone, carefully dragging the metal across its surface. The rhythmic sound of metal scraping against stone filled the small space, creating a steady backdrop to their quiet conversation.

“Looks like this one's been used on the biggest fish in the lake," Marin said, grinning as he held up the hook. “Think anyone’s caught anything worth telling stories about?”

Ada rolled her eyes but smiled, her fingers still working the file over the hook’s edge. “If they have, they’re keeping it to themselves. Not much excitement at the market lately.”

She turned the hook over in her hand, inspecting it before giving it a few more scrapes. Marin was always able to make even the dullest task seem lighter. His easy-going nature had a way of cutting through the monotony of village life.

“You know,” Marin said, smirking as he tested the sharpness of his hook, “if I were running things, I’d make a festival out of the first fish caught each season. We’d have music, dancing, and of course, I’d have the honour of catching the biggest one.”

Ada chuckled, shaking her head as she placed the hook aside and reached for another. “I’m sure you would. And what? Crown yourself king of the lake while you’re at it?”

“Maybe. I’d look good in a crown.” Marin flashed her a grin, his eyes gleaming with that playful charm that made people love him so easily.

She gave him a sidelong glance, her hands still busy sharpening another hook. “You wouldn’t last a day with that kind of responsibility. You can barely keep track of what day it is.”

“Oh, I’d manage. I’ve got my secret weapon.” Marin leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands on a cloth as he gave her a meaningful look. “You.”

Ada paused, her file still in hand. The banter, the ease between them—it always had a way of slipping into something deeper, something she wasn’t sure how to handle. But she didn’t let herself linger on it. Instead, she shook her head, returning to her work.

“You’re hopeless,” she muttered, but there was warmth in her voice.

Their conversation continued like this, light and easy, as they worked through the pile of tools. Ada moved methodically, sharpening hooks and blades, her hands steady as she filed down rough edges and brought the tools back to life. Marin alternated between sharpening and teasing, the weight of his future role in the town never seeming to rest heavily on his shoulders.

Then, the banter was abruptly cut short by a sudden shout from the back room.

Both of them froze, their hands stilling on the tools. The flat edge of the whetstone in Marin's grip hovered mid-air as muffled voices rose from behind the wall. It was the fishmonger and his wife—arguing. The sound shattered the calm rhythm of their work, the tension leaking into the air.

Ada’s eyes flicked toward Marin, her expression mirroring the unease she felt. Marin’s raised eyebrow was the only acknowledgment of the discomfort between them, but neither said a word. They both knew better than to get involved in someone else’s business.

"You think I haven’t noticed?" came the sharp voice of the shopkeeper’s wife, the words edged with frustration. "We’ve barely enough to feed the children, and you want to talk about keeping up appearances? The lake isn’t giving what it used to!"

"Keep your voice down, woman," the fishmonger hissed back, his tone low but carrying all the same. "I’m doing what I can. You think it’s easy when every net comes up empty?"

Marin and Ada exchanged a look, silently agreeing to act as though they hadn’t heard anything. This wasn’t the first time they’d caught snippets of town gossip or overheard an argument. But this one felt different—heavier. There was a weight in the air that neither of them could shake.

The voices from the back gradually died down, and soon enough, the fishmonger reappeared. His face was flushed, the remnants of his anger still clinging to him like a bad smell, but he said nothing about the argument. He stood in the doorway for a moment, silently watching them work, his expression a mix of weariness and resignation. His large hands, rough and calloused from years of labour, fidgeted as though he were searching for something to say.

After a moment, he moved to inspect the tools they had sharpened. He ran his fingers along the edge of one of the hooks, nodding approvingly, though his eyes never quite lost their shadowed look. He made a few corrections, showing Marin how to angle the blade properly and adjusting the whetstone for Ada’s work, his motions mechanical, practiced.

"Good job," he grunted after a while, his voice rough but not unkind. "Once you’ve finished with the rest, you’re free to go."

Ada glanced up at him, her curiosity bubbling just beneath the surface. She wanted to ask—wanted to know what was happening, why everything felt... off. But the question never left her lips, and the fishmonger turned away, disappearing into the back room once again.

Time passed as they finished up the last of the tools, the air between her and Marin felt heavier, the remnants of the argument lingering like smoke.

"Come on," Marin said, his smile returning. "Next task. Can’t let the town fall apart on my watch, can I?"

Ada laughed despite herself, his infectious good nature pulling her out of her brooding thoughts. There were tasks to complete, and life in Halrest moved on. They stood, waving goodbye.

As they left the fishmonger's shop, Ada tugged her cloak tighter against the cool breeze coming off the water. The air smelled faintly of salt and the ever-present dampness of the town. Marin, walking a step behind, kept his hands tucked into his pockets.

Moving away from the building, they spoke again.

“That was… interesting,” Marin said, his voice low as if he still feared someone might overhear. “They’re really on edge about the food supply.”

Ada nodded; her brow furrowed in thought. “More than I expected. I knew things were tight, but not that bad. I wonder if everyone else is as nervous.”

“They’re probably just better at hiding it,” Marin said. He glanced sideways at her, his eyes sharp. “That fisher was right about one thing though. We’re barely making it through. And the fishing season has been getting worse.”

“I don’t understand how it got this bad?” Ada’s voice was heavy with frustration. She kicked a small stone, watching it skitter down the cobbled path ahead of them.

“Maybe they didn’t want to worry us,” Marin replied, a little more quietly now. “Or maybe… they thought they could fix it themselves. You know how it is in these towns. Everyone’s proud. They want to handle their own problems until they can’t anymore.”

Ada sighed. “We’re going to need a lot more than pride to get through this winter.”

She glanced at Marin, who was already taking a few steps ahead, heading toward their next errand on the list. But something tugged at her—questions they had not answered, things they hadn’t addressed. “We can’t just keep going like this,” she said, her voice more thoughtful now.

Marin stopped and turned to her; one eyebrow raised. “What do you mean? We’ve got chores to do. If we don’t get everything done, Mrs Agnew will have our heads.”

“I know,” Ada replied quickly, though her mind was clearly elsewhere. “But don’t you think we should do something? I mean, for the town?”

Marin hesitated, confusion crossing his face. “What do you mean, something?”

“Look, it’s obvious things are bad,” Ada gestured back in the direction of the fishmonger’s stall. “We can’t just walk around pretending we don’t notice. What if we talked to someone about it—someone who could actually tell us what’s going on?”

Marin groaned. “You’re talking about leaving our chores behind, aren't you?”

“Not completely,” Ada said, smiling a little. She had learned long ago how to navigate Marin’s practical nature. “I’m suggesting a detour. We could head to the storehouse. Daithi’s there most of the time, and he’s important. If anyone knows how the town is holding up, it’ll be him.”

“But we’ve got the other tasks,” Marin protested. “We’ve got to finish them before we do anything else.”

“We’ll say we wanted to see if he needed help,” Ada suggested, her voice growing a little more persuasive. “Everyone likes Daithi. Mother won’t be mad if we’re helping out Daithi. It’s still for the town, isn’t it?”

Marin shifted on his feet, clearly still uneasy. “I don’t know, Ada. We’ve got enough to do without going off on your… curiosity missions.”

Ada placed her hands on her hips. “Think of it this way: wouldn’t it be worse if we didn’t do anything and something happens? Wouldn’t Mother rather we helped prevent a bigger problem than just… delivering some grain?”

Marin stared at her for a moment, his jaw set. “Fine,” he sighed. “But just for a little while. If he doesn’t need us, we’re going right back to the chores.”

A grin spread across Ada’s face. “Deal.”

With that, they turned toward the edge of the town where the storehouse stood, its weathered stone exterior standing solid against the encroaching cold.

As they approached, Ada and Marin couldn’t help but notice the storehouse’s formidable appearance—its grey stone walls, carefully fitted and shaped by hands long gone, hinted at its importance. The structure, built centuries ago from the same white stone that made up much of Halrest’s core, loomed large. It was a squat, sturdy building, meant to withstand the harsh winters and provide for the village in times of need. Its heavy wooden doors were banded with iron, darkened by time and weather, but still standing strong. The whole place seemed to pulse with an unspoken history, as though the village’s lifeblood had been stored there since its foundation.

As they neared, Ada noticed something off—something that made her stomach tighten. Barrels and crates that should’ve lined the stone walls outside were conspicuously absent. It was subtle, but for someone like Ada, who had seen this place in better times, it felt glaring. A quiet emptiness lingered around the storehouse, one that wasn’t there before.

Marin grunted in agreement at Ada’s subtle frown, and they walked the rest of the way to Daithi’s post in silence. He was already outside, leaning against the doorframe. His broad shoulders were hunched, his face lined with age and worry. The sight of him, normally so solid and reliable, only added to Ada’s unease.

“Daithi,” she greeted, offering a respectful nod as she approached.

Daithi uncrossed his arms, straightening up. His thick arms were covered in the dirt and wear of years spent working, his greyish beard trimmed close to his jaw. Despite the look of age about him, there was an unmistakable strength to the man, the kind that came from a lifetime of hard work and responsibility.

“Ada, Marin,” he said, his voice as deep and steady as ever. “Didn’t expect to see you two this morning.” He surveyed them with calm but watchful eyes. “What brings you here?”

Ada hesitated only for a second before speaking. “We came from the fishmonger’s… and we’ve been hearing some things that don’t sit well with us.”

Daithi’s lips pressed into a thin line, his weathered face unreadable. “Aye, I reckon you did. Not much stays hidden in Halrest, least of all our troubles.” He exhaled slowly, pushing himself off the doorframe. “I suppose you want the truth of it, then?”

“We want to understand,” Marin added, stepping forward. “We’re worried about the town.”

Daithi looked at them both for a long moment, as if weighing his next words carefully. He gave a slight chuckle, shaking his head. “Well, if the young folk are startin’ to ask questions, it’s only right I put you to work while I answer.” His tone softened with something like approval. He turned and motioned for them to follow him inside.

Inside, the storehouse was dimly lit, its cool air carrying the musty smell of dried herbs, grains, and aged wood. Barrels and crates lined the walls, but Ada immediately noticed the gaps. Places that should’ve been stacked to the ceiling with goods were only half full, and more than a few shelves were empty altogether. Her heart sank.

Daithi motioned to a small pile of sacks near the back. “Marin, take those over there, would ya? Ada, you’ll find a broom near the door. Sweep up this place for me. It’s not much, but it keeps the hands busy.”

The two exchanged a glance, then got to work. Marin hoisted the sacks effortlessly over his shoulder, his movements smooth and practiced, while Ada grabbed the broom and started sweeping the dusty stone floor. She worked in silence at first, watching the dust swirl around her feet as Marin stacked the sacks against the far wall.

Daithi stood in the centre of the room, his hand resting on a wooden crate. His gaze drifted across the nearly empty storehouse, a flicker of something—perhaps resignation—passing over his face. “This is what we’ve got left,” he said, his voice low. “Few months, maybe. Less if the cold comes sooner than we expect.”

Ada’s brow furrowed, her broom pausing mid-sweep. “How did it get this bad?” she asked, glancing at the half-empty shelves.

Daithi sighed, running a calloused hand through his greying beard. “Poor harvests. Two bad seasons, and then the storm last summer—tore apart most of the fishing nets, and the fish haven’t been the same since. We keep thinking the next season will be better… but it hasn’t been. Won’t lie to you, Ada, it’s lookin’ bleak.”

Marin, still stacking sacks, stopped mid-motion. “So what are we supposed to do? Just wait?”

Daithi gave a soft, rueful chuckle, shaking his head. “No. Waitin’ ain’t an option. But there’s only so much we can do right now. The council is meeting soon. They’ll be figuring out what’s next—rationing, trying to get trades going with other villages further out. But it’s not just us that’s hurtin’.”

Ada frowned as she swept another corner of the storehouse, the broom making soft scraping noises against the stone floor. “And the Shore walker?” she asked, her voice low.

Daithi’s eyes flickered. “The Shore walker’s got his tasks too. He watches over the council, makes sure everything’s in order. He’s been dealin’ with the lake as much as anyone can. But…” His words trailed off, leaving an uneasy silence in their wake.

Marin shifted, clearly unsettled. “So we’re just supposed to trust that they’ll figure it out?”

Daithi turned to face them, his expression softening. “Aye, you’ll have to. But trust me, the people on that council care about this town. And they’re working hard to find a solution. For now, we wait.”

Ada and Marin exchanged a glance. The air between them was heavy, the weight of the town’s future pressing down on their shoulders, but there was nothing more they could do. Daithi had answered them, but his words left more uncertainty than comfort.

As they finished their tasks and prepared to leave, Daithi’s voice echoed behind them, his tone filled with a quiet reassurance. “Remember, Halrest has been through hard times before. And we’ve always found our way.”

With that, they continued working in silence as they considered his words. Once the work was done, they stepped back out into the cold.