Rain fell in thin lines over the copper rooftops of Mornhal. It carved rivulets into soot-covered glass and tapped against the windows with a rhythm that might've been calming to anyone else. But Aïra hated the rain. It crept into cracks, made the wood swell, and made the floorboards creak.
Worse — it stirred the past.
Under the beams of the family workshop, Aïra crouched in a corner, a mechanic's loupe pressed to her eye, focused on the guts of a dismantled music box. Its twisted gears and scorched casing told a story of fire and fear. But she wasn't trying to fix it.
No. Just trying to stop it from speaking.
Broken things still whispered.
And Aïra, cursed or gifted, could hear them.
"Still poking at dead junk, Aïra?"
Her aunt's voice rang out behind her. Aïra jumped, snapped the box shut, and shoved it away.
"It's just trash. I was sorting it."
A lie.
She'd awakened it — just a little. Enough for the melody to begin, soft and screechy. Enough for an emotion to bleed out: loneliness. Ancient fear.
"You should be at the market. Go sell that junk."
"Yes, Aunt."
Aïra grabbed her worn leather satchel, pulled her hood up, and stepped out into the alley, clutching the cracked hourglass she'd found in a pile of scrap the day before. She didn't know why she'd taken it. It was useless. Empty.
Or almost.
A few grains of black dust clung inside its cracked glass — and unlike the other broken things, this one was silent.
And that made it more dangerous.
The Mornhal market stretched under a canopy of steel beams and thick cables. Lanterns of floating glass bobbed above the stalls, glowing from within — powered by magic fragments known as Shards. In this world, everything ran on Shards: watches, doors, artificial hearts… even thoughts.
Aïra hated Shards.
They were pieces of broken things, pulsing with leftover magic. Some saw them as sacred. Others, cursed.
Aïra knew the truth.
They were alive.
And if you awakened them too much… they took.
Like they took her father.
She'd barely set up her stand — bolts, insulated gloves, enchanted hinges — when a man stopped in front of her. Long coat. Face hidden beneath a brimmed hat. Gloves spotless.
"You the Breaker's daughter?"
The words hit like a punch to the ribs.
She didn't answer.
The man smiled. Slowly. He placed a silver coin on the table, but took nothing.
"I heard you've got a gift. That you can wake the dead."
Her hands curled into fists.
"My father died because of that gift. I don't use it anymore."
He lifted his hands in mock apology.
"Shame. You'll need more than a gift to survive what's coming."
Before she could react, he slipped something onto her table.
A fragment.
Black.
Sharp.
A trap.
Everything happened at once.
An alarm scream tore through the air. Lanterns burst overhead, raining sparks. The ground shook. Something shot from the rooftops — a dagger? No, a flame. Magic-born. Targeted.
She dove behind the stall just in time. The blast hit the tent next to hers.
Screams. Footsteps. Someone shouting her name.
There were more of them.
Aïra ran.
No magic. No plan. Just legs and alleys and pure survival.
She darted into the Old Quarter, where buildings leaned too far and gas lamps flickered like dying stars. She reached her father's abandoned workshop, slammed the door shut, and locked it.
Her breath hitched.
Her palms bled.
In her coat — the hourglass.
Still whole.
Or not quite.
It was glowing.
She pulled it out, hands trembling. It pulsed. Like a heartbeat. But it wasn't a Shard. It wasn't supposed to do that.
"Don't do this…" she whispered.
But it was too late.
A crack split across the glass. One of the black grains lifted, floating. Drawn by her breath.
And a voice — rough, ancient, part whisper, part growl — filled the room.
> "Awake... at last."
The hourglass shattered in her hands.
And in the cloud of glass and black sand, something emerged. Long. Sharp.
A broken blade, hovering midair, wrapped in invisible chains.
It gleamed red. Dark. Cursed.
And Aïra realized—
She hadn't awakened a thing.
She'd awakened a weapon.
And she was not alone anymore.
To be continued…