“Don’t look at the walls. They know we don’t belong here.” Jorik’s grip on Osenya’s arm remained, steering her forward into the gloom of Room 404. The air inside was a frigid slap, thin and stale, carrying the metallic tang of old blood and something else, something mineral and damp, like earth disturbed. A bare bulb dangled from a frayed wire overhead, casting a jaundiced glow on the peeling grey plaster. Flakes of paint littered the grimy floor, crunching under Osenya’s worn boots. The room held little: a narrow cot pushed against one wall, a splintered table and two mismatched chairs in the middle, and a rusted basin beneath a cold water tap. But it was the walls that truly held her attention, despite Jorik’s warning. They weren’t just peeling; long streaks of a dark stain ran down the plaster, as if something had dragged downward repeatedly. In one corner, a section of plaster had cracked and crumbled, revealing not brick, but a strange, dark stone with faint, geometric carvings. An icy prickle raised the small hairs on her neck. She shook her arm free from Jorik’s grasp and crossed to the cot. It was bare, a thin, lumpy mattress the only offering. “No sheets,” she muttered, her voice thin in the cold. Jorik walked to the soot-crusted glass overlooking a narrow alley. The glass was so thick with soot that only a diffused grey light penetrated, hinting at the perpetual twilight of Tarnoch outside. He didn’t reply immediately, his shoulders hunched. When he turned, he held a rolled wool coverlet, dark and heavy, with a faint, earthy scent. “The clerk mentioned these were… provided,” he said, his voice flat. He tossed it onto the cot. “Not much, but it’s something.” Osenya stared at the wool, then at the cot. The cold was beginning to seep into her bones, a dull ache in her knees and fingers. Her work shift was threadbare, offering little protection against the draft. Her pride, however, was a dense, impenetrable shield. She had survived worse. She had slept on harder ground, in colder alleys. She wouldn’t shiver now. “I’m fine,” she said, pulling her arms tight across her chest, a useless gesture against the biting air. She felt her teeth chatter faintly, but forced her jaw still. Jorik watched her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His eyes, usually guarded, held a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name. He crossed toward the cot, picked up the coverlet, and shook it open. It was surprisingly large, wide enough to cover two people. “Don’t be an idiot, Osenya,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. He didn’t ask, he simply acted. Before she could protest, he was close, the faint scent of coal dust and old paper clinging to him. He settled the heavy weave across her shoulders, its trapped heat cutting straight through the chill. It was not gentle, not soft, but an immediate, decisive action. His hands lingered on her collarbones, smoothing the rough fabric secure. She could feel the heat radiating from his palms through the fabric of her shift. He stood near enough that his breath stirred the loose hair at her temple, steady and dry. Then he stepped back. “We have to conserve what little heat we can. This room… it’s colder than the others, isn’t it?” He tipped his chin toward the upper wall, where a circular vent sat choked with soot, dead cold. Before Osenya could answer, three violent clangs racked the room. The racket came from the wall beside the cot, where a thick brass conduit vanished into the plaster overhead. The noise was violent, as if someone were striking the pipe with a heavy wrench. It rattled the plaster, sending a small shower of dust onto the cot. A shrill voice rasped through the iron: “Quiet, you newly-weds! Some of us have loom quotas at dawn! Another peep and I fetch Warden Verok to teach you Tenement discipline!” Osenya stiffened. “Who does she think she is?” she muttered, turning toward the iron fitting. Her brief moment of vulnerability under the blanket was forgotten, replaced by a familiar surge of indignant pride. Jorik quickly placed a hand on her arm, preventing her. “Our neighbor. Nadina Rost. Known for her… diligence. It’s best not to antagonize her. Not yet.” He gave the pipe a wary glance. “She has an ear for everything.” The quiet that followed felt thick, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thrum of the district machinery. Osenya gathered the heavy weave closer, the draft gnawing at her ankles again. She felt exposed, scrutinized even through the thick walls. “We need to register for rations,” Osenya said, pulling away from the wall, the immediate anger fading into practical concerns. “And our work allocation? The clerk mentioned a brass token system.” Jorik nodded, turning to the table. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small, worn leather pouch. He untied the drawstring, spilling a handful of dull brass tokens onto the table. They clinked softly against the wood. “Twelve tokens,” he said, lining them up. “Enough for two days’ rations of thick-grain gruel and one cup of fortified brew. Plus a week of heat, if we’re careful. Work chits are separate. These are for baseline survival.” He nudged half the metal discs across the grain. “Yours.” Osenya picked them up. They felt light, inadequate. “What about the housing allocation? To make it permanent?” “That requires a steady quota from the looms, and no infractions for three full cycles. The Winter Tithe comes before then.” His tone dropped, eyes fixed on the tabletop. He drew another object from inside his lining. It was a palm-sized compass of tarnished brass, the sort an academy surveyor might own rather than a weaver. Its surface was etched with symbols Osenya had never seen, ancient and intricate. It looked out of place, a relic from another world. “What’s that?” she asked, curiosity momentarily overriding her hunger and cold. Jorik didn’t answer. He held the compass delicately, his thumb tracing the faint lines of its glass face. The needle, usually fixed, began to twitch. At first it merely drifted, then began rotating in erratic, hesitant jerks. Jorik lifted the dial, pacing across the floorboards with his stare glued to the metal arrow. As he neared the soot-encrusted grate high on the wall, the needle blurred into a frantic whirl. It was as if something within the walls was pulling at it, drawing its attention upwards, deeper. A low, resonant hum, too deep to belong to the looms, vibrated through the plaster above. Jorik froze, his face pale, his gaze fixed on the vent. Then a shriek tore loose from the level above, raw and agonized, vibrating straight through the thin floorboards into Osenya’s teeth. It was cut short, abruptly, as if a hand had clamped over a mouth, or a throat had been severed. A sickening wet *splat* followed. Stillness followed, dead and smothering. Osenya and Jorik stayed rigid, stares locked on the iron louvers. Dark, viscous liquid seeped past the louvers, gathering at the bottom rim into a trembling bead. It was thick, almost black in the dim light, and it smelled of iron. The bead swelled, stretched, and then fell, landing on the dusty floor with a soft, chilling *plink*. Fresh blood. With a sharp click, the metal grate sprang forward, exposing the black shaft behind it. A cold gust of air, smelling faintly of old metal and damp earth, whispered into the room. Then, a mechanical, grating voice, chillingly familiar, echoed from the opening, mimicking Osenya’s exact tone, her precise cadence, her every inflection. “Tithe accepted.”

The Whispering Pipes