I stared up through the tiny, grimy window at the two moons. One crimson. One blue. Humming up there like—like gods. I—I mean—they were gods, right? Queen of Rubedo and Nigredessa, Keeper of the Deep Moon. That's what the people here say. A pair of big, divine eyeballs hanging in the sky like a painting that keeps watching.
I tried not to think too much about what that meant.
My heart whispered the time to me. Somewhere between four and five in the morning. Probably. Felt like it. The air had that eerie, in-between stillness that only existed before dawn. And yeah, this world—same as Earth, in some ironic, half-baked way—had twenty-four hours in a day, seven days a week, and three hundred sixty-five days a year. Cute.
I didn't check a watch because I didn't own a watch. Obviously.
Couldn't afford one. My predecessor—me-but-not-me—was broke. Dirt poor. No chance of affording even a knockoff timepiece. He used to dream about it, though. Standing tall like a real gentleman. Pocket watch in his breast pocket. Tweed coat. Tie. Tapping his shiny leather shoes on marble floors and checking the time just because he could.
Now I just dream about having a second pair of socks.
I was awake. Couldn't tell how long I'd slept. Long enough to not feel like death. Short enough to still feel like I'd been dropped into the wrong reality. There was no pain, just hunger—low-level but buzzing like a mosquito in the back of my gut.
So I figured, fine. Might as well test things out. The new stuff. The weird stuff. The scary stuff.
First, I shoved the bed to the side. Just a bit. To the wall. More space, less tripping hazard.
I was kind of surprised how easy it was to move. Like, stupid easy. I'm not strong. Or I wasn't. My body's built like a neglected scarecrow, and even after all this... whatever this is... I still don't look strong. But yeah. I felt it. Something had changed.
My feet creaked over the old brown floorboards. I didn't bother lighting the candle.
One deep breath. In. Out. Okay. I focused.
Let it out.
The black mist seeped out from everywhere. Not from one place—not from my hands or my chest or anything obvious. Just... all of me. Like I'd exhaled through every pore at once. It wrapped itself around me, curling along my skin, threading through my clothes, sliding down my limbs. Almost felt warm. Not quite.
My eyes didn't lose sight. The mist didn't block anything for me. But—I knew—from the outside, nobody would see me properly. Not through this.
A good way to hide.
I whispered it, kind of to myself, kind of just to fill the space.
I shuffled into the bathroom, mirror dirty and cracked in the corner, and I looked.
It clung to me like shadows that had grown greedy. Not all of it stuck to the outer layer of my clothes either—some of it slid through the fibers like smoke with fingers. Out through one thread, in through another. Crawling. Always crawling.
My face? Not my face. Something twisted, unfamiliar stared back. Alien. Hideous.
I didn't flinch.
Somewhere in my head, it felt... comforting. Familiar. I don't know why. And that scared me more than the monster-mask itself.
"Golden Black Rebis," I said.
It was the name that had slithered into my brain. No clue where it came from.
I watched the mist ripple slightly. Felt it glide across my skin, smooth but with a sort of pulse, like it was alive. Like it liked me.
Or pretended to.
I lifted my hand, waved it. Not to say hi—just to stir the air.
The mist shifted with the breeze but didn't leave. Stayed snug, locked in. No skin exposed. No matter how hard I swung. My palm, wrist, forearm—still covered.
Minor disturbances won't remove it.
That was the first real thought that landed. Then the second: maybe major ones could. But I didn't have any way to test that. No... not yet.
I wanted to test hardening. And... regeneration. The stuff the mist told me I could do.
So I grabbed a toothbrush. Wooden handle. Splinters poking out where the lacquer had worn off.
Stabbed it into my left hand.
Okay—poked it. Lightly. Very lightly.
"Hssss."
It hissed. The mist did. The toothbrush didn't make a dent. Just got rejected—pushed back by the mist like it had tried to trespass. My hand felt nothing. No pain. No tickle. Not even pressure.
So... it's the mist that hardens. Not me. Not the body.
I went again.
Harder.
Again.
Harder.
Once more.
Fourth time did the toothbrush in.
Snapped clean off. Handle splintered. My hand? Still fine. Mist? Unbothered.
I raised my brow. I think I did. I can't tell anymore.
Okay. Good against blunt force, sure. But what about spikes? Cuts? Spirals? Saws?
I didn't have anything to test that.
Next time, maybe. If I don't die first.
As for the regeneration thing—I already knew. I'd seen it. In my head. The visions, the memories, or dreams, or whatever those nightmares were. I didn't want to test it. Not now. Not by stabbing myself on purpose.
I don't need a hole in my body today, thanks.
Time passed. Enough for the sky to change colors slightly. Maybe six? Probably six.
I got dressed. The closet was pathetic.
A little coin. Not enough. Nine silver Donelie. Thirteen bronze Nacs. No gold Sterling. Never a gold Sterling.
In this empire—Wagon, if I remember right—hundred bronze Narcs makes a silver Donelie, ten silver Donelies makes a gold Sterling. Doesn't matter. I'm still poor.
The clothes were... clothes. Brown. Black. White. Cotton. Linen. All stiff, itchy. Rubs against the skin like sandpaper when I walk too fast.
But there was one good thing. A pair of black boots. Thick sole. High-top. Real leather. Supposedly. Expensive. A whole silver Donelie and thirty bronze Narc's. That's half my wealth, right there. They were for wilderness expeditions. Not that I've ever wanted to go.
But I put them on.
Then the tattered hat. Covered my unfixable hair. It worked. Sort of.
I slipped out of the apartment. Quiet as possible. The building had other people. I didn't want to wake them. No one deserves to wake up and see me in the hallway.
Outside, I breathed in. Regretted it immediately.
The city was—ugh. Smoky. Not dreamy. Not magical. Just foul.
The steam engines pushed the world forward, sure. But they also filled it with this thick, oily taste that clung to your teeth. Not unlike the city smog I used to breathe before everything changed. But worse. More bitter. Earth had lemon-scented industrial death. This place smelled like coal and copper tears.
It was autumn. The light took longer to come. Street lamps barely flickered. Everything dark, misty. But I had a place to go.
Jaden Robinson
He was the only person—if there even was such a thing as trust anymore—that I might've trusted. Him or no one. The memory said so. My gut said so.
He was... kind.
And annoying.
And all the good things I was bad at.
Jaden was once a noble. Not anymore. That's why we were friends. He fell. I... never climbed.
His family believed in the Saltmother Veriditas. All of them. Parents. Brother—Collins. Especially Collins. He became a priest. Got powers. Mysterious stuff. Became extraordinary.
Jaden? Hated all of it. Didn't believe. Never would. Fought with Collins a lot.
I kind of admired that.
It took me an hour and a half to get to his place. 23 Specter Street. Nice name. Holyland District. Better than where I lived.
It was a nice building. Two floors. Red bricks. Gray roof. Flowers in the garden I couldn't name.
Figures. Saltmother believers love plants. They think flowers speak to their god.
I don't hear anything but buzzing.
I knocked.
The door opened. Dogs barked. Multiple. Of course.
And then Jaden. Blond curls. Blue eyes. Baby face. Crooked grin.
"Feron! Amazing. You're not in bed? Color me shocked." His voice had this odd softness to it. Like it was scared of being loud. Even when it was cheerful.
He tilted his head when he talked. Didn't look me in the eye.
He wore a white shirt. Brown vest. Decent pants. Looked lively. Awake. Better than me. Taller too. Thicker build. Less gaunt.
He was just better, honestly.
"I missed you, Jaden," I said. And I did. I did, and I didn't. Because it hurt to miss people.
I hugged him.
"Ngh—you're weirdly affectionate today," he mumbled, hugging back.
I swallowed down the lump in my throat. Tried to not cry. I wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
He didn't know I wasn't me. Or maybe I was. I don't know. I don't know who I am.
But for now—I was Feron Mornez.
And I was glad someone remembered my name.