“Then, as if summoned by the collective boredom of the masses, a new rumour began to circulate — limping at first, but soon picking up the kind of momentum only baseless speculation and overconfident whispers can provide.

  At first, it was just a whisper, and not even a particularly articulate one — more of a throat-clearing in the dark, passed between those who knew which alleys to avoid and which ones charged a toll in missing time.

  A peculiar light had started flickering behind the grime-encrusted windows of Number Seventeen, which hadn’t hosted anything more animate than a particularly aggressive mold colony for at least a decade. It began faintly — the sort of glow you might expect from a misfiring lantern or an especially introspective ghost — then grew stronger, casting shadows that jigged about like they were rehearsing for a play with no script and far too many knives.

  Some swore they saw figures moving inside, blurry silhouettes that stubbornly refused to resolve into anything more comforting.

  And then came the smoke: slow, curling wisps of color no chimney with any sense of self-respect should have been producing — pungent with scorched herbs, burnt paper dreams, and just a hint of rusted ambition. It spilled out like the house was exhaling after a long sleep and dreaming very badly indeed.

  More troubling than the lights, and far more difficult to dismiss with a nervous laugh and a locked door, were the sounds.

  Not the usual late-night city sounds — like a cat fight, a drunken argument with a lamppost, or the unmistakable rustle of someone discovering their pocket had been picked three streets ago — but something stranger. Lower. Measured. The kind of sound that slipped between cracks and under doors, and made wallpaper contemplate peeling itself off just to get away.

  It wasn’t the wind. People knew what the wind sounded like. This was... deliberate. A murmur that moved with the patience of something that had all the time in the world and very questionable hobbies.

  Some said they heard voices. One at first — whispering just loud enough to be maddening — then more, overlapping and weaving together like they were auditioning for a choir composed entirely of secrets.

  The language was unfamiliar, not in the normal “foreign” sense, but in the way a dream is unfamiliar: wrong around the edges, full of syllables that didn’t quite behave themselves, and far too many s’s.

  And then there was the hum. Not a musical hum. Not even a mechanical one. It was the sort of sound that made your bones pay attention. It hummed like something thinking very hard — about you.

  Qq

  More unsettling were the sounds. A murmur that did not belong to the wind, low and rhythmic, threading through the narrow streets when the city grew still. Some swore they heard voices—one, then many—whispering words in a language that did not sit right in the ear, syllables that clung to the mind like an unfinished thought. Others spoke of an uneasy hum, an unnatural resonance that made the skin prickle, like standing too close to something immense and unseen.

  The shop, it seemed, had a new owner.

  Someone had dared to enter after all those years. And, more importantly, something had answered.

  2b

  Then, after years, a new rumor began to spread.

  At first, it was little more than a murmur among those who still walked the alley, the ones who remembered its quiet menace and gave it a wide berth after dark. A strange light was seen within, flickering behind the dust-darkened glass, casting uneasy shadows where no fire should have burned. Not the warm, golden glow of a candle nor the steady gleam of a lantern, but something colder, shifting. At times, it pulsed like the slow beat of a heart; at others, it danced erratically, a fractured, spectral thing.

  Wisps of colored smoke—impossible hues that had no name—began to curl from the long-dead chimney, dispersing into the alleyway like restless spirits. The air thickened with unfamiliar scents, as though old paper, scorched herbs, and something metallic had been stirred into the night itself. The first to see it were those who worked the deeper streets of Vaelthwyn—the night watch, the beggars, the wandering souls who knew better than to look too long. They turned their eyes away and moved on quickly, their minds pressing the sight into the quiet depths where strange things were best forgotten.

  But not everyone could forget.

  Some claimed to hear whispers, faint at first, mere suggestions of sound riding the wind. But as the nights passed, they grew more distinct—fragments of words in a language that did not sit right in the ear, syllables that did not belong to anything spoken in the waking world. It was not the simple creak of settling wood or the muttering of rats in the walls. It was voices. One, then many. Too many.

  And beneath them, a hum.

  Not a sound, exactly, but a feeling, a resonance at the edge of perception. It crawled beneath the skin, settled in the teeth, left the air too thick to breathe properly. Those who passed the alley at the wrong moment found their steps faltering, as if some unseen presence had brushed against them.

  The shop, it seemed, had a new owner.

  Someone had dared to enter after all those years. And, more importantly, something had answered.

  And old rumors stirred anew.

  Tales of secrets, of forgotten knowledge and power—but also of great cost. No, not in gold, but in something far more difficult to reclaim. Sanity for those who dared to see the unseen, to know the unknowable.

  Only maddness awaits

  The whispers spread, traveling from the alley into the city's dim-lit taverns, into the quiet conversations of scholars and the uneasy gossip of merchants. The old stories resurfaced like bones in shallow earth. They spoke of those who had entered before, lured by the promise of hidden truths. Some had returned, but never the same. Their eyes, once filled with curiosity, had become distant, as if seeing something that did not belong to this world. Others had not returned at all.

  And the questions remained.

  Who dare to found more ?

  3.

  The Brazen Mare was not the oldest tavern in Vaelthwyn, nor the grandest, but it was the sort of place where rumors took root and thrived in the damp, smoky air. Tucked into the shadow of a leaning stone tenement, its wooden beams had darkened with age and the constant press of bodies. Ale-slicked tables bore the scars of knives and heated arguments, and the floorboards creaked in ways that suggested they had long since developed a voice of their own.

  It was the kind of place where men and women came to drink away their misfortunes, to warm their hands by the hearth and trade secrets that no daylight would tolerate. The fire burned low, and the lanterns cast uneasy light over the crowd, pooling in the hollows of tired eyes and giving sharp edges to the words spoken that night.

  And the words were of The shop.

  Old stories had resurfaced like weeds through cracked stone, but this time, there was something different. It was not just idle legend anymore. Something had changed.

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  The rumors swirled with every tankard lifted and every coin exchanged. First in hushed murmurs, then in bold declarations fueled by drink. Someone had seen lights in the old shop. Strange, shifting colors, flickering behind its grime-coated windows. Smoke curling from the chimney, twisting in impossible hues. Whispers, not carried by wind, but waiting just beyond the threshold of hearing.

  Something had stirred.

  And the shop—the shop that no one had entered in years—had a new owner.

  Curious and brave, or greedy and stupid. It mattered little. All were stirred by the whispers, by the promise of something forgotten, something hidden just beneath the surface of the city’s history.

  At first, it was just talk, the kind that filled nights and was forgotten by morning. But talk had a way of turning into something more.

  And after long drinking and dares exchanged in reckless grins, the first brave souls in a long time dared to look at the door.

  They did not move at once. It took time, the push and pull of bravado and hesitation. Hands hovered over tankards, fingers drumming against wooden tables, eyes shifting toward the door as if expecting someone else to move first. A half-joking remark became a challenge, and the challenge became a pact. The weight of too many eyes, too many eager grins, left no room for retreat.

  So they stood, adjusting coats and blades, laughing too loudly to be entirely natural. The air in the tavern seemed to press against them as they made their way to the door, the warmth of the fire now distant, unwelcoming. The heavy oak swung open, letting in the damp breath of the city night.

  They stepped out into the streets.

  The laughter faded as the door swung shut behind them, cutting off the light and noise of the Brazen Mare.

  The alley ahead was darker than they remembered.

  And the shop waited.

  —---

  The Brazen Mare was alive with noise.

  Tankards clashed, spilling ale across the splintered wooden tables, while the thick scent of sweat, smoke, and stale beer clung to the air. A roaring fire spat embers into the hearth, its flickering glow casting wild shadows across the faces of men and women gathered close. Laughter bellowed over the din, the kind that came easy with drink, rough and reckless.

  But beneath it all, something else stirred.

  The low hum of a story, passed from mouth to ear in murmured tones. A half-heard whisper between drunken boasts. A name spoken, quickly hushed. The words slithered through the air, winding between the laughter, the clinking of coin, the raucous arguments that spilled from every corner.

  The shop.

  No one called it by a name.

  No one could remember a name.

  It had been there forever, long before any of them, long before their fathers and grandfathers. And yet, it was spoken of only in rumors. The kind that crawled out of the dark after too much drink, when tongues were loose and reason faltered.

  A place long abandoned—except it wasn’t.

  Not anymore.

  For the first time in decades, something stirred behind those walls. A flickering light. A hint of smoke curling from the long-dead chimney. And those who walked too close swore they heard something—whispers that did not belong to the wind.

  "A fool's tale," someone scoffed. "No one’s been near that place in years."

  "And yet," another said, lowering his voice, "I heard Tellan saw something. Something in the window. Something looking back."

  The words pulled the table into silence. A thick, uneasy pause.

  Then, a scoff. "Tellan's a coward. He jumps at his own shadow."

  "Aye, but he knows what he saw. He won’t go near it again."

  More silence. A shift of eyes, a glance toward the door. The conversation should have died there, buried beneath laughter and ale—but it didn’t.

  Instead, it settled like a weight between them.

  A challenge.

  Someone snorted. Someone else chuckled, the sound forced. And then, as these things always went, a dare.

  "Well, if it's all just drunkard’s gossip, then there’s no harm, is there?"

  A grin. A glint of firelight in ale-dulled eyes.

  "Why don’t we have a look?"

  It was reckless, foolish. But the weight of the rumor had already done its work. The men and women gathered at the table felt the pull of it, the need to see for themselves, to laugh in the face of childish stories.

  And so, with a scraping of chairs and the last swig of ale, the first brave souls in a long time rose from their seats.

  The Brazen Mare watched them go, the warmth of the fire at their backs as they stepped into the night.

  Outside, the city breathed differently.

  The streets of Vaelthwyn were never silent, not truly, but as they left the golden glow of the tavern, the noise of the world seemed to fall away. The calls of night merchants, the distant clatter of hooves, the murmur of river water through the canals—all seemed distant.

  And the further they walked, the heavier the air became.

  At first, their steps were easy, emboldened by drink, their laughter still lingering in the cold. But the alleys swallowed sound differently than the open streets. The stone walls held echoes too long, footsteps lasting just a moment more than they should.

  The streets twisted, familiar yet wrong, as if something had pressed too hard against the bones of the city, bending them just slightly out of place.

  Someone cursed as they stepped in a puddle, though no rain had fallen.

  Someone else shivered, though the night was no colder than before.

  The Brazen Mare was far behind now. The light was gone.

  The air smelled different here.

  Not of the usual rot of the alleyways, nor the ever-present river damp that clung to the city’s bones. It smelled of old parchment and something bitter, like burned herbs.

  They walked on, their voices quieter now.

  And then, finally, the alley turned.

  And the shop stood waiting.