Simon Wells, May 1, 521
The scent of charged aetherium oil clung to my fingers as I woke with a start, my forehead pressed against the cold brass surface of my thaumic calibrator. Another night spent slumped over my workbench. I blinked away the sleep, wincing as the morning light caught the prismatic sheen of the floating tools orbiting my workstation - each one humming faintly in its designated position.
Through the round attic window, dawn painted the village below in gold and shadow. The rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer echoed up the hill, mingling with the cry of gulls. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
Yet my hands trembled as I reached for my flux stabilizer.
The dream clung to me like static. Not the usual nightmares about father's empty workshop, but something worse. A voice that resonated in my bones, speaking in frequencies that made my thaumic tools vibrate in sympathy. And beneath the black waves, something moved with impossible precision - not flesh, not machine, but something that defied both.
I activated my diagnostic monocle, the enchanted lens whirring as it scanned the workshop. No anomalies. The entropy resonator showed normal background energy levels. Even my prized harmonic compass rested peacefully in its cradle, its needle steady.
Everything was exactly as it should be.
Then why couldn't I shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed?
The village bell tolled the hour, its familiar chime sending my floating screwdrivers into their morning alignment dance. I caught my reflection in the polished brass of the calibrator - dark circles under my eyes, hair sticking up in every direction. Fifteen years old and already looking as worn as father old thaumic wrench.
As I gathered my tools, the dream's echo pulsed behind my eyes. That voice. That shape beneath the waves. The way my bones had hummed in resonance.
Outside, the world carried on as always. Fishermen prepared their boats. The baker's daughter swept her steps. But as I stepped into the morning light, my gaze was drawn irresistibly northward, to where the black sand beaches gleamed under the rising sun.
I go downstairs
The copper kettle whistled two notes—a perfect fifth—as it finished boiling, just as I'd calibrated it last week. I flicked my wrist, and the enchanted spoon stirred the oats in the pot without my needing to touch it. Breakfast at the Wells household was a precise operation, every movement optimized through careful thaumaturgical engineering.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as the smell of toasted rye and honey filled the kitchen. The dream still clung to the edges of my mind—that voice like grinding gears beneath the sea, the shape moving with impossible angles. But morning light made such things feel distant, foolish.
The pantry door swung open at my approach, recognizing the thaumic signature father had programmed into the house's simple enchantments years ago. I selected a jar of preserved cloudberries—last summer's harvest, their color still vibrant under the preservation enchantment. The lid unscrewed itself as I set it on the counter.
Clink.
My harmonic compass, which I'd left on the kitchen windowsill, gave a single, sharp pulse. I froze. The needle wasn't spinning wildly like it would during a proper disturbance, but it had definitely... twitched. Northward. Toward the black sands.
I stared at it until my oats nearly burned. The automatic stirring spoon clattered against the pot in protest.
I wiped the last traces of honey from my lips with the back of my hand and reached for my work journal. The leather cover, worn smooth from years of use, fell open to today's page. With a tap of my finger, the enchanted quill stirred to life, hovering expectantly over the parchment.
"Right," I muttered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The dream still clung at the edges of my mind, but work was work.
The quill danced as I spoke:
1. Bakery - oven thermostat recalibration
(Marta's been complaining about burnt loaves again. Probably just needs the cooling runes re-aligned.)
2. Schoolhouse - image projector installation
(Headmaster wants it working before the astronomy lesson. It's not as good as one from the mainland, but it'll work anyway)
3. Lira's house - boiler inspection
(Last winter's repairs held, but she wants it checked before the cold sets in.)
The quill finished with a flourish, underlining "Lira's house" twice before settling back into its holder. I frowned at the page. Three jobs. Maybe four hours of work if nothing went catastrophically wrong. Plenty of time left in the day to...
My gaze drifted to the harmonic compass on the windowsill. The needle gave another faint twitch northward.
I snapped the journal shut.
"Priorities," I told the empty kitchen, though my satchel was already half-packed with extra detection tools.
The damp cobblestones clicked under my boots as I made my way down High Street, my tool satchel heavy with the day's work. The morning air carried the comforting scent of woodsmoke and rising bread from the bakery ahead.
Old Man Harlow waved me down from his porch, where he was mending fishing nets. "Simon! That tide predictor you built is acting up again - showing high tide an hour early."
I nodded, making a mental note. "Probably just needs the gears cleaned. Salt buildup throws off the mechanism." No magic required for that repair - just good engineering and elbow grease.
At the butcher's stall, young Eli was practicing his letters on a slate. I paused to correct his grip on the chalk. "You're pressing too hard. The letters should flow, like this." I demonstrated the proper motion.
The butcher chuckled as he sharpened his knives. "Always teaching, just like your father."
Ahead, the rhythmic thump of kneading dough grew louder. Through the bakery window, I could see Marta scowling at her oven, wisps of smoke curling from the edges.
"Burnt another batch?" I called as I entered.
She wiped flour-streaked hands on her apron. "Same as yesterday. That new thermostat you installed—"
"Needs proper calibration," I finished. "I told you, these modern regulators require weekly adjustments until they settle in." I set my satchel down with a thud. "Now let's see what you've managed to break this time."
As I worked, my fingers moved automatically through the diagnostic routine father had drilled into me - checking pressure valves, testing heat distribution, adjusting the thaumic dampeners that regulated the oven's enchantments. Real magic required precision, not just waving your hands and hoping.
Through the flour-dusted window, I caught a glimpse of Nessa passing by outside, her dark eyes briefly meeting mine before she disappeared into the morning crowd. The harmonic compass in my satchel remained still.
Work first. Whatever strangeness lingered at the edges of my awareness could wait until the ovens were fixed and the village's daily bread was baking properly.
"Next on the list: the schoolhouse."
The door groaned as I backed into it, the weight of my starfield projector straining my arms. The sharp scent of fresh polish mixed with the musty odor of old textbooks—Headmaster Orlen must have put the students to work cleaning again.
"Easy with that!" The headmaster rushed to steady the wobbling suspension bracket. "This contraption looks heavier than my grandmother's iron stove."
I set the brass housing gently on the demonstration table, wiping fingerprints from the main lens. "Should be. Contains about three months' worth of salvaged tide predictor parts." Every component showed the marks of long nights in father's workshop—the carefully aligned thaumic channels, the repurposed cooling coils, the reinforcement struts I'd forged from an old fishing boat's propeller shaft.
Jory's sticky hands appeared on the table edge. "Does it make things explode?"
"Not unless I wired it wrong," I said, adjusting the aperture dial. The boy's eyes widened as I pointed to the triple-layer insulation. "That's why we have these. And these secondary coolant pumps. And this emergency cutoff switch that—" I paused, realizing I was explaining safety features to a child who probably wanted precisely the opposite.
Headmaster Orlen peered at the control panel like it might bite him. "You're certain it's stable? Last projection device we had kept showing everyone's skeletons for some reason."
"Because they used raw thaumic emissions without proper filtration," I said, activating the stabilization sequence. The projector hummed to life, its cooling fins vibrating gently. "This uses reflected starlight patterns stored in treated crystal matrices. Completely inert."
At least, that's what should have happened.
Andromeda's familiar spiral unfolded across the ceiling, drawing gasps from the students crowded in the doorway. But as I adjusted the focus, something flickered at the projection's edge—a cluster of stars that matched no chart in father's astronomy manuals. Their odd, lopsided arrangement tugged at my memory like a half-remembered dream.
My toolbag vibrated faintly against the floorboards.
Headmaster Orlen didn't seem to notice the anomaly. "Marvelous! Though..." He squinted at the unfamiliar stars. "Is that how Andromeda is supposed to look?"
I stared at the pulsating constellation that definitely wasn't part of the standard celestial projections. The one that somehow made the hair on my neck stand up.
"Must be a calibration error," I lied, reaching for my toolkit.
The schoolhouse door clicked shut behind us, the muffled chatter of students still buzzing about the star projection fading as we stepped into the afternoon sun. Headmaster Orlen mopped his brow with a handkerchief, eyeing the horizon where dark clouds gathered.
"So," he said, squinting at me sideways. "You going to the gathering tonight?"
I adjusted the strap of my tool satchel, already dreading where this was going. "Hadn't planned on it."
Orlen made a sound halfway between a cough and a gag. "Nessa's cooking this year."
I nearly dropped my tools. "Gods, why?"
"Lost a bet with Lira, apparently." He shuddered. "Last time she cooked, old man Harlow swore he hallucinated for three days."
I grimaced, remembering the infamous "fish stew incident." The less said about that, the better.
"I'd rather lick a live wire," I muttered.
Orlen clapped me on the shoulder, grinning. "Then you'd better show up. Someone's got to document the symptoms for posterity."
I groaned. The worst part? He wasn't wrong.
The wind bit at my neck as I trudged up the cliff path to Lira's place, my tool satchel thumping against my hip with every step. The house looked the same as always—weathered stone walls, thatch roof patched with salvaged ship planks, chimney puffing lazy smoke into the gray afternoon.
I knocked twice, the way islanders do. Nothing.
Then a crash from inside, like someone had tripped over a bucket. "I go!"
I froze. That wasn't Lira's voice. Wasn't Jory's either. Too old for the boy, too young for any fisherman who might visit.
My harmonic compass jerked in my satchel like a live thing. I barely got it out before the needle went wild, spinning so fast the glass face fogged with condensation. The brass casing burned my palm, the vibration traveling up my arm like a warning.
The door creaked open.
A kid stood there—couldn't be more than fifteen, all elbows and knees in clothes that hung off him like he'd shrunk since putting them on. Salt-crusted hair, sunburn peeling off his nose. But his eyes locked onto the compass like he'd seen one before.
"Hey!" His grin showed a chipped tooth. "That's a harmonic calibrator!"
The needle twitched, then pointed straight at his heart.