Page hummed under his breath. The silly folk song he heard from the sailors was now stuck in his head, the beat going with every step scratching against the district's dusty roads. The bumps of the uneven tracks dug against the thinning soles of his sandals, reminding him of his need to replace them too. Perhaps, he'd have Dara stitch him a new pair from the wool he got from the shepherd this morning. Those would be so comfortable.

He passed by the trading square, checking the plump fruits hanging out in their shaded stands. Spices from the islands beyond the sea glittered against the afternoon sun, lining his way towards the woodworkers in flat, woven baskets and jars with unscrewed lids. The song reached its climax, blasting inside his head. He sighed. Whatever. It'd pass.

The sailors were an interesting bunch, that much Page was certain when he dropped by earlier. He had been craving bounty from the sea, and the port hosted the most active market for those in all of the district. Even noblemen and scholars from the archives and academy flocked in the stalls and picked everything off.

It was also there where Page heard news from out there, especially which king or queen ruled over the kingdom. He and Dara had turned it into a past time—watching whose face would turn up in the new editions of coins circulating in their circles. The sailors have the time of their lives, visiting various islands, interacting with different people, and seeing the open waters for the behemoth that they were. Page could have tried to be one, but his sea legs and penchant to mess things up wouldn't be of help in a crew. He couldn't even climb a damn spire without breaking in sweat. How was he supposed to haul his entire weight up a mast?

He was halfway in haggling for a sea bass when a couple of muscled sailors sauntered by, talking in loud tones. "You won't believe what's out there," one of them, a tall, toned man dressed in a sleeveless robe, said. He was barefoot, his steps leaving behind wet splotches on the ground baked by the sun. "It's like a leviathan woke up and rose from the depths."

"Haven't prayed to the gods for a safe departure, have you?" the other said, tapping a hand against the man's rippling biceps. "Tell you what, the crew and I will be heading to the temple before we set course tomorrow. Will you come?"

"Bah!" The toned man turned his face away in disgust at what his companion just said. "If the gods had anything to do with that infernal gurgling and howling from the horizon, it's because they are the ones who sent it."

To further drive his point home, he spread his arms and looked up to the sky. "Strike me dead if that is not the will of heaven!" He yelled at everything and nothing. His companion ducked behind a hand, along with the rest of their crew and friends. Nothing happened. The sailors remained men, untouched by the gods. Was Page supposed to be relieved by that? The brave sailor laughed. "See? Something is out there, my friend. I bid you well wishes for your journey. May the gods sustain you."

Page wasn't one to believe in rumors, but with sailors talking about the fluid course beyond the shore, everyone was bound to believe them. Something was out there, and if there were really gods hiding beyond the sheets of white clouds, they would have sent it against mankind. Did Dara foresee that as well? Compared to the sailors, he had the actual blessing. Page had seen it in action multiple times to be a skeptic.

With his gift, Dara could have been sent to the temple in the neighboring district. Upon realizing an entire strait separated him and his hometown, he threw a fit. With his father being a long time slave of Dara's father, Page had seen the meltdown with his own eyes. He might have been too young to know what it was about, but long after they've both grown and Dara took over running the shop, Dara explained it as no more than a recalled memory. Dara's father took it upon himself to shield his son from prying eyes and whispering mouths, so nobody knew his gift well enough to talk about it. Except...well, Page.

The woodworker district bled off the narrow steps torn between buildings and sides of mountains. Light shone through the wider clearing of quartz houses and brick red shingles when Page cleared the dim influence of the narrow way, poking black spots into his vision and stinging at the back of his eyes. A hand shielded his face, craning his neck up at the towering cypress and olive trees peppering the roads. They were a brief respite from the avalanche of brightness. He aimed for the only building in the area whose products he could afford with the coins they earned for a few days. The carob pastries could only go this far.

Said coins jangled against Page's thigh with his every step. He took care, tying the purse to his belt and sticking it into the pocket of his robe. Every once in a while, he would brush his arm against the bulk to check if it was still there. He wove past passing merchants and patrons, each one armed to the bone with money or wares. Mules lumbered about, each one burdened with sacks or carts of provisions and possessions, braying and clawing their hooves against the ground in protest. Page could never afford a riding animal, and with the shop doing worse than expected this year, Dara couldn't either. Hence, their need to walk about with their own two feet everywhere they went.

Not that Page was against it. Since Dara had started helping around in the shop, delivering orders himself or gathering herbs in the spire, he started putting on some weight and his pallor had improved, even if just a bit. Dara had always been sickly as a child, and with both their fathers not around for them, Page decided it was his turn to care for Dara as the heir to the shop. Far from the drama in the Capital, but close.

And since then, it has always been the two of them. Dara has to sell some of the slaves his father owned just to get through a winter and still have the shop. Page scrounged all his savings—wages cut from his father's salary as a long-time partner-slash-slave of the previous owner—and bought them enough food to last them a while. When that ran out, both of them had to start working for their food, and it has been that way since. Life was a vicious cycle, Dara would have said if he heard Page's thoughts as if they were spoken aloud.

Page was almost to the woodworker's shop when a loud rustling followed by the loudest braying the riding animals had ever thrown rippled through the entire clearing. Clouds of chatter and hissed whispers rose from the crowd. He was about to disregard it as another visit from a no-name scholar when his world started spinning. Shaking.

As if...

"Earthquake!" someone shouted from the back, startling Page into action. His eyes scanned the surroundings. Where...?

Wood groaned behind Page. In a flash, one of the trunks snapped in half, toppling to the ground, leaves and fruits in tow. The screams tripled. Bodies crowded towards the numerous exits of the district, each one aiming to get back to their families or things they deemed important. An earthquake? Where did it come from?

Page was never one to understand how the world worked—that was Dara's job—but he knew the ground shaking like this wasn't normal. Rock groaned, and the houses looked as if they were dancing to an invisible ensemble the longer the quivering went on. Even Page's vision spun with every minute he spent frozen on the clearing.

A flutter of wings joined the cacophony of leaves hitting the ground and grown trunks slamming against shingles. Mules reared, kicking their front legs in panic as their instinct to run was dampened with the heavy load attached to them. Then, a collective hoot rippled through the entire plain.

Doves. And they were calling.

Page's throat constricted. A single thought knocked into the side of his head. Dara.

That got him moving.

He tore through the narrow steps, sandals threatening to snap with every running step slamming and tearing against the dusty paths. He wounded the familiar corners and alleys towards the shop. The merchants, in their haste, forgot to pack their wares, leaving the fruits, the spices, and even their carts in the trading square. Masses pushed and yanked against Page, but he gritted his teeth and purged forward.

The shop's door flew open under the slapping force from his hand. "Dara!" His voice floated into the hollow space of the wooden building. Apart from a candle lit by the shuttered windows, the building was empty. Where...

The doves followed him on his way down here, cooing and cawing at the wrath visiting their district. Or was this the case in the entire kingdom? Has the leviathan arrived and delivered the wrath the gods promised?

A breeze rolled from the waves of people running around in panic around him. Before him, a white feather fluttered down. Feathers. Doves. Dara. Where was he? Didn't Page tell him to not go out today? If he disobeyed that...

Page set the basket down on the ground, snuffed the candle light with a harsh blow, and grabbed his worn staff. Dara hated chaos, especially if he already foresaw this event. He would have gone somewhere he could be certain no one would reach him. Nobody but Page.

The spire.

Page gritted his teeth, bursting past the shop and setting course for the steepest and remotest part of the district.