Elara pulled her oilskin tighter and stepped out. Rain slapped her face. The barracks loomed on her left, their windows like dead eyes. The officers' quarters to her right had long since collapsed, but she still saw candlelight flickering there sometimes. She never investigated. Some ghosts, she'd learned, preferred company.
"I'm not a soldier," Elara said.
And as the rain hammered down on Fort Marrok, the two of them—the clockmaker and the faceless thing—descended into the well together, leaving only the humming behind, waiting for the next listener to arrive. fort marrok
The humming stopped.
Lightning split the sky. For an instant, the figure's hat was blown back, and she saw its face—or rather, the lack of one. A smooth, featureless oval of porcelain, with only the faintest impression of features beneath, like a mask not yet finished. Elara pulled her oilskin tighter and stepped out