Muse Part 1

Bell sat on the wrought-iron bench, its cool surface pressing against her back as she leaned slightly forward, her fingers gripping the pencil like it was the only tether to her thoughts. Before her lay the grand spectacle of Dûrnarn, sprawled out like an intricate puzzle, its many layers shifting between shadow and light. The late afternoon sun cast a golden haze over the city, bathing its towering tiers and winding staircases in an otherworldly glow. Each building seemed to cascade into the next, a labyrinth of structures built to defy gravity, their spires stretching high above the lower reaches, where darkness pooled like liquid night.

Her pencil moved in soft, deliberate strokes, capturing the way the streets curved impossibly into one another, threading through archways and dipping into unseen hollows. She sketched the spiralling staircases, winding endlessly like the shells of ancient creatures, their steps worn smooth by generations of hurried feet. Every corner of the city seemed to hum with a quiet, enduring energy, a sense of life that thrived despite the weight of history pressing down on it.

In the distance, the faint glimmers of the refineries caught her eye, their crystalline lights flickering like the city’s heartbeat. It was an almost spectral sight, the crystals emitting a pale, shimmering luminescence that seemed to hang suspended in the air. The effect was hypnotic, as though the mines themselves were alive, their veins pulsing with untold stories buried deep within the earth. Bell paused, her pencil hovering over the page as she tried to capture that ephemeral glow, the kind of light that felt as if it could slip through your fingers like sand if you reached for it.

She exhaled, her breath escaping in a soft sigh that mingled with the faint murmur of voices and distant chimes of a street performer’s bell somewhere far below. Above her, the sky shifted, tinged with the delicate pastels of approaching dusk, while wisps of clouds floated lazily, their shapes fleeting and unknowable. The air carried the faint scent of the upper reaches—cool, tinged with the faint aroma of greenery from the nearby gardens and the metallic bite of crystal dust that seemed to permeate everything in Dûrnarn.

As she drew, her mind wandered. She thought about how strange it was to find this pocket of serenity in a city that often felt overwhelming, even suffocating. Here, in the upper reaches, the chaos of the lower levels felt distant, reduced to a faint hum. It was the kind of place that made you feel as though you could breathe, as though you could forget, if only for a moment, the labyrinthine madness of the city’s depths.

Bell tilted her head, studying the lines she’d etched onto the page. They felt inadequate, clumsy attempts to replicate something far too vast and intricate to fit within the confines of paper. Still, she kept drawing, her fingers smudging the edges of the graphite lines as she tried to give the city some semblance of justice. It was beautiful, after all, even in its chaos. Especially in its chaos.

Lost in her sketch, Bell didn’t notice the presence beside her until a voice, warm and effortless, cut through the quiet rhythm of her pencil.

“Hey,” he said, the single syllable carrying an undeniable spark of life, as though it could ignite the very air around them.

Bell looked up, startled, and her gaze landed on a man who seemed to belong more to the sunlight than the shadows of Dûrnarn. His disarming grin was as genuine as it was magnetic, the kind of smile that could make you forget everything else for a moment. Brown curls framed his face, unruly and sun-kissed, tumbling across his brow as if they had a mind of their own. His eyes—oh, his eyes—were a vivid, untamed green, full of mischief and an intoxicating curiosity, as if he found endless fascination in the world around him and wanted to share it with everyone he met.

His clothes were casual, carelessly charming in their wear—a loose linen shirt rolled at the sleeves, paint-smeared trousers, and scuffed boots that hinted at long walks through uneven streets and spontaneous adventures. Across his shoulder hung a well-worn satchel, bulging with a chaotic assortment of paint-stained brushes, tightly rolled canvases, and small, curious trinkets that jingled faintly when he shifted. There was a slight streak of blue paint smudged along his wrist, a forgotten remnant of some creative endeavour, and it suited him, adding to the impression of someone who lived life with his hands full of colour and his heart full of stories.

Everything about him radiated ease and spontaneity, as though he were the sort of person who would write poetry on napkins, climb rooftops to see the stars, or strike up a conversation with a stranger just to know what their laugh sounded like. Bell felt her breath catch—not because he was conventionally handsome, but because there was something about him, something impossible to ignore. It was as though he carried an invisible thread that wove its way into the fabric of everyone he encountered, binding them to a world brighter, fuller, and more alive.

He tilted his head, his smile softening as he studied her, his gaze lingering on the sketch in her lap. “That’s beautiful,” he said, his voice rich with sincerity, as if the words themselves were an offering, and for a moment, Bell felt as if he were speaking about more than just the lines on her page.

"Mind if I join you?” he asked, his voice carrying a gentleness that seemed to wrap itself around Bell’s thoughts, nudging her out of her sketch-induced trance. His eyes, a radiant mix of curiosity and kindness, flickered over her sketchbook, clearly intrigued.

Bell gave a small, hesitant shrug, feeling a sudden flutter of embarrassment. “I mean, sure. It’s a public bench, after all.” She smiled slightly, trying to keep her tone light, though something about his gaze left her feeling unusually exposed.

“I’m Callum” He introduced himself. Bell blushed at his familiarity and looked back to her sketchbook.

“Bell.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, him beside her on the bench as she continued to sketch. She found herself drawn back into her lines, her pencil gliding effortlessly over the paper, somehow sharper, more alive. As she worked, he began humming, the tune soft and hauntingly beautiful, lilting like a melody she might have dreamt. The sound wove into her movements, into the rhythm of her strokes, and soon Bell felt her surroundings fade away, leaving only the image unfolding before her. The hours slipped by unnoticed, lost in her art and in the gentle hum of his song, until a cool breeze swept across her face, bringing her back to the world.

Blinking, Bell looked up to find the sun dipping low, casting a golden glow over the city’s sprawling layers. She became painfully aware of how close they were sitting, of the warmth radiating from him beside her. There was a delicate scent lingering around him—something elusive, like wildflowers after rain or an old fairytale whispered in a quiet forest. It stirred a strange longing in her, something ancient and unnameable, reminding her of a tale she’d once read, where a lovesick woman drowned herself in a lake covered in blossoms.

A blush crept over her cheeks, her heart skipping as he shifted, their legs brushing softly. She fought the urge to pull away, half panicked by how utterly enveloped she felt by his presence, until he drew in a deep breath, his expression turning wistful.

“Do you smell that?” he asked, looking out over the city, his gaze distant, as though seeing something Bell couldn’t. “Maetàli. It’s rare outside Dûrnarn.” His eyes softened as he turned to her, his voice carrying a subtle warmth. “It’s a dessert that can only be made here, actually. Only the magic in the mines can bring out the right flavour.” He chuckled, noticing her curiosity, and explained, “Maetàli’s made from a type of gelatin that captures the love of a harmonious family—it’s something almost tangible here, thanks to the magic in the earth. Real love, as an actual flavour.”

Bell’s eyes widened, enchanted by the idea. “So… people actually eat it?”

He nodded, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “It’s tradition. And since you’re here, you have to try it at least once.” He looked at her with an open smile, a trace of mischief flickering at the corners of his mouth. “Would you like some?”

The invitation sent a small thrill through her, a strange excitement at the thought of tasting something so steeped in the city’s magic. “Yes,” she said, a bit too eagerly, and laughed softly to cover her blush. “Yes, I’d love to try it.”

The café was a quaint little spot tucked under the sprawling arms of an ancient tree, its canopy of leaves filtering the light of a street lamp into soft dapples across the tables. The air carried a faint sweetness as the staff bustled behind a counter piled high with gleaming trays of Maetàli. The translucent dessert shimmered under the lights, its electric hues almost otherworldly. Bell hesitated as they approached the counter, her fingers brushing over her bead pouch, but Callum waved her off with a warm grin.

“My treat,” he insisted, and before she could protest, he’d already handed over the garnets and secured two paper trays of the desert, each serving a trembling jewel of gelatin.

Back on their bench, Bell delicately stabbed her toothpick into the Maetàli and took a cautious bite. Her eyes widened as the taste bloomed on her tongue, a harmony of flavours so vivid it felt like a memory she couldn’t quite place.

“What do you think?” Callum asked, his voice carrying a teasing lilt as he took his first bite. His eyes closed briefly, and a dreamy smile curled his lips. “For me, it’s like an apple orchard under a full moon. Crisp, sweet, with just a whisper of something wild in the air.”

Bell laughed, her shoulders relaxing as she took another bite. “That’s poetic, but mine tastes completely different.”

“Oh?” Callum arched an eyebrow, leaning forward with that infectious curiosity of his. “What does yours taste like? Don’t hold back—I expect full poetry.”

Bell hesitated, the toothpick frozen in her hand. Finally, she said, “It tastes like… like standing on a beach where the tide pulls in, and somehow, it’s carrying fresh tangerines. Sweet, tangy, but there’s salt in the air, and it’s not quite warm, not quite cold—just perfect.”

Callum’s eyes lit up, and he laughed, the sound full and rich, like the chime of a bell. “A beach with tangerines? I’d pay good money to see that. Can you imagine swimming through a sea of tangerines? Floating like buoys? Or wading through waves of juice?”

Bell joined his laughter, the imagined absurdity of it painting vivid pictures in her mind. She felt giddy, almost intoxicated by their shared joy. The weight of Dûrnarn’s endless shadows seemed to lift, and for the first time in ages, she felt light, untethered.

As their laughter subsided, Callum reached across the bench, picking up her pencil with a casual elegance. He tapped it against his lip thoughtfully, then looked at her sketchbook. “May I?”

Bell nodded, still smiling as she handed it to him. With a fluid motion, he flipped to a blank page and began to write. His handwriting was graceful, each letter flowing seamlessly into the next, like a ribbon unspooling.

“There,” he said, handing it back to her. On the page was a time, a date, and an address, and his contact info written with an almost reverent care. “If you’re up for an adventure—and you seem like someone who might be—you’ll meet me there.”

Bell glanced at the address, her brow furrowing slightly. It was somewhere she’d never been before, a neighbourhood whispered about for its hidden galleries and secretive art circles. She bit her lip, the intrigue pulling at her. “What kind of adventure are we talking about?”

Callum’s smile turned enigmatic as he leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the bench. “Let’s just say it’s something extraordinary, something you’ve probably never seen before and may never see again.”

And then, with an effortless grace, he stood, his satchel bumping against his hip as he adjusted it over his shoulder. His gaze lingered on her for just a moment, as if silently daring her. “So, Bell, I’ll see you there. Or I won’t. It’s your choice.”

Before she could respond, he turned and strolled away, his footsteps light, his presence like the last glow of twilight—brief, beautiful, and leaving her wanting more. Bell stared at the page in her sketchbook, her heart pounding with a mix of curiosity and nervous anticipation, the Maetàli on her tongue still as sweet as the moment.