In the heart of the mist-draped city of Gravenmoor, time ticked a little too loudly.
The gaslights hissed softly along the winding cobblestone lanes. Rain had left the streets slick and gleaming, casting lanternlight reflections that quivered like trapped spirits in every puddle. A thick fog rolled through the alleyways, coiling around the wrought iron fences and ivy-draped balconies like a living thing.
Elias Vane, tall and thin as a lamppost, walked briskly down a narrow street, the heels of his boots echoing off the wet stone. His overcoat, charcoal-gray and threadbare at the cuffs, swayed with purpose. Beneath his arm, wrapped in wax paper, he carried a sealed letter. It had no return address—only a crimson seal shaped like a watch face with no hands.
He stopped before a narrow storefront squashed between a bookbinder and an undertaker. A crooked sign creaked overhead: Timekeeper's Relics. The shop windows were so clouded with grime that only shadows moved within.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The sound leaked from the door, rhythmic and relentless.
Elias pushed the door open. A small brass bell jingled—but no one emerged to greet him.
The scent inside was dense: a heady mix of machine oil, oiled wood, and something older—mildew, perhaps, or memories best left untouched. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling in clocks of every kind: cuckoo clocks, grandfather clocks, carriage clocks, clocks shaped like eyes, clocks with no faces at all. Each one ticked in perfect, unnatural unison.
"Mr. Vane."
The voice emerged from the gloom behind the counter. A man stepped forward—or something that resembled one. He was ancient, gaunt to the point of skeletal. His skin resembled aged vellum, paper-thin and liver-spotted. One eye was covered with a brass monocle bolted into his skull, surrounded by delicate gearwork. The other eye, deep-set and glinting black, stared with the intensity of a pendulum mid-swing.
"You're late."
"I came as soon as I received your letter," Elias replied, brushing fog from his coat. "I assume you're the clockmaker."
"I am what's left of him," the man rasped. "Come closer. Time doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Elias stepped up to the counter. Behind it lay a display case of oddities: fractured watch faces, silver keys, hourglasses filled with black sand.
The clockmaker reached beneath the counter and withdrew a small, ornate pocket watch. Its casing was the color of midnight, almost absorbing the light around it. Etched into its surface were ancient runes and intricate sigils that pulsed faintly like breathing skin.
"This," he whispered, "belonged to the late Lord Thorne."
Elias felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"He died?"
"Three days after he opened it," the clockmaker said, voice low. "Locked in his study. No signs of violence. But when they found the body…" he leaned in closer, breath sour like rust, "…his heart was gone. Not removed. Not taken. Just… gone. As if it had never existed."
Elias looked at the watch, then at the clockmaker. "And you want me to—what? Destroy it?"
The old man gave a grim chuckle. "Fool. You don't destroy what's older than time itself."
"Then why me?"
"Because the watch called your name."
Elias blinked. "Called?"
"In a dream. Or a waking trance. Hard to tell these days." He placed the watch on the counter with reverence. "It wants a Keeper. You are its choice."
Elias hesitated, then picked up the watch. The moment his fingers touched it, warmth spread through his skin. A whisper—not quite sound, not quite thought—slid into his mind.
Remember.
He stumbled back, breath shallow.
"You felt it," the clockmaker said with something between awe and sorrow. "The Veil has thinned."
Elias tucked the watch into his coat pocket, unsure why he didn't simply drop it and run.
"What happens if I open it?"
The clockmaker stepped back into the shadows. "Then you will see. And once you see, there is no un-seeing."
Elias turned to leave.
As he stepped into the fog, the clocks behind him all stopped at once.