The chamber smelled of burning oil and iron filings. Kairen's blade rested across his knees as he sharpened it in silence, the rasping sound of steel on stone mixing with the endless ticking of hidden gears. Around him, the disciples of the Watchmaker murmured in prayer, their voices weaving into a low hum that vibrated through the brass-plated walls.
But the Watchmaker's eyes were elsewhere. He watched the way one disciple's lips moved—not in prayer, but in nervous stutters. A hand trembling. A glance toward the door too often. Betrayal was not loud. It was quiet, measured, the pause between ticks.
Later that night, as the others descended into ritual, the disciple slipped away, clutching a folded letter against his chest. His breath was ragged, his eyes wide, as though every shadow might lunge at him. He moved quickly through the back passages of the city, headed for a safehouse lit by the faint glow of a lantern.
But when he entered, the room was already occupied.
The Watchmaker sat at the table, a single clock ticking beside him. He looked up, expression unreadable.
"You are late," he said simply.
The disciple's face drained of blood. He dropped to his knees, stammering prayers, apologies, excuses—but the Watchmaker only lifted the letter from his hand. Breaking the seal with mechanical precision, he read it aloud.
It was an offer: gold, protection, and freedom in exchange for information about the cult's movements. A rival faction's hand was clear in every word.
When he finished, the Watchmaker set the letter down and gestured toward the clock.
"Tell me, disciple—how many seconds do you believe you have left?"
The disciple sobbed, begging for mercy.
The Watchmaker leaned closer, his voice calm and chilling.
"Mercy is when the clock stops early. Betrayal is when it is wound too tightly. Which do you think you deserve?"
A single chime echoed. When the others found the room at dawn, the letter lay in ashes, and the clock's hands spun backward, frozen at midnight. The traitor's body was gone.
In the cult's ranks, rumors of the Watchmaker's precision justice spread faster than fire. And where fear grows, so does devotion.