The city did not sleep anymore. Not truly.
In the shadowed streets of Aethelis, whispers traveled faster than fire, curling through taverns, market stalls, and even the echoing steps of the constables' halls. By day, life still pretended to move in rhythm—merchants shouting their prices, children darting between carts, priests raising their sermons over the chaos—but at night, another rhythm had taken hold. The rhythm of ticking.
It began subtly. A shopkeeper claimed he heard a clock chime at midnight, though no clock tower was near. A beggar swore the shadows lengthened with each tick, stretching toward him like grasping fingers. Then came the rumors of masked figures gliding through alleys, carrying lanterns that glowed like burning gears.
The name spread quickly, soft and sharp, a curse and a fascination all at once: The Watchmaker's Cult.
Inside a candlelit inn, a group of merchants sat hushed.
"They say he counts every breath we take," one muttered. "That his clocks don't measure hours, but years—the years he steals."
Another shook his head nervously. "Nonsense. It's just another gang. The city's always had gangs."
But when the third merchant leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper, the others shivered.
"My cousin saw them. Said their leader stood at the center of a circle of clocks, none of them ticking, but all of them… beating. Like a heart."
The constables were not immune to these rumors either. In their barracks, a captain slammed a fist on the desk.
"Superstition! Nothing more. Still, if these whispers keep spreading, we'll have a panic on our hands."
Yet, even he did not believe his own words fully. For weeks, missing persons reports had grown in number—apprentices, vagrants, even a minor noble's son—all vanished without a trace. And each time, the only clue left behind was the faint, echoing tick in empty rooms.
Above it all, in a loft hidden behind gears and brass shutters, the Watchmaker listened.
He sat before a great window, watching the city's lanterns flicker like stars scattered across the earth. His disciples knelt in silence behind him, waiting. He did not smile, nor did he frown—he simply observed, as if the city itself were another clock under his inspection.
"Do you hear it?" His voice was calm, almost gentle.
One disciple, bold enough to answer, whispered, "The whispers, Master. They speak your name."
The Watchmaker finally turned, his eyes glinting like polished steel.
"Good. Let them. A whisper is the smallest measure of time—one breath. And from whispers, fear grows. From fear, obedience. They do not yet understand what they fear, but soon… they will count their lives in my ticks."
The disciples bowed, murmuring their oaths. Outside, a bell tower tolled midnight.
But the sound did not end with twelve. A thirteenth chime echoed across Aethelis—low, deep, unnatural. The city stirred uneasily in its sleep.
And in that moment, everyone—merchants, constables, beggars, nobles—knew the whispers were no longer rumor. They were prophecy.