The city was quieter than it should have been. Not silent—never silent, not with its gears grinding, its pipes steaming, its hidden mechanisms rattling beneath cobblestone streets—but quieter in the way of a beast holding its breath. Even the crowds moved differently. Men hurried with collars turned up, women clutched their veils tighter, and the newsboys shouted headlines with less cheer than usual, their voices flat like crows announcing an omen.
Kairen noticed it immediately as he walked through the market square, his hood drawn low. The normal rhythm of chatter, haggling, and laughter had been replaced with a strange syncopation—like a ticking clock that stuttered. Something was wrong in the air, though no one dared say it outright.
At the center of the square, a new addition had appeared overnight: a tall, iron clock. Its face was jagged, the numbers uneven, and its hands spun with an unsettling rhythm—sometimes fast, sometimes slow, sometimes even backward. Children stared at it until their mothers dragged them away. The watchmen circled it but kept their distance, as though afraid it might strike them down simply by chiming.
Kairen approached it cautiously, his instincts telling him this was no ordinary construct. His eyes scanned the gears visible through its open casing—ancient, rusted, yet still moving with unnatural precision. Someone had planted this thing in the heart of the city. Someone who wanted to send a message.
Behind him, Safaa caught up, her breath misting in the cool air. "It wasn't here yesterday," she whispered, her voice uneasy. The manuscript in her satchel pulsed faintly, reacting to the clock's distorted energy.
"That's because it wasn't meant for yesterday," Kairen replied, his tone sharp, analytical. "It was meant for today. A warning."
As if in response, the clock's hands froze. The entire square fell into a hush. Every passerby stopped mid-step, eyes fixed on the iron monstrosity. The silence deepened until even the sound of steam from the pipes seemed to vanish.
Then the clock struck once.
The sound wasn't a normal chime. It was like metal grinding against bone, a deep resonance that seemed to vibrate inside the skull. Several people in the crowd cried out, clutching their ears. A child fainted.
The second strike followed, sharper, faster. With each chime, the air grew heavier, pressing down on lungs and hearts alike. Safaa staggered, gripping Kairen's arm for balance. The manuscript's glow was almost blinding now, like it was trying to shield her from the sound.
"Thirteen chimes," Kairen muttered, realization dawning. "It's a countdown."
By the sixth strike, panic erupted. The crowd scattered, some collapsing in terror, others running blindly through the streets. Watchmen shouted orders but couldn't stop the tide of fear. Windows slammed shut, and shutters clattered as the city locked itself in against the unseen terror.
By the tenth strike, even Kairen's heart was racing uncontrollably. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, though he knew steel was useless against whatever force resonated within this cursed clock. He could feel the Watchmaker's hand in it—the precision, the cruelty, the elegance of fear made into machinery.
Safaa pressed the manuscript to her chest, her lips moving in a desperate prayer. "If it reaches thirteen—"
The twelfth strike cut her words short. The ground trembled, and a crack splintered across the cobblestones beneath the clock. Foul-smelling steam hissed from the fissure, carrying with it the whispers of voices too old and too broken to belong to any living thing.
The crowd had fled, leaving only Kairen and Safaa before the looming construct. The thirteenth strike was inevitable.
Kairen's jaw clenched. He stepped in front of Safaa, raising his sword though he knew it was futile. "If it's meant for today, then we'll stop it today."
The final chime rang out—deep, echoing, endless. But the clock did not stop.
It kept ticking. Faster. Louder. As though thirteen was only the beginning.