The iron door resisted at first, its frame trembling as if it knew the one before it was unworthy. Ayan pressed harder, his palm flat against the carved clock face. Heat bled into his skin. The fracture carved through the dial glowed faintly, crimson veins crawling outward like cracks in glass.
Then, with a groan that echoed through the spiral stairwell below, the door gave way.
The chamber beyond was vast. It wasn't a room—it was an atrium, circular and immense, its walls lined with gears the size of houses. They turned slowly, grinding against each other with the patience of centuries. Above, a ceiling of black stone curved into shadow, its surface etched with constellations that shifted as if alive.
At the center of it all stood a clock.
It wasn't ordinary. Towering, skeletal, its frame reached nearly to the ceiling. Its hands moved with a sluggish, deliberate rhythm, though no mechanism powered them. Half of the clock was perfect—polished brass, glass so clean it gleamed like water. The other half was ruined, corroded and jagged, its hand twitching as if trapped in eternal spasm.
The sight made Ayan's breath still. For the first time since entering this labyrinth, he felt something pressing down on him—not fear, but recognition.
This clock was alive.
"You've come…"
The voice was not a whisper anymore. It thundered from the fractured half of the clock, vibrating through the chamber, making dust rain from above. The pristine half remained silent, its golden hand ticking with serene indifference.
Ayan took a step forward, his boots crunching on the stone floor. "What are you?" he asked, his tone steady.
"I am what you measure but cannot hold. I am the hand that builds, and the hand that breaks. I am Time unbound."
The words clawed at his thoughts. Time. The Watchmaker's Cult had spoken of it endlessly in fragments and riddles—how their faith was tied to gears, to watches, to the passage no man could resist. But here it was no metaphor. It stood before him, a broken deity caged inside machinery.
Ayan's eyes flicked over the chamber. Chains bolted into the walls connected to the ruined side of the clock. They strained against it, glowing faintly with inscriptions he couldn't read. Someone had bound this thing.
Someone had wounded Time itself.
"Why call me here?" he asked carefully.
The fractured half twitched violently, its voice splintering into multiple tones. "Because you listen. Where others obeyed, you climbed. You hear what silence hides. You are fit to hold the key."
The pristine half ticked once—a soft chime that cut through the madness. A second voice followed, calm and melodic:
"Do not listen. Those before you thought the same. They climbed, they listened, and they were consumed. Leave now. Return to the mortal wheel."
Ayan narrowed his eyes. Two voices, two halves of the same being. One broken, one whole. One demanding chains broken, the other warning him away.
The chamber pulsed with their discord.
His hand instinctively brushed the pouch at his side, where fragments of old gears he had collected rattled faintly. He thought of the marks carved into the stairwell, the voices that had led men to their deaths. This was no simple choice—it was a trial.
"Tell me," he asked, his voice steady despite the weight pressing on his chest. "What happens if I free you?"
The fractured half laughed—a sound like steel shattering. "The wheel will break. The hours will burn. You will hold the power to unmake what the Watchmaker chained."
The pristine half interrupted, its voice like running water. "No. If you free it, you unmake yourself first. It is broken, and in its breaking, it breaks all who touch it. To serve balance, you must bind it tighter."
The great gears in the walls began to move faster. Dust fell like rain, the constellations above spinning wildly. The chamber was collapsing under the pressure of their disagreement.
Ayan stood at the center, unmoved. His mind turned, weighing not just the words but the intent behind them. To free Time, or to bind it further—either choice would brand him forever.
He reached out, placing one hand on the fractured side of the clock. The surface was hot, searing, alive. His other hand pressed against the pristine half—cool, steady, unmoving.
For a moment, both halves fell silent, as if holding their breath.
And then, softly, Ayan spoke:
"Neither of you will decide for me. If time is broken, then I will decide how it turns."
The chamber roared in protest. The pristine half's chime cracked, the fractured half screamed, and the chains rattled violently. The gears in the walls spun until sparks flew, lighting the darkness with arcs of fire.
A blinding flash consumed the chamber—light and shadow tearing against each other.
When it cleared, Ayan stood alone. The clock was gone. The chamber was empty, save for a single object lying at his feet.
A watch.
Old, brass, its face split in two. One half perfect, one half shattered. Its hands ticked in unison.
He picked it up.
And the voices whispered one last time, not separate, but united.
"You are the Watchbearer."
The stairwell behind him had vanished. There was no way back. Only forward.