The morning sun bled across the rooftops, casting long shadows through the narrow alleys of the city. Orion walked briskly, his hood drawn low. The night's experiment still weighed heavily on his mind. The golden threads had revealed their power, but also their danger.
As he moved, the threads shimmered faintly in his vision, weaving through crowds of people like invisible strings guiding marionettes. He tried not to stare too long. Every connection tugged at his conscience—every face carried a destiny he could alter.
But one thread stood out.
It was unlike the others: dark red, almost pulsing, as though it carried blood instead of light. It trailed him no matter where he turned. At first, he thought it was his imagination. By the fifth turn, he knew better. Someone was following.
Orion ducked into a quieter street, his hand brushing the brass dial strapped to his wrist. A faint hum of gears vibrated against his skin, readying his watch-craft. "Show yourself," he said quietly.
The reply came not in words, but in a sudden stillness. The air grew heavy. The sound of footsteps behind him was deliberate, measured, almost ceremonial. When Orion turned, he saw a man cloaked in crimson robes, his face hidden beneath a hood.
The stranger stopped several paces away, tilting his head as if studying a rare specimen. The red thread between them glowed brighter.
"You've touched the Loom," the man said, his voice smooth but cold. "Few mortals dare to pluck at the strings of destiny. Fewer survive."
Orion's jaw tightened. "And who are you supposed to be?"
The man raised his hand. Upon his wrist sat a watch, but not one of gears and brass—it was bone-white, etched with symbols that pulsed faintly with crimson light. The second hand did not tick; it bled forward, dripping into nothingness.
"I am the Watcher," the man replied, lowering his arm. "A keeper of balance. When someone disturbs the weave, I arrive to remind them of their place."
The words carried no boast, only certainty.
Orion clenched his fists, but he forced himself to stay calm. The clocks within his body ticked faintly, urging caution. He had no idea what this Watcher was truly capable of.
"If fate is so delicate," Orion said slowly, "why is it given to me at all? Why do I see the threads?"
The Watcher chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "Because the Loom is not flawless. Cracks form, threads loosen, and… anomalies like you are born." He leaned forward slightly. "But every anomaly must be corrected."
The crimson thread between them grew taut, and Orion felt his chest tighten as though an invisible noose pulled at his heart. His knees buckled, vision swimming.
He grasped the golden dial on his wrist, twisting it sharply. The workshop's resonance answered, gears whirling in his ears. A golden thread shot upward, connecting him to the nearest bell tower. With a surge of will, he pulled.
The bell tolled violently, shattering the suffocating pressure. Orion staggered back, gulping for air. The Watcher did not advance. He merely observed, tilting his head once more.
"You resist well," the Watcher murmured. "But every tick you steal from fate will cost you tenfold later."
With that, the crimson thread snapped back into the void. When Orion blinked, the street was empty.
He was alone again, but not comforted. The clocks around him whispered, their ticks heavy with warning. The game had changed. Fate was no longer passive—it had sent its guardian.
Orion touched his wrist, staring at the golden dial. His reflection in the brass seemed older, wearier.
"If I'm an anomaly…" he whispered, "then I'll have to become more than that. I'll have to master the Loom before it masters me."
The city's bells tolled again in the distance, a reminder that time was always moving—whether friend or foe.