The Watcher's words haunted Orion long after he vanished. Every tick you steal will cost you tenfold later. It wasn't just a warning—it was a prophecy, and it gnawed at his thoughts like rust eating through steel.
That night, Orion retreated to the hidden workshop beneath the old clock tower. The air was thick with the smell of oil and dust, the silence broken only by the slow, steady beat of pendulums. Each swing felt heavier than before, as if mocking his struggle against inevitability.
He set the brass dial on the workbench and unrolled his notes. Pages covered in diagrams, equations, and sketches littered the surface. They all revolved around one question: Can fate itself be altered without consequence?
His fingers brushed against the small fragments of golden thread he had captured in earlier experiments. They vibrated faintly, like harp strings aching to sing. Orion stared at them for a long while before whispering:
"Are you salvation… or poison?"
The golden threads pulsed in response, faint but insistent. He couldn't tell if they were encouraging him or warning him.
Suddenly, a loud creak echoed from the rafters. Orion stiffened, reaching for the wrench at his side. From the shadows, a figure emerged—not the Watcher this time, but Elias, his old friend and reluctant ally.
"You've been playing with fire again," Elias said grimly, stepping into the light. His coat was worn, his eyes tired, but his voice carried its usual sharpness.
Orion forced a smile. "You always sneak in at the worst times."
"I could say the same." Elias glanced at the golden fragments on the bench, his jaw tightening. "Do you even know what you're doing anymore? These… things… they don't belong to us. They belong to something bigger, something ancient."
Orion hesitated, then leaned forward. "Bigger, yes. But what if that bigger thing is broken? What if it's flawed? Don't we have the right to fix it?"
Elias slammed his palm against the bench, rattling the tools. "Fix it? You think you're some kind of god?"
The words cut deeper than Orion expected. He lowered his gaze. "No. I think I'm a man who's tired of watching lives unravel while I stand idle. If I can hold the threads… if I can change them…" His voice trailed off, caught between conviction and doubt.
Elias sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. "You're forgetting the cost. Threads don't move without consequence. And now—" His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "Now the Watchers have noticed."
Orion's head shot up. "You've seen them too?"
Elias nodded reluctantly. "Not directly. But I've heard the bells toll at odd hours, felt the air freeze as if time itself held its breath. They're circling, Orion. Waiting for you to slip."
A silence fell between them, broken only by the ticking around them. Orion clenched his fists, his determination hardening like tempered steel.
"Then I don't have the luxury of hesitation. If the Watchers want to 'correct' me, I'll prove that their balance is nothing but tyranny disguised as order."
Elias shook his head, muttering, "You're going to get yourself killed."
"Maybe," Orion said quietly. "But if I don't try, everyone else will keep living in chains, bound to a weave they never chose. And that's not life—it's imprisonment."
The pendulums swung louder, faster, echoing his resolve. Orion reached for the fragments and pressed them against the brass dial. The gears sparked, a faint golden glow blooming across the workshop walls like veins of light.
Elias watched, torn between fear and admiration. He finally spoke, voice low but firm. "If you're really going down this path… then you won't face it alone. Someone has to keep you from losing yourself completely."
Orion gave a faint, grateful smile. "Then stay close. The weight of time is too heavy for one man."
The clocks around them ticked in unison, as if sealing a pact.