The night was heavy, the kind that pressed down on the city until even its gears seemed to grind slower. Aeren moved through the dim backstreets, guided only by the faint glimmers of mechanical glow-lamps, their light flickering like dying embers. His mind refused to quiet. Every word the Archivist had spoken still rang in his ears: The Clockwork Throne is not built, it is claimed.
But what did that mean?
As he walked, he felt the strange pulse again, the rhythm beneath the ground. It was stronger now, like the city itself was aware of him, like its hidden heartbeats had aligned with his own. He didn't know if that was a gift or a curse.
He turned a corner and stopped.
A figure waited in the alley, cloaked in black, with a mask that covered everything except a line of silver eyes. They leaned casually against the wall, as if they had been expecting him.
"Aeren," the figure said, their voice soft, yet carrying an edge sharp enough to cut stone. "The city whispers your name now. Do you hear it?"
Aeren's hand twitched toward the fragment in his pocket. "Who are you?"
The masked figure tilted their head. "A Keeper of Ashes. One who protects what was burned away. And you… you are walking a path that will set the embers aflame again."
Aeren narrowed his eyes. "If you know who I am, then you know I don't have answers. I barely understand what's happening to me."
The Keeper's silver eyes gleamed. "Understanding comes after choice, not before. You already stepped into the city's rhythm the night you picked up that fragment. You cannot walk back."
Aeren clenched his jaw. "Then tell me what this fragment is."
The Keeper paused, their voice lowering into something almost reverent. "It is a shard of a crown that does not exist… yet. A crown that bends time, memory, and law. The one who gathers the fragments will sit upon the Throne. And when that happens, the city will either awaken—or die forever."
The words struck Aeren like a hammer. The Clockwork Throne wasn't just a myth. It was real. And somehow, it had chosen him.
"Why me?" Aeren asked, almost whispering.
The Keeper pushed off the wall and stepped closer. For the first time, Aeren could see the faint burn marks lacing their gloves, scars of someone who had touched fire and lived.
"Because the city remembers you, even if you do not remember yourself," they said. "But beware, Aeren. Fragments do not only call to seekers. They also call to devourers. And they have already begun to move."
A sudden noise echoed down the alley—metal scraping stone, like claws dragging across gears. Aeren turned, his heartbeat spiking.
The Keeper's voice grew sharp. "They found you faster than I expected. Do not die tonight, Aeren. If you fall, the city falls with you."
And then, before Aeren could speak, the Keeper of Ashes vanished into smoke, leaving him alone with the sound of something monstrous approaching.