Ding.
Dong.
The sound came deep and heavy, rolling like thunder through stone corridors unseen. Again it struck, the echo resounding as if the walls of heaven itself bore the weight of its toll.
Amara jolted awake, her chest rising fast as though the sound had clawed her out of slumber. She found herself in a chamber unlike any earthly dwelling—walls of smooth marble veined with gold, draperies that shimmered faintly in the moonlight, and pillars carved with stories of forgotten kings. Every corner breathed opulence, yet the air carried an ancient chill that raised her skin.
The moonlight streamed through tall, arched windows, pale and silver, cloaking the chamber in a serene but haunting glow. The scent of incense—something like myrrh and cedar—lingered faintly, though it seemed older than the room itself, as though burned long ago. Cold night air drifted through, curling against her bare arms and tugging at the folds of the long gown she wore.
Amara rose slowly from her carved bed, her silken dress falling around her in dark waves. Her hair, black as raven's wings and curled to her waist, gleamed beneath the moon's light. The soft glow made her features ethereal: high cheekbones sculpted like marble, lips tinted naturally with warmth, and eyes deep and luminous, dark pools that could have been mistaken for a goddess's gaze. She moved with the quiet grace of a woman untouched by time, fragile in appearance yet bearing something unearthly in her composure.
Her bare feet touched the cool stone floor, and she crossed the vast chamber with careful steps, her long hair brushing her back like shadow. The silence was heavy until she saw it.
Beyond the window, towering higher than the palace walls, stood a great clock its vast stone tower piercing the night sky. The enormous dial loomed pale against the stars, its single hand fixed upon the mark of midnight. It stared back at her, an unblinking eye carved into the heavens.
Her breath caught. Something about that frozen hand, pointing to twelve, sent a prickle down her skin. She pressed closer to the window, her delicate fingers resting against the glass as though distance alone could shield her from its presence.
Then—
Bang.
The toll struck again, heavier, deeper. The sound rushed through her bones, and she staggered, clutching her head. Pain lanced behind her eyes, sharp and merciless.
Bang.
Her knees buckled. The sound throbbed within her skull, as though each toll was hammering inside her very mind. Her breath quickened, ragged, her chest heaving.
Bang.
She gasped, falling to her knees, her long hair spilling around her like a veil of night. Her slender hands clutched her temples as if she could tear the pain out by force. The more it sounded, the sharper the agony. Her vision blurred the moonlight fractured, the room swaying in dizzy waves.
And then
She jolted awake.
The sudden silence was deafening. Her breath came shallow, her eyes fluttering open to sunlight rather than moonlight. The chamber she now lay in was smaller, humbler, though still beautiful. Its walls were lined not with marble but polished wood, and the fragrance here was gentler the faint sweetness of lavender mixed with the morning's cool air drifting through the open window.
The golden rays of dawn spilled across her bed, falling upon her skin like warm silk. Where the moonlight had made her beauty sharp and divine, the sunlight softened her her pale skin now glowed with warmth, her dark hair glimmered like strands of obsidian touched by fire.
Amara sat upright, her breath unsteady, her body still trembling faintly from the remnants of pain. She looked down and saw she no longer wore the silken gown of her dream but a simple nightdress, thin and delicate, baring the smooth line of her shoulders. The fabric clung faintly where she perspired, the chill of the dream still lingering on her flesh though the sun's warmth bathed her.
Her lips parted. In a voice no louder than a whisper, she spoke to the empty room.
"That dream… again."
She turned her gaze to the window. Beyond it, sunlight poured across fields of green, the scent of morning dew sharp and clean upon the air. A bird's distant song drifted in, fragile against the vast silence.
Yet even with the morning's gentle embrace, she could not shake it the tolling that still seemed to echo faintly in her skull. That sound. That pain. That endless clock forever fixed at midnight.
Her fingers tightened around the sheets. A shiver coursed through her, though the sun was warm upon her skin.
"My lady. My lady… wake up. It is time for breakfast."
The soft voice came from beyond the door, followed by the gentle creak of hinges. Amara turned her head. A woman entered—a maid with hair like silver threads, bound in a neat braid. Despite her age, her posture carried both strength and dignity. Her face bore the lines of years, but her eyes shone warm and kind, touched with the sort of gentleness that could calm even restless children.
Amara rose at once, her voice polite and melodic. "Good morning, Elys. I am already awake."
The maid smiled, dipping her head as if both relieved and proud. "Then let me prepare you, my lady. Your father awaits."
Guided by Elys, Amara moved toward the tall cedar wardrobe, carved with vines and lions. From within, the maid drew out a gown of deep sapphire blue, embroidered with golden threads along the hem and sleeves. The fabric shimmered faintly in the morning light, the work of masterful hands. Elys helped her into it, fastening the bodice with quiet care.
Amara's dark curls were brushed until they gleamed, falling across her back like a river of black silk. A delicate chain of silver was set upon her neck, the pendant resting against her collarbone. When she turned toward the mirror, even she felt the breath of wonder. The dress gave her a regal air, yet her smile softened it, as though she were sunlight wrapped in velvet.
"Perfect," Elys whispered, a trace of pride in her tone.
The two left the chamber. The hallway stretched vast and high, lit by sunlight that poured through tall arched windows. The walls were adorned with banners depicting the city's crest—a silver eagle soaring above a crown—and the floor of polished stone carried their reflections as they walked. The scent of baked bread drifted faintly from the kitchens below, mingling with the cool fragrance of polished wood.
At the end of the corridor, great double doors were opened by guards clad in steel and blue. Within, the dining hall spread wide and long. A table carved from oak stretched nearly the length of the chamber, adorned with platters of fruit, bread, and golden pitchers of wine and milk. The windows were thrown open, letting in the sound of distant bells ringing across the city.
In the center of the table sat a man of commanding presence. His dark hair, streaked faintly with silver, framed a face strong with years of rule. He wore a fine tunic trimmed with gold and the seal of his office upon his chest—a mark that named him Governor of the city. Yet his stern bearing melted the moment Amara entered.
"Good morning, Father," she said, her voice gentle but bright.
The governor rose at once, his expression softening with delight. "My precious daughter," he said warmly, stepping forward. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead with care. "More beautiful with each dawn, as though the sun itself favors you."
Amara laughed lightly, her cheeks warmed by his affection. "You flatter me too much."
He shook his head as they both took their seats at the table. "Nonsense. Beauty is only truth reflected, and yours shines in both face and heart."
They began their meal, the clink of silver against porcelain filling the hall. The bread was fresh, still warm from the ovens, and the sweet scent of honey filled the air as it was spread upon the slices. Roasted meats, figs, and cheese were served by quiet attendants who bowed as they passed.
Amara broke her bread and smiled at her father across the table. "Father, I wished to ask something."
"Speak, my jewel."
"May I visit the city today? My friends and I have planned to explore. The markets are lively during this season, and the streets are full of song and color."
The governor leaned back, stroking his chin as though weighing the request with grave thought. His eyes, however, twinkled with humor. "So long as you swear never to be seen in the company of a man, I shall allow it."
Amara pressed a hand to her lips to stifle her laugh. "Father!"
"Ah, it is the rule of all fathers, is it not?" he teased, his smile broadening. "We guard our daughters as treasures, though we know one day they will choose their own path."
Their laughter filled the hall, warm and unbroken, and for a moment it seemed the world was only theirs simple, bright, unshadowed by duty.
But then the doors creaked open. A man entered swiftly, clad in the colors of the household guard. His steps were brisk, his head bowed in deference as he leaned close to whisper into the governor's ear.
The governor's smile faded at once. His brow furrowed, his jaw set hard. Whatever words had been spoken bore weight enough to strip away joy. He sat in silence for a breath, then rose from his seat.
"My dear Amara," he said, his voice regretful, "forgive me. I must attend to urgent matters of the city. My heart grieves to leave you so suddenly."
Amara's face remained serene, though within she felt the sharp sting of disappointment. Still, she smiled with grace and bowed her head slightly. "You owe me no apology, Father. I understand. The city depends upon you."
The governor stepped forward once more, pressing his hand briefly to her shoulder with affection. "You are my pride, daughter. Remember that."
And then he was gone, striding swiftly from the hall with the messenger in his wake. The heavy doors shut behind them, leaving Amara alone at the vast table.
The silence that followed was sharp. The golden morning light spilled across empty chairs, and the echo of her father's laughter lingered faintly, already fading into memory.
Amara lifted her cup, sipped quietly, and let her gaze drift toward the windows. Outside, the city stirred merchants opening their stalls, children's laughter carrying faintly through the air, banners fluttering in the wind.
Yet in her heart, she could not ignore the sudden change upon her father's face when the message was delivered. Whatever shadow had crossed him, she knew it would not pass easily.
Still, she smiled softly to herself, whispering words meant only for her own heart. "Today, I will see the city. Today, I will breathe the world beyond these walls."
And the hall, vast and golden, seemed to watch in silence as she prepared to step toward the unknown.