Every hundred years, Velmir County celebrated what it feared most — the Eclipse of Endings.
It was a festival of smoke and silence. People wore masks carved from burnt wood and carried broken clocks on strings around their necks. They believed that when the sun and moon touched, every broken clock offered would buy another century free from witchcraft.
Kaelith hated festival days.
He wasn't allowed to join the village children. His broom wasn't allowed to move. And the villagers' laughter always turned sharp when he passed — like knives dressed as smiles.
But this year was different. The broom had been restless all morning, twitching and shivering in the corner. The silver mark on Kaelith's wrist glowed whenever he got near the window. The air itself felt heavy, as if waiting for a secret to unfold.
By dusk, drums echoed across the valley. Bells clanged, torches hissed, and the sky bled into red and gold. From his hut, Kaelith could see the villagers marching toward the great square — where the Eclipse Pyre waited. A mountain of wood piled around a single iron post.
And on that post hung a broom.
Not his broom, but another — old, cracked, still smoking from a witch's fire long ago. The crowd chanted, "Time cleanses time! Burn the curse!"
Kaelith's broom rattled hard against the floorboards.
He whispered, "Stay. Please. They'll see you."
But the broom didn't listen. It rose, quivering, and shot through the open door like lightning. Kaelith chased it into the crowd.
The villagers gasped as it hovered above the pyre, defying the firelight. Someone screamed, "Witch's boy! He's calling the spirits!"
Before Kaelith could move, someone grabbed his arm — an old man in a hood. His eyes were bright as stars drowned in milk.
> "You must leave, Kaelith Orin," the man said. "Time does not wait for fear."
> "Who are you?"
> "A friend of your mother's. And the keeper of your truth."
The crowd surged. Flames leapt higher. Kaelith's mark flared white-hot. The world shuddered.
And suddenly — time stopped again.
The fire froze mid-flame, a sculpture of gold and ash. Villagers hung in mid-step, their faces half-formed. Only Kaelith, the broom, and the hooded man moved freely.
The man lowered his hood. His hair shimmered silver like falling sand.
> "I am Chron Veil, one of the Time Elders," he said. "And you, Kaelith, are the next Time Master."
Kaelith's voice trembled. "I didn't do this."
> "You did," Chron said softly. "You are born of time's oldest bloodline — the Orins. Your great ancestor broke the timeline to save someone he loved. Now the cycle calls you to mend it."
Kaelith looked at the frozen villagers, their rage trapped forever in that one heartbeat. "I don't want this."
Chron's eyes darkened. "Want has never been a condition of destiny."
A wind began to stir — but not a normal one. It blew backward. The fire unburned. The chants unspoken. Time rewound itself until Kaelith was standing once again in his empty hut, heart hammering, broom humming softly.
Only the faint scent of smoke remained.
And on his table lay a silver hourglass, half-full of shining sand — a gift that hadn't been there before.