The clock in Westrow Square struck noon twice.
No one noticed at first.
The square was busy—vendors calling out prices, clerks weaving through the crowd with tablets under their arms, children running between the stone benches where old men argued over politics that never changed. The clock tower stood at the center of it all, tall and clean, its brass face polished weekly by the city's Eternity-appointed caretakers.
When the bell rang the first time, heads lifted out of habit.
When it rang again—same tone, same cadence—there was a pause.
A merchant frowned. A clerk checked his slate. A woman laughed nervously, assuming a mechanical error.
Then the minute hand moved backward.
Just slightly.
Not enough to draw a scream. Not enough to cause panic.
Enough to be wrong.
Kael felt it from three streets away.
He stopped walking.
The sensation was subtle—a tightening behind the eyes, a faint pressure along the spine, like reality clearing its throat. He turned toward the square without thinking, feet already adjusting course.
Around him, others slowed. Conversations stuttered. A man glanced at his reflection in a window, uncertain why he'd done so.
The inconsistency spread.
A child tripped, swore he'd already stepped over that stone.
A vendor counted his coins twice and came up with different totals.
A shadow lagged a fraction behind its owner.
Balance would call this negligible.
Kael called it a beginning.
By the time he reached Westrow Square, the pressure had thickened. He stood at the edge of the crowd, eyes fixed on the clock tower.
The minute hand shuddered.
Then it snapped forward.
The bell rang a third time—out of sequence.
Silence fell.
Not imposed. Not enforced.
Chosen.
People felt it then—not fear exactly, but the instinctive awareness that something should not require explanation, yet suddenly did.
A Balance Adept appeared near the tower base, robes immaculate, expression calm. Two Eternity attendants followed, already preparing a stabilizing chant.
"Citizens," the Adept said, voice amplified just enough. "There is no cause for concern. A temporal misalignment has been detected and corrected."
The words settled over the square like a blanket.
For most, that was enough.
For Kael, it was unbearable.
He watched as the Adept raised a hand, fingers aligning in the precise geometry of a correction ritual. Symbols flickered briefly in the air—clean, elegant, final.
And then—
They hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
The symbols did not fail.
They did not shatter.
They simply… refused to settle.
The Adept's brow creased.
Kael felt it again, sharper this time—the same sensation he'd felt at the Frozen City. Not collapse. Not decay.
A boundary.
The ritual completed anyway. The clock stilled. The air relaxed. Noise returned cautiously, then fully. People laughed, embarrassed by their own tension.
The square resumed its rhythm.
Balance had corrected the record.
But Kael saw what no one else did.
The Adept's hand trembled as he lowered it.
---
Kael didn't follow the Adept.
He followed the aftermath.
A narrow alley off the square led to a small apartment block, old stone, poorly maintained. Inside, on the third floor, a man sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands.
Kael paused at the open doorway.
The man looked up. "Do you see it too?" he asked immediately.
Kael didn't answer.
"My watch," the man continued, holding up his wrist. "It says it's afternoon. But I know it isn't. I haven't eaten yet. I haven't—" He stopped, breathing hard. "I remember doing something I didn't do."
Kael stepped inside. The room smelled of dust and old paper. No Path symbols. No wards.
Just a person.
"It'll pass," Kael said carefully.
"That's what they always say." The man laughed, a brittle sound. "But it never really does, does it?"
Kael said nothing.
Outside, bells rang again—once. Properly timed.
Balance marking closure.
The man slumped, exhaustion overtaking panic. "You should go," he muttered. "They don't like witnesses."
Kael nodded and left.
In the stairwell, he leaned briefly against the wall, breath shallow.
This was new.
Before, anomalies were sealed, hidden, erased.
This one had been seen.
And corrected too late.
---
High above the city, in a chamber without windows, the Arbiter of Stillness reviewed the incident.
Westrow Square.
Temporal deviation: negligible.
Civilian exposure: acceptable.
Correction success: 99.97%.
The remaining fraction was flagged.
> Residual awareness detected, the system reported.
"Yes," the Arbiter replied calmly.
A projection unfolded—probability threads branching outward from the square. Most stabilized quickly. A few continued to wobble.
One thread glowed faintly brighter than the rest.
Kael Ardent.
The Arbiter adjusted the parameters.
Surveillance tightened.
Tolerance reduced.
Future corrections authorized with fewer delays.
Still, a question lingered—not emotional, not doubtful, merely unresolved.
Why had the ritual hesitated?
The Arbiter reviewed the moment frame by frame. No interference detected. No foreign Authority signature.
And yet—
The correction had waited.
That was… inefficient.
The Arbiter filed the observation.
Correction would address it.
Eventually.
---
That night, Kael dreamed of a clock without hands.
It ticked anyway.
Each sound echoed through a vast, empty space, reverberating against something unseen. He stood before it, aware that the next sound would not come unless he allowed it.
Behind him, a presence waited.
Not Balance.
Not Eternity.
Something older. Quieter.
He woke before it spoke.
Outside, the city slept.
But in Westrow Square, the clock tower's shadow pointed in the wrong direction—
just slightly.
---
End of Chapter Four