The candle in the abandoned shed guttered low, throwing long shadows that danced like dying seconds. Reg and Isabella stood shoulder to shoulder, no longer fused but still knotted by the split halves of the gear. His gold half burned greedy in his chest; her crimson half pulsed colder, more precise. Outside, Church boots echoed closer through the fog, the Bishop's voice rolling like reversed thunder: "Come home, children. The Clock-God is hungry."
Reg's aged hands trembled not from opium anymore, but from the choice. "Eleanor's sister. Clara. She lives three streets from here. Runs a small milliner's shop. Thirty-seven seconds of Eleanor's bloodline still echo in her veins. If we steal them… we gain enough power to reach the Cathedral before dawn."
Isabella's steel eyes softened for the first time since the split. She had never met Eleanor, yet through the knotted gears she felt the ghost of her now warm laughter, gentle hands, the woman who had died so Reg could chase impossible clocks. "She won't feel it," Isabella whispered. "One drop. One honest second. For the century. For us."
Little Thread perched on the windowsill like a gargoyle, broken watch ticking louder than their heartbeats. "Do it quick. The veins are listening."
They slipped into the fog. Southwark's alleys swallowed them, gas lamps hissing accusations. Clara's shop was a narrow wedge of warmth between two gin houses ribbons and feathers in the window, a single candle burning for late-night customers. Reg's throat tightened. He had avoided this street for three years. The last time he saw Clara she had spat in his face and called him a murderer for letting the surgeons bleed his wife.
Isabella touched his arm. "Together. Separate anchors, one theft."
They pressed their palms to the door no lock could stop the gear's call. The wood aged a decade in seconds, hinges crumbling. They stepped inside.
Clara sat behind the counter, forty-two now, grey already threading her hair because of the time taxes the Church had bled from her over the years. She looked up, eyes widening at Reg's aged face. "You. After everything—"
Reg didn't let her finish. He reached with the gold half-gear, Isabella feeding power from her crimson half. The air thickened like warm wine. Clara gasped, clutching her chest. Thirty-seven seconds Eleanor's echo—slid out of her veins in a golden thread that shimmered between them. The thread coiled into the split gear, fusing the halves for one heartbeat before snapping apart again, stronger.
Power flooded them. Reg felt decades of stolen time at his command. Isabella saw every vein in London mapped inside her mind like a living blueprint. The shop clock struck thirteen backwards.
Clara slumped forward, not dead, not even aged further just… emptier. Her eyes filled with sudden tears she didn't understand. "Eleanor… I felt her. For a second. She was here."
Reg dropped to his knees beside her. The gut-punch hit harder than fifteen years of rapid ageing. This was the woman who had held Eleanor's hand at the end. The woman who had begged the surgeons to stop. He had just stolen the last echo of his wife from the only family she had left.
"I'm sorry," he choked. "God, Clara, I'm so sorry."
Clara looked up at him, then at Isabella, and something ancient passed between the three of them. "You're both bleeding now. I see it in your eyes. Whatever you're fighting… finish it. Before more sisters lose more seconds."
Isabella pulled Reg to his feet. The new power sang in their blood enough to walk through walls, enough to slow an army of enforcers. But the cost sat heavy: Eleanor's last honest echo, gone forever.
They stepped back into the fog. The power made the air crackle. Church lanterns swung closer, silver syringes glinting.
Little Thread appeared between them on the cobbles, barefoot, smiling with too many teeth. "Beautiful. Now you have the strength to reach the Bishop."
Reg turned on her, gold half-gear flaring. "You guided him all along, didn't you? Every mark, every choice. You told the Bishop exactly where to wait in the sewer. You're not collecting for the Clock-God. You're helping him win."
The child's laugh was rust on iron. She opened her broken watch. Inside, instead of stolen threads, glowed a single perfect image: Ambrose Hawthorne's face, young and smiling, the night he first stole the original gear. "I've been guiding him since 1789. He thinks he controls me. But I needed two perfect anchors to finally break the Clock-God open. You and Isabella. Father and daughter-in-blood. You just gave me the key."
Isabella's crimson half surged. "Then why help us steal this power?"
Little Thread's smile vanished. "Because the Bishop still believes he can rule. I want the Clock-God dead. And the only way to kill a god is to let its heart walk right into its chest."
The fog parted. Fifty enforcers poured into the street, porcelain masks gleaming. Behind them, the Bishop himself stepped forward, velvet robes untouched by filth, eyes locked on his son.
"Too late for apologies, Reginald," Ambrose called. "Come. Both of you. The Cathedral is ready."
Reg and Isabella stood back to back, new power roaring in their separate veins. Clara's shop door creaked shut behind them. The last echo of Eleanor was gone, but her strength now burned inside them.
The first enforcer lunged.
Reg slowed time with a savage push stronger than ever. Isabella struck with crimson precision. The street erupted into chaos.
But Little Thread's whisper followed them into the fight: "The real war starts when you reach the heart. And one of you… will not leave alive."