The vein struck like a living noose, brass ribs slamming into Reg's chest with the force of a collapsing clock tower. Pain exploded through every stolen year in his bones. The gold half-gear inside him screamed in ecstasy as the eye above the altar locked its vortex pupil onto him alone. Mine now, thief. The son becomes the father. The anchor becomes the God.
Reg's knees buckled. Black blood poured from the wound, ageing his shirt to rags in seconds. He felt centuries pouring into him not stolen this time, but given. The Clock-God was choosing. Not Isabella. Him. The original thief's bloodline was stronger, the engineered rage purer. His body lifted off the marble, suspended by the vein like a puppet on brass strings.
Isabella roared. Her crimson half-gear flared so bright it burned through her dress, casting blood-red light across the nave. She dove forward, no knife, no plan, just raw fury. Her palm slammed against the pulsing vein wrapped around Reg. Crimson power met gold hunger. The vein shrieked, ribs cracking, but it only tightened, dragging Reg closer to the altar heart.
"Fight it!" she screamed. "It's lying the same way your father lied about Eleanor!"
Little Thread rode the largest vein like a nightmare jockey, broken watch open on her lap. Fifty enforcers fanned out behind her, syringes raised but motionless, waiting for the God's command. The child's rust-iron voice cut through the chaos. "He's right, Clockmaker. The eye chose you the moment you stole Clara's echo. Isabella was only bait. Her bloodline weakens the God. Yours strengthens it. To balance the anchors, she must die here. Tonight. Her crimson half poured into yours. Then you rule forever."
Reg's aged face twisted in horror. Suspended three feet above the floor, he met Isabella's steel eyes. "No. Not her. Take me, but leave her."
The eye blinked, amused. The vein pulsed harder, flooding him with visions: Reg enthroned, immortal, London eternal under his watch. No more poor bleeding seconds. No more debt. Only him. And the price was Isabella's life snuffed like a candle to seal the new vessel.
Isabella didn't hesitate. She pressed both hands to her own ribs, crimson gear burning white-hot under her skin. "Then take it from me. Now. Before it takes him."
Reg's gold half screamed in protest. "Isabella don't!"
But she was already pushing. The crimson half-gear tore free from her chest in a spray of real blood and ancient threads, floating toward Reg like a dying star. The moment it left her, Isabella aged ten years in a single breath hair streaking silver, skin tightening with sudden lines. Her shadow flickered and almost vanished again. She dropped to her knees, gasping, but kept pushing the power toward him.
The two halves collided mid-air. Gold and crimson fused once more, stronger than before, a single blazing heart screaming between them. The vein around Reg shattered into rust and dust. He crashed to the marble, the fused gear slamming back into his chest this time alone. Isabella's sacrifice had tipped the balance. The God's eye narrowed in fury, pupil fracturing.
Little Thread laughed, high and terrible. "Foolish daughter. You just gave him the strength to kill the God. But the cost is yours. Without your half, the century starts unravelling right now."
The Cathedral trembled. Outside, reversed bells tolled faster. Somewhere in London, buildings began to age forward violently roofs collapsing, people wrinkling to dust in the streets. The eye above the altar bled fresh black rivers.
The Bishop rose from the altar steps, withered arm still healing, face twisted with sudden fear. "No! She was meant to live! The three of us—"
Reg stood, fused gear roaring inside him, power like liquid fire. He looked at Isabella older, bleeding, still defiant on her knees and felt the weight of every stolen second crash down. She had sacrificed her immortality for him. For the century. For them.
He turned to his father. "You wanted vessels. You wanted rule. Now watch what your son does with it."
Reg reached for the pulsing altar heart with one hand and for Isabella with the other. The fused gear inside him surged, pulling threads from every vein in the Cathedral at once. The eye screamed a sound that cracked marble and shattered the remaining stained glass.
But the twist hit them both through the new fusion: destroying the God now would still erase everything… unless they stole its entire heart and carried it out alive. One of them would have to become the new Clock-God to keep time breathing. And the other would have to die to balance the scales.
Isabella met his eyes, silver-streaked hair framing a face that was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. "Take it," she whispered. "Save the century. Leave me here."
The Bishop lunged forward, desperate. "No both of you must live!"
Little Thread raised her broken watch. "Too late. The God is choosing its final vessel right now."
The fused gear inside Reg's chest began to burn hotter, pulling him toward the altar whether he wanted it or not. The eye locked onto him again, wider, hungrier.
And every vein in the Cathedral turned toward Isabella's bleeding body like starving mouths.