THE CLOCKMAKER‟S APPRENTICE
“The apprentice seeks to be the master. But what is mastery, when even the master fell?”
The Legacy of Time Time is a cruel master, relentless in its march forward, indifferent to the lives it shapes. But what, truly, is time? Is it the rhythmic ticking of a clock, the turning of a page in a book, or is it something far deeper—a force that governs not only the passage of moments but the very fabric of existence itself? To some, time is merely a constraint—a force to be measured and controlled. To others, it is a riddle, its meaning impossible to decipher. And to a few, it is an obsession, a problem to solve, to conquer, to transcend. Elior, the clockmaker of Valenwood, was one of these few. He had long believed that time was not merely something to be observed but something to be commanded.
He was driven by a singular vision: to unlock the secrets of time, to halt its ceaseless march, to master it with the precision of his craft. For years, Elior labored in his workshop, where the ticking of his clocks echoed like the heartbeat of the world itself. His creations were marvels of intricate design—sophisticated, beautiful, and far beyond the ordinary. Among them, however, was one clock unlike any other—a clock that defied logic, that whispered of possibilities not yet imagined: a clock that could reverse time. But such power comes at a price. Elior‟s obsession, his single-minded pursuit of immortality and control over time, eventually consumed him. He vanished without a trace, leaving behind only the remnants of his work—a clock, a cryptic box filled with strange symbols, and an unsettling silence in his workshop. In the shadow of Elior’s disappearance, Cassian, his young apprentice, was left to inherit more than just tools and trade secrets.
He inherited a philosophy—a way of seeing the world that questioned the very nature of reality itself. The idea that time was not an uncontrollable force, but something that could be understood, bent, and even altered. As Cassian stood in the workshop, amidst the ticking of clocks and the lingering essence of Elior‟s legacy, he felt both awe and dread. What was he truly inheriting? Was it knowledge, or a dangerous temptation? The clocks, with their relentless ticking, seemed to mock him, each second pulling him closer to a decision he was not yet ready to make.
Time, Cassian would soon realize, was not just a concept—it was a force, a current, an invisible hand that shaped all things, bending even the course of history. But was he ready to challenge it? Was he ready to step into a realm where time, memory, and fate intertwined in ways he could scarcely imagine? In that moment, as the hands of the clock moved ever forward, Cassian realized one terrifying truth: time was not a tool to be mastered. It was a force to be reckoned with, a mystery to be understood. And in seeking to understand it, he would find himself on a path far more perilous than he ever imagined.
Chapter 1: The Inheritance of Time
The town of Valenwood had always felt timeless. Its cobbled streets, lined with weathered lampposts, seemed to hum with the memories of lives long past. On misty mornings, the sound of church bells rang out like echoes from another age, their chime folding into the ceaseless ticking of clocks from Elior’s shop at the heart of the square. It had been three months since Elior had vanished, leaving behind his enigmatic workshop and a silence that seemed too loud to bear. Cassian stood in the center of the shop, gazing at the countless timepieces Elior had crafted.
They ranged from small pocket watches with intricate engravings to towering grandfather clocks whose pendulums swung with solemn precision. But no matter their size or complexity, each seemed to Cassian like a living thing—pulsing, breathing, and whispering secrets he could not yet understand. The clock. That clock. It stood in the far corner, veiled under a heavy black cloth, a relic of Elior‟s greatest work. Though Cassian had spent years as his apprentice, Elior had never allowed him to touch it. “It is not finished,” Elior had often said, his tone carrying an uncharacteristic weight. But the clock had never been an ordinary creation.
Cassian had seen glimpses of it—a dark wooden frame with engravings so fine they resembled the delicate veins of a leaf. Its face was bare except for two hands, and its mechanism, Elior had hinted, was not just powered by gears and springs but something far more elusive. Time itself, Elior had murmured once, his voice barely audible over the ticking that filled the room. Cassian had tried to forget those words, but now, as he stood alone in the workshop, they came rushing back with unnerving clarity. Why had Elior left? Where had he gone? Was it a mere disappearance, or had he finally succeeded in transcending the boundaries of time? The town had little to offer in terms of answers.
The people, always wary of Elior‟s eccentricities, now whispered rumors of his madness. Some claimed he had fallen victim to his obsession, that he had sought to stop time itself and paid the ultimate price. Others believed he had fled, consumed by a failure he could not face. But Cassian, who had spent years at Elior‟s side, knew the truth must lie elsewhere. Elior had not been afraid of failure. He had been afraid of success. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Cassian lit the oil lamp on his workbench. The shop transformed under the flickering glow, its walls alive with the shifting shadows of pendulums and cogwheels. He sat down, pulling out Elior‟s journal—a battered leather tome filled with scribbled notes and sketches.
The journal had been left atop the very workbench where Elior had spent his final hours in Valenwood. Cassian had hesitated to open it before, fearing what he might find. But tonight, the weight of his unanswered questions became unbearable. The first pages were filled with diagrams of clocks, their mechanisms rendered in excruciating detail. Elior had always been meticulous, sketching every component before setting to work. But as Cassian flipped further, the diagrams began to change. Gears gave way to symbols—spirals, intersecting lines, and glyphs that seemed to pulse with meaning just beyond Cassian‟s comprehension. Notes scrawled in the margins hinted at theories too vast to fully grasp. Time is not linear, read one entry.
It is a web, each moment connected to all others, forming a tapestry so intricate that no mortal mind can truly comprehend it. Cassian frowned, running a finger over the faded ink. The words were haunting, almost poetic, but they raised more questions than answers. What had Elior meant? And what had he discovered that made him leave so suddenly? His gaze drifted back to the veiled clock in the corner. He had promised himself he would not touch it, that he would respect Elior‟s warnings. But the journal‟s cryptic words had stirred something in him—a need to know, a longing to understand. The workshop was silent except for the ticking of the other clocks, their rhythm steady and unchanging, as though mocking his indecision.
Rising from his chair, Cassian crossed the room and stood before the veiled clock. The cloth felt heavier than it looked, its coarse fabric rough against his fingers. He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. What if Elior had left it hidden for a reason? What if uncovering it meant unleashing something he could not control? But curiosity burned brighter than caution. With one swift motion, he pulled the cloth away. The clock was breathtaking. Its wooden frame seemed to shimmer in the lamplight, its engravings almost alive with movement. The face was unlike any Cassian had ever seen—bare except for the two hands, which pointed not to numbers but to symbols etched along the perimeter. Stars, moons, and suns interspersed with shapes he could not name.
Beneath the face, the mechanism was visible, its gears interlocking with a precision that defied logic. But there was something else—a faint hum, barely perceptible, like the sound of wind brushing against a windowpane. Cassian reached out, his fingers trembling, and brushed against the clock‟s surface. A sudden jolt shot through him, not of pain but of memory. He saw flashes of moments not his own—people he had never met, places he had never been. And then, just as suddenly, the visions were gone, leaving him gasping for breath. He staggered back, clutching the edge of the workbench for support. The clock‟s hum grew louder, resonating in his chest.
The air in the workshop felt heavier, charged with an energy that made every hair on his body stand on end. “Elior,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “What did you leave behind?” The clock‟s hands began to move, though Cassian had not touched the mechanism. They spun faster and faster, a blur of motion that seemed to defy the very rules of physics. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the motion ceased.
The hands settled on a single symbol—a spiral. Cassian stared, his mind racing. The spiral was one of the glyphs from Elior‟s journal, a shape that seemed to hold meaning just beyond his grasp. What did it signify? Was it a warning? An invitation? Or something else entirely? Before he could ponder further, the workshop door creaked open. Cassian whirled around, his heart pounding. But the doorway was empty, save for the faint rustle of the wind. Still, he could not shake the feeling that he was no longer alone. The clock behind him ticked once, its sound impossibly loud in the stillness.
Chapter 2: The Spiral and the Stranger
The workshop air remained thick, charged with a tension that refused to dissipate. Cassian‟s pulse raced as he stood frozen, his back to the clock and his eyes fixed on the open doorway. The cobblestone streets outside lay bathed in moonlight, utterly silent. But he knew what he had felt—that faint disturbance, as though the fabric of the world had shifted imperceptibly. He took a step toward the door, every creak of the wooden floorboards amplifying his unease. “Who‟s there?” he called, his voice steady despite the chaos in his chest.
The wind answered, carrying with it the distant chime of the church bell, its note hollow and foreboding. But the door… something about it wasn‟t right. It hung ajar, yet the edge of the frame seemed blurred, as if caught between reality and a dream. Cassian hesitated, torn between retreating to the relative safety of the workshop and stepping into the uncertainty beyond. Behind him, the clock ticked. Once. Twice. Each sound sent ripples through the quiet, a reminder of its unnatural presence. Then came the voice—a deep, resonant tone that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“You should not have touched it.” Cassian spun around, his heart leaping to his throat. The workshop was as it had been moments ago, cluttered yet familiar. But now, a figure stood beside the veiled shelves, cloaked in shadow. “I—” Cassian‟s words faltered. His mind raced to place the man, to understand how he had entered without so much as a whisper of movement. The stranger stepped forward, the light revealing a gaunt face lined with age. His eyes, sharp and unsettling, seemed to pierce through Cassian as though peeling away layers of thought. He wore a long coat, its fabric worn but impeccably tailored, giving him an air of otherworldly authority.
“Do you have any idea what you‟ve done?” the man continued, his tone measured but heavy with reproach. Cassian swallowed hard. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” The stranger ignored the question, his gaze drifting to the clock. “Elior warned you, didn‟t he?” Cassian stiffened. “You knew him?” The man‟s lips curved into a smile, though it held no warmth. “Knew him? You could say that. Elior and I shared… an understanding. But that understanding came with rules—rules you‟ve chosen to break.” Cassian bristled, his initial fear giving way to indignation. “I didn‟t break anything! I only uncovered the clock. It‟s my inheritance, after all.” The stranger laughed, a dry, mirthless sound. “Inheritance? Is that what you call it? Foolish boy. This is no mere trinket to be passed down. That clock—” He paused, his eyes narrowing.
“That clock is a tether. A doorway. And now that you‟ve meddled with it, it‟s awake.” Cassian felt a chill crawl up his spine. “What do you mean, „awake‟? It‟s just a clock!” The stranger moved closer, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried the weight of centuries. “Time is not what you think it is. Elior understood that better than anyone. He built this clock to test the boundaries of reality itself—to see if time could be bent, reversed, or even broken. But he realized too late the cost of such knowledge. Do you understand now why he vanished?” Cassian‟s breath hitched. The pieces were falling into place, but the picture they painted was one of dread. “Are you saying… the clock took him?” “Not the clock itself,” the man replied.
“But what it unlocked.” Cassian‟s hands balled into fists. “Then why didn‟t he destroy it? Why leave it behind for me to find?” The stranger‟s expression softened, though his eyes remained unyielding. “Because Elior believed in you. He thought you might succeed where he failed. But belief can be a dangerous thing. It blinds us to the truth.” The clock ticked again, louder this time. Both men turned to face it, its hands now moving with deliberate slowness. The spiral symbol glowed faintly, casting an eerie light that bathed the workshop in an unnatural glow. Cassian took a step forward, his curiosity warring with his fear. “What‟s happening?” The stranger grabbed his arm, his grip firm but not unkind. “If you value your life, you‟ll leave this place and never look back.”
Cassian yanked his arm free. “I‟m not running. If Elior built this, then it‟s my responsibility to understand it. He wouldn‟t want me to abandon everything he worked for!” The man‟s expression darkened. “Elior didn‟t abandon it. He sacrificed himself to contain it. If you think you can undo his mistakes, you‟re more arrogant than I thought.” Cassian turned to the clock, his resolve hardening. “Then teach me. If you truly knew Elior, help me finish what he started.” The stranger stared at him for a long moment, his face inscrutable. Finally, he sighed. “You‟re as stubborn as he was. Very well, boy. But don‟t say I didn‟t warn you.”
As he stepped back, the clock‟s glow intensified, its mechanisms whirring to life. The air in the workshop grew heavy, vibrating with an energy that felt almost alive. Cassian‟s heart pounded as the spiral on the clock‟s face began to expand, its edges rippling like water disturbed by a stone. “Where does it lead?” Cassian asked, his voice barely audible over the din. The stranger‟s reply was grim. “Not where. When.” Before Cassian could respond, the spiral erupted into a vortex of light, pulling him forward with an unstoppable force.
Chapter 3: The Threads of the Past
Cassian‟s scream was swallowed by the vortex, his body suspended in a whirl of light and shadow. Time itself seemed to fracture around him—images of the past and future flickered, fleeting and incoherent. He caught glimpses of a bustling marketplace, an empty battlefield shrouded in fog, a weeping woman in a bloodred dress. Each image clawed at his mind, leaving behind an imprint he couldn‟t shake. And then, silence. He landed with a jarring thud, the ground cold and unyielding beneath him. The air smelled different—damp, metallic, and faintly sweet. Gasping for breath, he pushed himself up, his eyes adjusting to the dim surroundings.
He was no longer in Valenwood. Above him loomed the skeletal remains of a clock tower, its once-majestic face shattered, its gears exposed to the elements. The landscape was unrecognizable, a wasteland of decay and ruin. Time had not simply transported him; it had deposited him in the wreckage of something once grand. Cassian rose to his feet, brushing dust from his coat. His fingers trembled, not from cold but from the weight of realization. He had crossed the boundary Elior had warned about. He was in the past, or perhaps an alternate reality where Valenwood had crumbled into despair. A voice shattered his thoughts. “You don‟t belong here.” Cassian turned sharply. A figure emerged from the shadows—a woman cloaked in tattered garments, her face obscured by a veil of dark fabric.
Her presence was otherworldly, as if she were a part of the broken world itself. “I… I‟m looking for Elior,” Cassian stammered. The woman tilted her head, her veil rippling as though moved by an unseen breeze. “You seek the one who defied time. Foolish boy. He is lost, and so shall you be if you linger.” Cassian stepped closer, his resolve hardening. “If he‟s here, I need to find him. Please, tell me where he is.” She laughed, a sound both beautiful and haunting. “You assume time is linear, that what you see and what you touch are the same. Elior understood the paradox, but even he could not escape its grip. Do you think you are stronger?” Cassian hesitated. “I don‟t want to escape it. I want to fix it.” The woman‟s laughter faded, replaced by a chilling stillness. “Then you are as blind as he was. Time cannot be fixed, only endured.
The clock you carry is not a tool but a curse. It binds you, as it did him.” Cassian glanced at the clock in his hand, its spiral face now dull and lifeless. “This… this is the only way back, isn‟t it?” The woman said nothing, her veiled form dissolving into the air like mist. But her silence was answer enough. Left alone, Cassian turned his gaze to the ruins around him. If Elior was here, he was somewhere among the echoes of this broken world. And if there was even a chance of finding him, Cassian would face whatever dangers awaited. But as he took his first step forward, the clock in his hand began to tick—slow, deliberate, and louder than it ever had before.
Chapter 4: Gears of Revelation
The ticking grew louder as Cassian trudged through the desolation, his boots kicking up clouds of fine ash. The air thickened with an almost oppressive stillness, broken only by the rhythmic beat of the clock in his hand. It was a sound that mocked him—a metronome marking time in a world where it seemed utterly irrelevant. He reached the remains of a workshop eerily reminiscent of Elior‟s own. The walls were scorched, the roof caved in, but the workbench stood intact, strewn with broken tools and shattered glass. Cassian felt a pang of recognition.
This place, this moment—it felt like stepping into one of the fleeting images he had seen in the vortex. “Elior?” he called out, his voice barely rising above the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock. No answer. Cassian moved further inside, his fingers trailing over the surface of the workbench. Amid the wreckage, he found a journal, its leather cover warped but its pages miraculously untouched. He opened it with trembling hands. The handwriting was unmistakable. Elior‟s precise, looping script filled the pages, but the words were incomprehensible—a mixture of mathematical equations, cryptic phrases, and diagrams of clocks far more intricate than any Cassian had ever seen. One phrase, scrawled across several pages, stood out:
“The past is a reflection, not a refuge.” “What does it mean?” Cassian muttered aloud. “It means you shouldn‟t be here.” Cassian spun around, the journal slipping from his grasp. Standing in the doorway was a man, his face partially obscured by shadows. His voice was unmistakable, even after all this time. “Elior?” The clockmaker stepped into the light, but Cassian‟s relief turned to dread. Elior‟s once-vibrant eyes were hollow, his posture hunched as though he carried the weight of centuries. His hands, once so steady, now trembled as they clutched a crude timepiece, its gears exposed and whirring erratically. “You shouldn‟t have come, Cassian,” Elior said, his voice tinged with both anger and sorrow. “I warned you—time is not a tool to be wielded. It is a force, indifferent and unyielding.” “I had to find you,” Cassian replied, stepping closer.
“The workshop, the clock— it‟s all falling apart without you. You‟re the only one who can fix it.” Elior shook his head. “Fix it? There is no fixing what has been broken. Time is not a machine; it is a tapestry. Every action tears a thread, every choice alters the weave. I tried to mend it, but all I did was unravel it further.” Cassian‟s gaze dropped to the clock in his hand. “But this… it works. It brought me here.” “And it will destroy you, as it destroyed me.” Elior‟s voice broke, his grip tightening on his own clock. “Do you know what this place is? This isn‟t the past. It‟s a fracture—a liminal space where time bleeds together, where those who defy its laws are condemned to linger. I am not alive, Cassian. I am a ghost of my own making.”
Cassian recoiled, his mind racing. “No. That‟s not true. There has to be a way to fix this, to bring you back. Together, we can—” “Enough!” Elior‟s shout reverberated through the ruins, silencing even the ticking of the clocks. He stepped forward, his face contorted with desperation. “You must leave, Cassian. Destroy the clock, sever the connection, and return to your time before it‟s too late.” “But—” “There are no buts!” Elior grabbed Cassian by the shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong. “If you stay, you will be trapped here, as I am. Do you understand? This place is not a sanctuary. It is a prison.” Cassian‟s heart thundered in his chest.
The thought of leaving Elior behind felt like betrayal, but the fear in the clockmaker‟s eyes was undeniable. The moment stretched, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Elior released him, stepping back into the shadows. “Go, Cassian. Destroy the clock and forget everything you‟ve seen. That is the only way to save yourself.” Cassian hesitated, his feet rooted to the ground. But the clock in his hand began to tick faster, its rhythm frantic and discordant. The world around him shimmered, the ruins blurring as though they were being swallowed by the vortex once more. “Elior!” he cried, reaching out. But the clockmaker was already fading, his form dissolving into the darkness. And then, with a deafening crack, the clock shattered in Cassian‟s hand, and the world went black.
Chapter 5: The Fracture’s Whispers
When Cassian opened his eyes, he was not back in Valenwood but in a strange, disjointed reality. Time seemed splintered, fragments of different eras colliding in a chaotic patchwork. A cobblestone street twisted into a metal-paved road; gas lamps flickered next to neon signs in languages he didn”t recognize. The air hummed with tension, a symphony of overlapping clocks ticking in disharmony. He stumbled forward, the shattered remains of the clock still clutched in his trembling hand. Each step felt like walking on uneven ground as if the fabric of the world beneath him was tearing apart. He couldn‟t shake the image of Elior‟s anguished face or his haunting final words.
“This is not a sanctuary. It is a prison.” Cassian‟s mind raced. If this wasn‟t the past, what was it? And if Elior had warned him to destroy the clock, why was he still here? He scanned his surroundings, seeking a clue, an anchor to ground himself in this fractured landscape. A familiar symbol caught his eye—a sigil etched onto a bronze door in the distance. It was the same emblem Elior had shown him years ago, a spiral entwined with the image of an hourglass. Cassian approached it cautiously, the fragmented world around him shifting with every step.
As he reached for the handle, the sigil glowed faintly, and the door creaked open. Inside was a workshop, eerily similar to Elior‟s, yet unmistakably different. The air was thick with the scent of oil and aged wood. Tools hung neatly on the walls, but they were of a design Cassian had never seen before—more advanced, almost futuristic. At the center of the room stood a towering contraption: a clock larger than any he had ever imagined, its face spanning nearly the entire wall. Its hands moved erratically, sometimes spinning forward, sometimes backward, and occasionally pausing altogether. Cassian felt a pull toward the clock, an inexplicable compulsion to understand its workings.
As he approached, the ticking grew louder, resonating in his chest like a second heartbeat. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the intricate gears, and a sudden jolt of energy surged through him. Voices erupted in his mind—whispers overlapping in a cacophony of tones and languages. Some were urgent, others mournful, but all carried the weight of despair. “You must fix it.” “You must destroy it.” “Save us.” “Save yourself.” Cassian recoiled, clutching his head. The voices faded, leaving behind a single, clear thought: the clock was the heart of this fractured reality. It was both the cause of the chaos and the key to escaping it. He examined the gears, searching for a way to stabilize them. But as he worked, the fragments of the world outside the workshop began to bleed in. Shadows moved unnaturally, twisting into figures with hollow eyes and elongated limbs.
They hovered at the edges of his vision, their presence unnerving. One of them stepped forward, its voice a chilling echo of Elior‟s. “You cannot fix what was never meant to be tampered with.” Cassian froze. “Who are you?” The figure tilted its head, its form shifting like smoke. “We are the remnants, the echoes of those who sought to control time and failed. You are on the same path, apprentice.” “I‟m not like you,” Cassian retorted, though his voice wavered. “I‟ll find a way to set things right.” The figure laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. “Setting things right? There is no „right‟ in a place where time is an illusion.
There is only survival—or surrender.” Cassian turned back to the clock, ignoring the figure‟s taunts. His hands moved instinctively, adjusting the gears and levers, guided by an understanding that felt almost otherworldly. But with each adjustment, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent. “Stop.” “Continue.” “You’re too late.” The clock began to glow, its erratic movements slowing. For a moment, Cassian felt a flicker of hope. But then the glow intensified, blinding him, and the whispers erupted into screams. The shadows lunged toward him.
Chapter 6: The Clock’s Verdict
The glow subsided, leaving Cassian breathless and disoriented. When his vision cleared, the workshop was transformed. The walls shimmered with an iridescent sheen, as though they had been stitched together from fragments of mirrors. Reflections swirled within them—not just of Cassian but of countless others, each trapped in a moment of agony, defiance, or despair. The clock at the room’s center stood still, its chaotic movements frozen. Yet its face was no longer marked by hands or numbers; instead, it bore a faint silhouette—a figure standing at the edge of an abyss. Cassian’s own shadow mirrored the figure precisely.
The realization struck him like a blow: the clock was no longer just a mechanism. It was a mirror of his choices, a judge and executioner forged from the essence of time itself. The shadows had not retreated. They encircled him now, their whispers growing more coherent, more sinister. “The apprentice seeks to be the master. But what is mastery, when even the master fell?” Cassian ignored them, his gaze fixed on the clock. He reached for it, compelled by a gnawing desperation. But as his hand hovered above its surface, he hesitated. The clock no longer seemed inert; it pulsed faintly, like a living thing. The energy emanating from it was neither warm nor cold but a paradoxical combination of both, an unsettling reflection of the duality within him—hope and fear, curiosity and regret.
A voice broke through the cacophony, sharp and familiar. “Cassian.” He spun around, his heart lurching. Elior stood before him, unchanged yet unmistakably altered. His eyes held the weight of countless years, and his expression was one of resignation. “You shouldn‟t have come,” Elior said. Cassian‟s voice was a mix of relief and accusation. “You left me no choice. You vanished without a word, leaving behind only riddles and broken clocks. Do you know what I‟ve been through?” Elior stepped closer, the shimmering walls distorting around him. “You think I chose to disappear? This place isn‟t just outside time—it‟s outside everything. And now, you‟ve tethered yourself to it. The clock—the one you broke—it was never meant to be used.” Cassian bristled. “Then why build it? Why leave it behind?” “To teach you restraint,” Elior said, his tone sharp.
“To show you that some mysteries are not meant to be unraveled. But you—like me—are too stubborn to accept limits.” Cassian felt a surge of defiance. “You don‟t understand. I didn‟t come here just for answers. I came to find you. To save you.” Elior‟s gaze softened, but there was no trace of hope in it. “And in doing so, you‟ve bound yourself to the same fate. The clock doesn‟t obey time; it consumes it. Every adjustment you‟ve made has fed it, and now it‟s entwined with you.” Cassian shook his head. “No. There has to be a way out.” Elior gestured to the frozen clock. “The way out is through destruction. But destruction comes at a cost.”
Before Cassian could respond, the clock‟s face began to change again. The shadowy figure morphed, its features sharpening until it resembled Cassian himself. Around it, the reflections in the walls shifted, showing glimpses of Valenwood—his childhood home, the bustling streets, the faces of people he knew. Then, they began to crumble, collapsing into the abyss. Elior‟s voice was heavy with warning. “You can destroy the clock, Cassian, but doing so will unravel the tether between you and this place. You‟ll be free—but at the cost of everything you know.” Cassian‟s mind reeled. Destroying the clock meant erasing his connection to this fractured reality, but it also meant obliterating his link to Valenwood and everyone in it.
Yet leaving it intact would mean remaining trapped, another echo in this purgatory of shattered time. The shadows closed in, their forms solidifying. They no longer whispered but chanted in unison: “Choose, apprentice. Choose.” Cassian looked at Elior, seeking guidance, but Elior only shook his head. “The choice is yours alone. But remember: mastery of time is not about control. It‟s about acceptance.” Acceptance. The word resonated in Cassian‟s mind. He turned back to the clock, his hand trembling as it hovered above the gears. The weight of the decision bore down on him, heavier than anything he had ever known. “What is time, if not the measure of sacrifice?”
Chapter 7: The Tether of Sacrifice
The light engulfing Cassian receded, leaving him kneeling before the clock. His hand remained pressed against its surface, which was no longer frozen but alive with motion. Gears turned not with mechanical precision but with an almost organic fluidity, as though time itself were writhing beneath his palm. Elior stood silent, his expression unreadable. The room, however, had transformed. The mirrored walls now reflected not Cassian but fragments of his life—his late nights in the workshop, his solitary walks through Valenwood, and the fleeting moments of camaraderie he had shared with Elior. The images shimmered, unstable, as if the memories themselves were unraveling.
The clock pulsed beneath Cassian‟s hand, pulling him into its rhythm. He felt a presence—not Elior‟s, but something vast and indifferent, an entity woven into the fabric of time. It was not hostile but neither was it benevolent; it simply was. Cassian‟s thoughts grew heavy, his mind filling with a singular question: What must be given to preserve what remains? Elior‟s voice broke the silence, soft but weighted. “You‟ve seen what the clock can do. You‟ve felt its pull. But you still don‟t understand its price.” Cassian lifted his gaze, his voice tinged with defiance. “Then explain it to me. Don‟t speak in riddles, Elior. If you truly wanted to teach me, tell me what I‟m sacrificing.”
Elior‟s expression darkened. “Everything.” The word hung in the air like a tolling bell. The reflections in the walls shifted again, showing Valenwood as Cassian remembered it—but something was wrong. The town square, bustling with life, was devoid of sound. Faces were familiar but hollow, their expressions frozen in mid-motion. The streets, once vibrant, seemed to crumble at the edges, fading into a void. Cassian staggered back from the clock. “What is this?” Elior stepped forward, his voice calm but unyielding. “It‟s what happens when you tamper with time. The clock isn‟t a tool—it‟s a threshold. Every turn of its gears creates ripples, and those ripples erase what should have been. You‟ve already altered too much, Cassian.
The Valenwood you knew exists only as a shadow.” Cassian shook his head. “No. That‟s not possible. I only wanted to find you. To fix what you left behind.” “And in doing so, you unraveled the threads of reality,” Elior said. “I told you, mastery of time isn‟t about control. It‟s about understanding your place within it. But you sought to remake it in your image, and now it demands a price.” The clock‟s hum grew louder, filling the room with a low, resonant thrum. The reflections in the walls began to blur, their edges fraying like paper in flame. Cassian felt a pull, not from the clock but from the room itself, as though the space were collapsing inward. Elior‟s voice cut through the chaos. “There‟s still a choice, but it won‟t be easy.
Destroy the clock, and you sever the tether. Time will reset, and Valenwood will return to what it was. But you‟ll remain here, a fragment outside of time.” Cassian‟s heart pounded. “And if I don‟t?” Elior‟s eyes met his, unflinching. “Then the clock consumes everything. Valenwood, its people, even the memory of its existence. You‟ll be free to leave, but you‟ll return to a world where none of it ever was.” Cassian stared at the clock, its glow now pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The choice was unbearable. To sacrifice himself for Valenwood‟s restoration meant eternal isolation, a fate worse than death. Yet allowing the clock to consume everything would leave him in a hollow reality, a stranger in a world without history.
The shadows that had once taunted him now coiled around his feet, their whispers turning to pleas. “Choose, apprentice. Save or abandon. There is no middle path.” Cassian turned to Elior, his voice trembling. “If I destroy it, will you stay with me?” Elior‟s gaze softened, and for the first time, Cassian saw the weight of his mentor‟s regret. “I‟ve already paid my price. My tether is broken. This place is all I know now. But you—you can still make the choice I couldn‟t.” What is sacrifice, if not the measure of love?
Chapter 8: The Threads Unravel
The room convulsed as Cassian gripped the clock‟s central gear. A searing heat spread from the mechanism into his fingertips, traveling up his arm like molten fire. He bit back a cry, his resolve wavering as the room‟s shadows thickened, coalescing into figures. They stood tall and faceless, their bodies draped in flowing, smoke-like shrouds. They were neither men nor spirits but something more ancient—a representation of time itself, indifferent yet all-seeing. Elior‟s voice, steady despite the chaos, called out over the tumult.
“Cassian, decide quickly! The clock will not wait for you to hesitate!” The figures spoke, not in words but in a resonance that reverberated within Cassian‟s very bones. “We are the threads. You cannot sever us without consequence. Choose carefully, for each strand lost is a moment erased.” Cassian‟s grip tightened, his knuckles whitening as the clock resisted him. He turned to Elior, desperate for clarity. “You never told me the full truth, Elior! Why didn‟t you destroy it? Why did you leave this for me?” Elior‟s face darkened, guilt flickering across his features. “Because I was a coward. I thought I could outwit time, that I could control it without paying the price. But I was wrong. You were my redemption, Cassian. I trained you to succeed where I failed.”
The weight of Elior‟s words struck Cassian like a blow. Every lesson, every cryptic warning, every test of patience—none of it had been to teach him mastery over time. It had all been preparation for this moment, for a choice Elior himself could not bear to make. The reflections in the room grew more chaotic, shifting and distorting. Cassian saw faces he didn‟t recognize—Valenwood children playing in the square, an old woman tending to a garden, a merchant laughing as he bartered for spices. These were lives yet to be lived, moments yet to unfold. If he destroyed the clock, they would be restored. But he would vanish, becoming a memory in a timeline he could never inhabit. A voice, faint but familiar, broke through the cacophony. “Cassian, please.”
He spun toward the sound, his heart lurching. Among the swirling shadows stood a figure he hadn‟t seen in years—his mother. Her expression was soft, her eyes filled with a sadness that seemed infinite. “Mother?” Cassian whispered, his voice cracking. She didn‟t answer but extended a hand toward him. Around her, the shadows recoiled, hissing like steam. Her presence was an anchor, a reminder of the humanity he stood to lose. Elior stepped forward, his tone sharper now. “Cassian, don‟t let this distract you! She‟s a fragment, a memory. She‟s not real!” But wasn‟t she? Cassian‟s grip on the gear faltered.
The pain, the chaos, the fear— it all paled in comparison to the pull of that outstretched hand. “You can save them,” she said, her voice softer now. “But not without sacrifice.” Cassian‟s mind raced. Could he truly condemn himself to an existence outside of time? Would his sacrifice even matter if he could never witness the fruits of his choice? And what would become of him in the void, alone with only the weight of his regrets? The room seemed to pause, the shadows holding their breath. Even the clock‟s relentless ticking grew faint, as if granting him one final moment of stillness. Cassian closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath.
When he opened them, his expression was resolute. “Elior, if I do this… promise me one thing.” Elior nodded, his face grim but determined. “Anything.” “Make them remember me,” Cassian said, his voice trembling. “Even if it‟s just a whisper. Don‟t let me fade completely.” Elior hesitated, then gave a solemn nod. “You have my word.” Cassian turned back to the clock. The heat surged once more, but this time, he didn‟t resist it. With a final, wrenching effort, he twisted the gear counterclockwise, shattering its delicate alignment.
The room erupted in light and sound. The clock‟s face cracked, its hands spinning wildly as the shadows let out an unearthly wail. Cassian felt himself being pulled into the mechanism, the world around him dissolving into a blur of light and color. As the chaos consumed him, he caught one last glimpse of Elior, standing firm amidst the storm. And then, everything went silent.
Chapter 9: A Hollow Eternity
Cassian awoke in a world that seemed like a dream yet felt painfully real. The air was thick and oppressive, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and aged parchment. Around him stretched an endless expanse of shadows, a labyrinth of muted whispers and distant echoes. He realized, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that he was nowhere. Time no longer existed here—not in the way he had known it. There were no clocks, no suns to mark days, only the infinite stretch of stillness. He could feel the absence like a gaping wound, an ache that gnawed at his soul.
Cassian stumbled forward, his legs trembling beneath him. “Elior?” he called, though he knew the futility of it. His voice dissipated into the void, swallowed whole by the nothingness. As he moved, faint images began to flicker in the darkness. Faces he recognized but could not place—friends from a life that felt distant, strangers he might have passed in a bustling market, his mother‟s gentle smile. They hovered like ghosts, suspended in fragments of time he no longer belonged to. He tried to reach out, but his hands passed through them as if they were smoke.
A crushing loneliness settled over him, heavier than anything he had ever known. He was here, and they were there, separated by a chasm that no force could bridge. And then he saw it: a single, broken gear, lying amidst the shadows. Its edges were jagged, the gold tarnished with age. Cassian knelt, trembling as he picked it up. The gear was cold to the touch, a stark reminder of his sacrifice. “This is the cost,” a voice whispered, soft yet unyielding. Cassian turned sharply, but there was no one. Only the void and the faint flickers of memories that mocked him with their warmth. “I saved them,” he murmured to himself, clutching the gear to his chest. “I saved them all.” But the words felt hollow. What was salvation if he couldn‟t witness it? He had restored the world‟s timeline, repaired the threads of existence, yet he had unraveled his own.
He was no hero, no savior—just a boy who had dared to defy time and paid the ultimate price. The memories began to shift, morphing into scenes he didn‟t recognize. A child running through a field of wildflowers, an elderly man reading by candlelight, a mother singing a lullaby to her infant. These were moments he had made possible, lives he had preserved. But they were not his. Cassian fell to his knees, the weight of his decision crushing him. He wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but no sound escaped his lips.
He was a ghost in his own story, an observer to a world that had no place for him. And yet, amidst the despair, there was a flicker of something else—a bittersweet solace. These lives, these fleeting moments, were his legacy. They were proof that he had mattered, even if no one would remember his name. Time moved on, indifferent to his sacrifice. And Cassian, trapped in the hollow eternity of his own making, watched it unfold, one fleeting memory at a time.
Chapter 10: The Last Echo
Cassian stood at the precipice of time‟s great chasm, the broken remains of the clock scattered around him like fragments of his own heart. He had done it—he had destroyed the mechanism that tethered him to the present, shattered the chains that bound time‟s flow. Yet, as the dust settled, an unbearable silence wrapped around him, colder than the harshest winter. The workshop no longer looked familiar. The walls, once adorned with intricate blueprints and tools, were cracked and crumbling, overtaken by creeping ivy. The air was thick with decay, the ghost of a life once lived. It was as though time itself had folded in on this place, leaving it abandoned in its wake. Cassian clenched his fists, staring at the shattered clock face.
The golden gears, once brimming with life and possibility, now lay lifeless. And with them, his hope. In the distance, he saw a figure—a man cloaked in shadow, his movements slow and deliberate. Elior. The name formed on Cassian‟s lips, but his voice faltered. Could it truly be him? He ran, desperation fueling his every step. “Elior!” he called, the sound cracking in his throat. The figure turned, and for a fleeting moment, Cassian‟s heart surged with hope. But as the man stepped into the dim light, Cassian saw not his mentor but a hollow reflection—a younger Elior, his face etched with the burden of knowledge. “You should not have come,” Elior said, his voice heavy with sorrow. Cassian‟s breath hitched. “I had to. I couldn‟t let you vanish without knowing why.
Without trying to save you.” Elior shook his head, his expression unreadable. “Save me? Cassian, you‟ve undone everything. Do you not see? The clock was never meant to be destroyed. It was a balance, a fragile thread between past, present, and future. By breaking it, you‟ve severed that thread.” Cassian staggered back, his mind reeling. “But I—” “Time has no place for you now,” Elior interrupted, his voice a whisper laced with pain. “You exist outside of it, a remnant of a world that no longer is. Your sacrifice will echo, yes. It will ripple through the lives you‟ve saved, but you… you will remain here, a ghost in the machinery of time.” “No,” Cassian murmured, his voice trembling. “There must be a way. A way to fix this, to fix me.” Elior stepped closer, placing a hand on Cassian‟s shoulder. His touch was cold, lifeless. “There is no fixing what‟s already broken, Cassian.
You sought to control time, but time has claimed you instead. You are the price.” Tears streamed down Cassian‟s face as he fell to his knees. The enormity of his actions crushed him, the weight of eternity pressing down like a relentless tide. He had saved the world, yes—but at what cost? As Elior began to fade into the shadows, Cassian reached out. “Don‟t leave me. Please… don‟t leave me alone.” Elior‟s gaze softened, but his figure grew dimmer with each passing second. “You were never alone, Cassian. Not truly. But now, you must learn to exist in the silence.”
And with that, Elior was gone. Cassian screamed into the void, his cries swallowed by the emptiness. Around him, the world dissolved into fragments of memory—faces he had loved, moments he had cherished, now slipping through his grasp like grains of sand. He was left with nothing but the ticking in his mind, a phantom sound of a clock that no longer existed. The echoes of his sacrifice reverberated through time, but they brought him no solace. He had become a shadow, a forgotten echo of a life that once dared to defy time. And as he sat in the hollow remains of the workshop, tears streaming down his face, Cassian whispered to the emptiness: “I saved them. I saved them all. But who will save me?” The answer never came.
BY: HAFSA MEHMOOD ASHRAF
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