Pale light slipped through the narrow window of the clockmaker's workshop, casting long shadows over scattered gears and brass cogs. Dust floated in the air like faint stars, drifting in the early quiet.

He was slender and wiry, with tousled chestnut hair that never stayed in place. His sharp green eyes-bright and curious-followed every movement of the clock parts in his hands. A few freckles dotted his cheeks from time spent in the mountain sun.

He wore a white shirt, rumpled and half-untucked, with a brown coat slightly too big for his frame. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing calloused, scar-marked hands that moved with quiet focus.

Auren worked steadily, fitting tiny gears together as he'd done a hundred times before. The soft tick of the clocks filled the space around him-steady, rhythmic, familiar.

Outside, the town of Caelmoor still slept under a layer of mist. Nestled in the shadow of pine-covered peaks, the village was a cluster of stone cottages and winding cobbled streets. Smoke curled from a few early chimneys. The market square was silent, save for a lone cat weaving through empty stalls.

Sometimes, when Auren paused to rest his eyes, he thought he saw flickers of light-brief glints near the window, gone the moment he blinked. He told himself it was just the sun catching dust.

Behind him, the workshop's other occupant stirred. Master Ryvek was a squat, broad-shouldered man with a thick gray-streaked beard and arms like old tree trunks. His skin was tanned and worn from years beside forge and flame. His steel-blue eyes were sharp beneath heavy brows.

"Move slower and you'll never finish," Ryvek muttered, his voice rough but not unkind. "The customer's waiting."

Auren nodded and wiped his hands on his apron. He returned to his work, but his thoughts lingered on that flicker of light.

The day passed in rhythm. Clocks ticking, gears turning, voices rising outside as the town came alive.

But for Auren, something felt... off. Not wrong. Just different. As if time itself was dragging, every moment stretched just a little too long.

When the sun finally dipped behind the peaks, Auren slipped out of the shop and walked past the edge of town. He found his usual spot beneath a tall pine, where the breeze carried the smell of earth and resin.

He leaned back against the trunk, looking up at the darkening sky.

Then-he saw it again.

That glimmer.

A soft spark, floating just beyond his reach. It hovered in the air like a snowflake made of light, quiet and impossible.

He didn't blink. Didn't move.

And then... something clicked.

A word formed in his mind. One he hadn't heard before, yet somehow knew.

Aether.

Along with it came something stranger-a phrase, repeating inside him like a distant echo:

Oh silent loom of endless strands...

Guide my steps through shifting sands...

What was, what is, what yet shall be-

Unveil the hidden paths to me.

He stood slowly, his pulse quickening.

Without fully knowing why, he ran. Down the hill, through narrow streets, until he found a quiet alley between two stone houses. It was cramped and cluttered with broken crates and scraps of glass.

He held out his right hand, heart pounding.

And he spoke the words.

"Oh silent loom of endless strands,

Guide my steps through shifting sands.

What was, what is, what yet shall be-

Unveil the hidden paths to me."

The glass on the ground stirred.

It shimmered, lifted, and came together-not into light, but into shape. A figure formed, made of fractured glass. His own shape. A reflection of himself, glowing faintly in the narrow alley.

The glass figure reached out. Its hand brushed his.

Auren didn't pull away.

"What was, what is, what yet shall be-

Unveil the hidden paths to me," he whispered again.

The figure's grip tightened-and then shattered.

The light scattered. The alley was silent once more.

Auren stood frozen, breath shallow. He had no idea what had just happened.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, he did.

He turned and ran-back toward the workshop, toward something familiar.

Even if nothing would ever feel familiar again.

Auren ran through the winding streets of Caelmoor. He passed the church, the market, rows of food stalls and merchants' stands. Everywhere he looked, people bustled about, unaware of the change burning in his chest.

But to Auren, everyone had a thread.

Thin strands of color hung from each person's back, shimmering brightly, even in shadow. They glowed as though lit from within, needing no lanterns or sunlight to be seen.

As he stumbled through the crowd, he saw that every thread shone red.

He didn't know how he knew what it meant. But he did. Red meant death.

Lanterns along the street flickered to life as dusk fell, but Auren barely noticed. Any bit of shine felt painfully bright to his eyes now. Every glint of metal, every sheen of glass, seemed to stab into his skull. His senses were sharp-too sharp. The world felt magnified and fragile all at once.

He reached the clockmaker's workshop-his home-and leaned against the doorframe, struggling to catch his breath.

Inside, Ryvek worked near the window, shirtless, sweat glistening on his broad chest. He wore tight trousers with tools tucked into the pockets, the smell of oil and hot metal hanging around him.

"Oi, you little slacker, get back in here and wor-"

Ryvek stopped mid-sentence. He turned and saw Auren's face-pale, eyes wide and vacant, as though he'd gazed into something vast and terrible.

"Are you alright?" Ryvek's voice dropped, rough with concern.

Auren tilted his head slightly, staring past Ryvek. Over the old man's shoulder, he saw the faint thread hanging from Ryvek's back. It glowed vividly red, even in the dim workshop.

He'd never seen it before today-but he knew what it meant.

Just like everyone else in the village. Every single person carried that same red thread.

Auren's green eyes rolled back, turning completely white. A vision surged into his mind-a glimpse of brutal, bloody ends. People he knew... dying in ways too cruel to speak.

His legs buckled. He fell to his knees, sobbing. Not loudly-but not silently, either.

Ryvek stared, stunned, worry creasing the lines of his face. Without a word, he rushed to the door, pulled Auren inside, and carried him up a narrow staircase hidden behind stacks of wooden boxes.

They entered a small room where two beds were nothing but straw piled into rough nests. Ryvek lowered Auren onto one of them, then lingered, wiping sweat from his brow.

Work was waiting. And business had been busy.

So Ryvek left him there and went back downstairs, though he kept glancing upward, worry etched deep in his eyes.

Hours passed before Auren's tears finally dried.

Their deaths... it was gruesome and cruel...

He lay trembling, terrified by the horrors he'd seen-and by the knowledge that now, he could see them all.

Auren lay trembling on the rough straw bed, tears dried cold on his cheeks. Fear still churned deep inside him-a silent storm pressing against his chest. His breath was uneven, shallow, as if the weight of what he'd seen was too much to carry alone.

After a long silence, Ryvek's footsteps creaked on the narrow stairs. The old clockmaker appeared at the doorway, carrying a wooden plate with slices of crisp apple. His weathered face was softer than usual, lined with worry and something like helplessness.

He set the plate down carefully on the small, cylinder-shaped table between the straw beds.

"Here," Ryvek said quietly, voice rough but gentle. "You should eat."

Auren didn't answer. His eyes stared past the plate, lost somewhere far away. His fingers twitched but didn't reach for the fruit.

Ryvek stepped closer, his gaze never leaving Auren's pale face. Slowly, he reached out and ruffled the boy's messy chestnut hair-a small, tender gesture from a man who rarely showed softness.

"You're not alone," Ryvek murmured, voice low enough that only Auren could hear.

Auren's lips trembled, and a shudder ran through his body-not from fear, but from the fragile comfort in those words.

He was grateful beyond words that Ryvek had taken him in when he was just a frightened, orphaned boy-left with nothing but his name and a wild heart. In the years since, the old clockmaker had become more than a mentor. He was the closest thing Auren had to a father.

Without another word, Ryvek eased himself onto the other straw bed with a heavy sigh, the weariness of years settling over him.

As the old man's steady breathing filled the quiet room, exhaustion claimed Auren completely.

Despite the gnawing dread inside him, his eyes fluttered shut, and he sank into a deep,dreamless sleep