Chapter 1: The Tick-Tock of Trouble

Chapter 1: The Tick-Tock of Trouble

The rain fell on the cobblestones of Hemlock Lane with a dreary persistence, each drop a tiny hammer against the world. Inside ‘The Gilded Cog’, the air was thick with the scent of old wood, beeswax, and forgotten memories. For Alistair Finch, this was the smell of peace—a self-imposed exile that smelled better than a prison cell, but felt much the same. He ran a calloused thumb over the worn leather of his apron, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered forest of antiques that was his sanctuary.

And through it all, like the beat of his own weary heart, was the ticking.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

It wasn't the chorus of the dozen or so mundane clocks scattered around the shop. It was a singular, resonant rhythm that lived only in his mind, the constant whisper of the immense, ornate grandfather clock that dominated the back wall. Carved from a wood as dark as a starless night sky, inlaid with celestial patterns of silver and pearl, the Fae Clock was both his warden and his greatest secret.

Alistair’s desire was simple: to lock the door, pour a glass of cheap whiskey, and listen to the rain and the ticking until morning. But the universe, as it often did, had other plans.

Just as he reached for the ‘Closed’ sign, the small brass bell above the door chimed, a sound as jarring as a scream in a library.

An obstacle.

A woman stumbled in, drenched and frantic, clutching a small, rosewood music box to her chest as if it were a dying dove. Her eyes were wide, darting into the shadows of the shop. "Please," she gasped, her voice trembling. "They told me you could help. That you… deal with unusual things."

Alistair’s expression soured. He didn’t run a charity, and "unusual things" were exactly what he’d spent the last century avoiding. "The shop is closing," he said, his tone flat.

"I'll pay whatever you ask!" she cried, shoving the music box onto the counter. "It… it whispers. At night. Horrible things. And I see… shadows, in the corner of my eye. They're getting closer."

He sighed, a long, tired sound. His desire for a quiet evening was slipping away. He leaned forward, his ancient, weary eyes—so at odds with his thirty-something face—examining the box. He didn't need to touch it. He could taste the magic on the air: a thin, reedy curse, laced with fear and spite. An Echo Curse. Nasty, but amateurish. A magical prank gone sour.

"It's a trifle," he said, his voice laced with annoyance. He wanted her gone. "The work of a hedge-witch with more ambition than skill."

Action. He didn’t bother with grand incantations or flashy gestures. That was the domain of the Arch-Mages of the Aetherium Concord, a life he had left behind in fire and regret. Instead, he pulled a small, tarnished silver tin from under the counter. He sprinkled a pinch of its shimmering dust—powdered ghost-silver—onto the box’s lid. Then, he tapped the box three times, a precise rhythm that disrupted the curse’s own malevolent beat.

A final, hateful whisper slithered from the box, then died with a faint, pathetic hiss. The oppressive air around it vanished.

Result.

The woman’s shoulders slumped in relief, tears welling in her eyes. "It's… it's quiet."

"It is," Alistair confirmed. "The price is fifty crowns." A steep price, designed to discourage repeat business.

She fumbled in her purse, placing the coins on the counter with a shaking hand. "Thank you. Truly." She backed away, not taking the now-harmless music box with her, and fled into the rainy night as if the hounds of hell were still on her heels.

Alistair swept the coins into a drawer and stared at the abandoned music box. Another piece of magical junk to deal with. He was about to toss it into a lead-lined bin when he noticed it.

The turning point.

Where the music box had rested, a tiny object remained on the dark wood of the counter. It was no bigger than his thumbnail, a sliver of what looked like polished obsidian, but it held no reflection. It didn't gleam in the warm lamplight; it seemed to swallow it. A splinter of pure, utter nothingness.

His blood ran cold. This was no Echo Curse. This was something else entirely. Something old and hungry.

He reached for it, not with his hand, but with his senses. He felt no malice, no hateful energy like the curse. He felt only a void. An emptiness that pulled at the warmth of the shop, at the subtle enchantments woven into the antiques, at the very light itself.

And it was pulling at him.

The familiar, comforting tick-tock in his head, the steady rhythm of the Fae Clock, began to falter.

Tick… tock… tick… … tock…

Panic, a feeling he hadn't truly felt in decades, seized him. This was the real threat. The music box was just the delivery system, a Trojan horse for this sliver of silent hunger. He snatched a pair of iron tongs from his workbench, the cold metal a welcome anchor to reality. He carefully picked up the shard. The moment the iron touched it, a wave of profound cold washed through the shop. The dancing dust motes in the air froze mid-twirl. The low hum of the gaslights faltered.

The shard wasn't radiating magic; it was devouring it.

Tick…… tock……

The Fae within the clock, the ancient spirits bound to its mechanism, would be screaming if they could. He could feel their faint, panicked energy signatures flickering like dying embers. He had to contain this thing. Now.

He moved quickly, his long legs carrying him to the back of the shop. There was a containment box, solid lead lined with counter-spells and runes of stasis. It was for minor annoyances, but it would have to do.

He fumbled with the heavy lid, his fingers suddenly clumsy. The ticking in his head was growing fainter, more erratic, like a dying man’s last breaths.

Tick………

The shard seemed to pulse in the tongs, a silent anti-beat to the clock’s rhythm. A wave of temporal dread washed over him, a nauseating feeling of moments becoming unstuck. Outside, a passing carriage seemed to slow, its horse’s hooves hanging in the air for a fraction too long. A drop of rain lingered on the windowpane, refusing to fall.

His prison was failing. The anchor was dragging.

He finally wrenched the containment box open and threw the shard inside, slamming the lid shut. For a moment, there was a reprieve. The light in the shop stabilized. The oppressive cold receded.

He leaned against his workbench, breathing heavily, the faded, runic tattoos on his forearms seeming to prickle. The ticking in his head was a faint, desperate flutter.

…tick…

He turned his desperate gaze to the Fae Clock. The great silver pendulum, a disc of polished obsidian that usually swung with hypnotic grace, was slowing. Slower. Slower.

With a final, agonizing swing, it stopped.

And then, the surprise. The absolute horror.

The ticking ceased.

Total, absolute silence filled Alistair’s mind for the first time in a century. It was not peace. It was a terrifying, gaping void. The silence of a severed limb, the silence of the grave. The connection was broken.

A wave of raw, unfiltered chronological energy, no longer regulated by the clock, pulsed outward from his shop. It was invisible, silent, but to those with the senses to perceive it, it was a cataclysmic scream. A flare fired from the darkest corner of the city, announcing his location, his existence, to any and all who might be watching.

Friends. Enemies. And the wardens of the Aetherium Concord he had worked so hard to hide from.

He was exposed. He was vulnerable. And in the sudden, deafening silence of his own mind, Alistair Finch knew his quiet life was over. Trouble hadn't just knocked on his door; it had kicked it down and set the house on fire.