The clocktower of Elderglen stood like a sentinel over the slumbering town. Its iron hands moved with solemn precision, ticking out moments unnoticed by most. But on this night, as the fog crept low across the cobblestones and the moon strained to pierce the clouds, someone waited beneath it.
That someone was a boy—no older than fifteen, with a satchel slung across one shoulder and eyes that burned too brightly for someone so young. He had no name that the townsfolk knew, only whispers: The Watcher, The Ghost-Child, or, simply, the boy who never aged.
He pressed himself against the cold stone wall, listening. His breath came in tight gasps, not from fear—but anticipation. Something was going to happen tonight. He had seen it in the patterns of the ravens' flight, in the way the river turned murky and still. Even the tower clock had chimed thirteen times at midday. The town dismissed it as a mechanical fault. He knew better.
From his satchel, he pulled out a folded parchment, covered in inked lines and symbols. He traced one with his finger, and for a moment, it glowed faintly—like a heartbeat.
Across the square, candlelight flickered behind the windows of the old librarian's cottage. Inside lived the only person who might understand: Mrs. Ava Thorne, keeper of forgotten books and unspoken histories. But the boy couldn't go to her yet. Not until he knew for sure.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small glass orb. It shimmered faintly—green, like the eyes of the creature in his dreams. The same creature he had once banished beneath the tower. Only now… its whisper had returned.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound echoed louder than usual. He looked up. The hands of the clock had stopped, frozen at midnight