Rain lashed against the asphalt like steel needles as Jack Wilson checked his watch for the third time—20:47. The storm warning had just begun. He zipped his worn leather jacket, tossed his magician's prop case onto the pickup truck's backseat, oblivious to the shadowy figure lingering in the alley.
When the violet lightning struck the clock tower, Jack was still chuckling at a troll comment on his livestream. The world slowed. He watched his sneakers hover mid-air in the frozen raindrops, the pocketwatch on his wrist spinning counterclockwise. Purple energy surged through the crackling air, tearing his shirt as sulfurous winds ripped through the alley.
"Shit!" He lunged toward a newsstand, but the metal rack crumbled in his grip. The rift erupted in a plume of sulfur, dragging him into its vortex. The last thing he saw was a homeless man's rusted trash can reflecting his pupils splitting into twin vortices.
He awoke in a fetid swamp, the shattered pocketwatch embedded in his chest. Seven bronze fragments pulsed in a star pattern over his heart. Moonlight revealed glowing golden veins snaking from his palms—exactly matching the watch's constellation.
"Damn livestream tips..." He spat out mud, hearing clanking armor behind the reeds. Three Imperial Guards with double-headed eagle insignias marched past, their swords engraved Sanctum Sentinels.
"That heretic's head's worth 500 silver," the leader spat, kicking a severed hand. "The Arcanum Council wants his magic-poisoner ass."
Jack retreated, boots crunching glass. A trap sprang—a cage of spikes. Guards laughed as he thrashed, but his fingertips sparked. One arrow veered, impaling the archer's throat. Chaos erupted. By the time the survivors fled, Jack crawled through a collapsed culvert, the watch fragments burning like hot coals against his ribs.