Mother knocked softly at the door with a gentleness that always reassured me. "Rhylorin? How was your lesson today?"
She entered the library long after the daylight had dipped below the horizon, leaving only the dusky remnants of its warmth. The enormous three-story gable windows, with their luxurious brass frames, had mirrored the golden glow of evening, but now they stood dark, veins of shadow running across the generously polished marble floors. The gas lamps, flickering like tiny suns, had been lit by the diligent hands of the servants, casting a warm, inviting glow that danced playfully along the richly appointed room—its plush burgundy velvet drapes framing the giant windows and gilded furniture reflecting the light in a mesmerizing display.
As she finally appeared at the doorway, her silhouette framed softly against the happily illuminated corridor, a wave of relief washed over me, soothing my frayed nerves, much like cool water cascading over fevered skin. Her mere presence had the uncanny ability to chase away the residual shadows of nightmares that had been lurking at the corners of my mind.
"Educational," I managed to respond, nonchalantly slipping the watch back into the confines of my waistcoat, even as I felt its familiar form morph seamlessly back to its original hourglass shape. "Professor Deyric is… thorough, as always."
Mother settled into the luxurious leather armchair beside mine, the soft rustle of her sapphire dress a comforting melody against the worn fabric of the chair. The gaslight flickered around her like a warm embrace, catching the golden threads woven through her hair as she arranged herself with an elegance that seemed untouched by time, even after years spent in the oppressive smoke of Braxmond.
"May I see the watch?" she asked, her voice tinged with a polite curiosity that betrayed little hint of the depths of her concern.
I hesitated briefly, a flicker of hesitation passing through me. Grudgingly, I reached for the watch, drawing it from my waistcoat once more. The hourglass symbol glimmered softly in the lamplight, the sand within still flowing steadily, but Mother seemed oblivious to its encompassing significance as she admired its intricate design.
Her fingers traced the watch's engraved surface with a reverence that made it seem almost sacred. "After the Citadel fell, they salvaged what they could from the wreckage. The Electrum Bell—the magnificent piece of metalwork that once marked the end of eternity—was melted down to its base elements."
Her voice fell to a whisper, barely audible above the soft crackling hum of the gas lamps, as though she feared that raising it too high might break the solemnity of the moment. "Seven watches were forged from its remnants, each one receiving a blessing from those few magical holders who survived that harrowing night. This watch was one of them, a gift to the chosen one of Tundrathan—my grandmother's grandmother, Sera Asenai herself."
As she looked up, I saw her piercing blue eyes glistening with unshed tears, dancing in the gaslight like captured fragments of starlight. "It has been passed through generations of women in our bloodline, each one adding their own small prayer to its purpose, waiting… waiting for something…"
"Waiting for what, Mother?" I asked, fear creeping into my voice that maybe I'd have to confess to the dangerous magic I had just acquired, fearing the condemnation of a deity to whom I had just sworn my oath. "You don't believe in such things like Father does… right?"
She took a measured breath, her fingers hovering still near the watch as though she could feel its warmth and power radiating toward her. "The old prophecies speak in riddles, my dear one. I believe magic did once exist in our world, but perhaps that era is now veiled in shadows."
With a sigh of relief, she returned the watch to me, and I could taste gratitude in the air, thankful she didn't press the topic any further. I wasn't sure if my spirit could withstand the weight of such knowledge, and I preferred it to remain undisclosed.
"Are you happy, Rhylorin?" The question struck me unexpectedly, like the sudden lift of wind that catches you off guard. "With everything— the accusations, the isolation, the harshness of Father—are you truly happy? Do you hold any hope for what lies ahead?"
I opened my mouth instinctively to offer the expected response, the one a dutiful son should give, but found the words stranded in my throat. There was something in the way she sat beside me, the reverence woven into her voice when she spoke of our lineage—a sacred space had formed between us, a barrier of honesty that felt almost tangible.
"I…" The admission stumbled forth, slow and uncertain, like water seeping through a tiny crack. "I feel… as if I'm becoming someone I was always meant to be, but I don't yet know who that person is."
Mother's gaze softened, her expression encouraging me without resorting to words.
"There's a girl," I found myself revealing, surprised by my own admission. "In parliament, her name is Ayla. She knew my name before I even introduced myself—knew things about my life that she shouldn't have." I took a breath as memories surged pleasantly in my chest. "When I'm near her, everything feels… possible. The world seems larger than the suffocating smoke of Braxmond or my father's factories."
"Tell me more about her," Mother urged, a spark igniting in her eyes that could have been curiosity or perhaps protectiveness.
"She's unlike anyone I've ever encountered," I enthused, caught up in the moment. "One minute, she's acting aristocratic, and the next, she's pure Gypsy magic—vanishing right into colored mists before my eyes." I laughed while reminiscing about the befuddled guards. "She claims she dreams of me, and somehow I just know she's speaking the truth."
Mother leaned closer to me, her expression now intensely focused. "Does she make you feel like yourself, or like someone entirely different?"
"A little bit of both," I replied, unexpectedly struck by the depth of the question. "While I'm with her, it's as if I'm finally waking up after years of drifting through life without purpose. It's almost as if she's that missing piece I've yearned for… but Father would never approve of her."
"Just like I warned you about your grandfather," she added gently. "Circumstances have a mind of their own, and perhaps your future isn't as defined as your father wishes it to be."
I closed my eyes then, feeling the weight of destiny settling around me, heavy like a cloak woven of dark threads. "I used to envision only Father's path— inheriting the factories, entering into an alliance through marriage, dedicating my life to building airships, only to perish in the same smoke that birthed me. But now..." I opened my eyes, locking gazes with her, feeling the change stirring within. "Now, it's like I'm seeing doors wide open before me, even if I can't yet discern where they lead."
"Perfect!" Mother's smile burst forth then, brilliant and uplifting, as she reached for my hand and cradled it within hers. "Then you're precisely where you need to be, my brave boy—even if it terrifies us both."
"Mother," I stumbled over my words, my voice a mix of sternness and vulnerability, "What if I'm not strong enough? What if whatever I'm becoming shatters everything Father has built?"
She stretched across the space separating our chairs and gently kissed my forehead—an instinctive gesture she'd often used to comfort me through childhood terrors. Her palms radiated a warm aura against mine, and I caught the faint scent of lavender oil that clung to her skin.
"Strength isn't about merely preserving what already exists, Rhylorin. Sometimes, the greatest strength lies in having the courageous heart to let old things pass away so new ones can flourish in their place." Her thumbs brushed away the tears I hadn't even realized had begun to fall. "Your grandfather Mikhail believed only in brass and blood, just as your father does now. But I've witnessed firsthand the costs of that rigid way of thinking—the workers who perish amid our factories, the children growing up inhaling poison, and the hearts that have turned cold enough to forget what joy truly means."
She leaned closer to me, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, as if our very words could somehow escape the confines of the room.
"Do not fear the future, my dear child," she urged. "Waking up to a new dawn is all we can ever hope for, Rhylorin… that is all."
"Should I abandon the path I'm treading?" I questioned earnestly.
"That's not for me to determine," she said softly but firmly. "But I can tell you this— in my dreams, where you choose love instead of fear, where you trust the girl who knew your name before you ever spoke it, where you welcome what you're becoming rather than resisting it…" Her smile widened, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, her joy lit up her eyes completely. "In those dreams, the world becomes beautiful again."
We settled into a soft silence, the shadows in the room flickering in tandem with the dancing flames of the gas lamps. The steady ticking of the watch marked time that felt both precious and eternal, creating a rhythm that resonated with the cadence of my beating heart.
"I should let you rest now," Mother eventually murmured, rising from her chair with the effortless grace that defined her. "Tomorrow will surely bring its own challenges."
I stood as well, feeling a surge of hope swelling within me, buoyed by her unwavering support. Opening her arms, I stepped into her embrace, breathing in her familiar scent and the sense of safety she emitted. In that moment, I was transformed into a child once more, cocooned within her gentle strength, shielded from the harsh realities of the world.
"I love you, Rhylorin Kuznetsov," she whispered tenderly against my hair. "Whatever it is you become, wherever this path may lead, remember that you have a mother who loves you deeply."
"I love you too, Mother," I replied, my heart brimming with affection.
She pressed a kiss to my forehead, pulling back to linger with her hands resting on my shoulders. "Now go and fetch some dinner. I had a plate set aside for you… even your father didn't make it to supper."
As I made my way to the library doors, the reassuring weight of the watch nestled in my pocket began to feel more significant, like a burden, yet strangely comforting too. But just as I reached the threshold into the corridor, an unusual chill breezed past me—not the familiar bite of autumn in Braxmond, but something darker, laden with malice and intent. The shadows lining the hallway seemed to stir with a life of their own, undulating and pulsating, growing denser with every millisecond. Yet, when I turned to confront them, they merely loomed innocuously.
The air carried an oppressive weight, thick with tension, as though something unseen stalked these halls, a lurking specter fueled by a primal hunger and hatred that gnawed at the edges of reality.
Suddenly, in the pitch-darkness near the staircase, two ominous glowing red eyes bore into me. Panic seized me, freezing me to the floor. The clinking of gears wound up, followed by a metallic crash, emerging slowly, as though answering the call of my fear. It resembled a person, albeit one made of brass, steam billowing from a peculiar leather backpack mounted on its back. The sight jolted me, and I could hardly move as its form gradually revealed itself—one of its hands formed into a fearsome sword, the sharpness glinting maliciously under the faint light.