Autumn | Edmond Blacktide's study | 8 December 1777 | Noon:
Just as Henry Clarke opened his mouth to protest, the door burst open behind them.
Morven, who had been desperately holding back tears, turned—and caught sight of a woman's flowing skirt.
He quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve, joy flooding his face.
It was his mother's dress, the one worn by Margery Fairfax.
But when he lifted his gaze higher, hoping to see her beautiful face… there was nothing.
Where her features should have been was only a swirling mass of black, moving scribbles—like living ink.
The spark of joy in Morven's eyes died instantly. They widened in sudden awareness.
He realised he was dreaming—and conscious within it. A violent shiver ran through him; a sharp pain lanced through his head.
He glanced again at the faceless figure that should have been his mother. Terror gripped him. Even though he knew it was a dream, the fear was overwhelming.
He looked toward his tutor, who was now speaking to the blurred figure—but no sound reached Morven's ears. Not even his father's voice.
He whispered to himself,
"I… I've forgotten my mother's face…"
Whispers began to rise around him, close to his ears.
You know her!
Idiot…
Coward!
Morven clutched his head and collapsed to his knees. The voices only grew louder.
You never had a single happy memory.
This is all just a dream—your childhood wasn't this beautiful…
People decide worth, but you've proven your own worthlessness.
You were always a loser!
Coward…
Morven pressed his palms harder against his temples, helpless and confused.
He was terrified—of the voices, of his past, it was impossible to tell. His eyes shook not with anger, but pure fear.
He closed them tightly and screamed—but no sound emerged.
When he opened them again, his body had grown. He was no longer a child.
But he was sinking into darkness, as if drowning. The world around him had turned pitch black once more, just like before.
Breathing grew harder. Nothing was clear except the endless void and faint grey mists far in the distance.
His eyes burned with exhaustion. He wanted only to sleep.
A woman's voice, laced with tears, whispered in his ear:
"Sleep, my good boy…"
Morven's eyes snapped wide open at those words. He looked around desperately.
His awareness began to fade again; his breaths grew shallower.
He gave a bitter smirk and murmured,
"What a humiliating death… dying in my sleep. How utterly pathetic."
Suddenly the dark, misty sky split open.
A massive golden clock descended, flanked by two enormous hands.
The hands spun wildly—faster than any normal clock—producing loud, frantic tick-tocks.
A strange golden light flooded everything. Morven's consciousness sharpened once more.
He opened his mouth to speak, but a deep, resonant voice boomed before he could:
"Watchmaker."
Morven thought it was one of the mocking whispers—until it spoke again.
"Watchmaker…"
He stared up at the enormous clock hanging in the misty void.
The voice grew clearer.
"Wake up!"
Before Morven could respond, the voice thundered:
"Look at this dark world… it is the realm of the weak and aimless. A world meant for death…"
Morven's dark red eyes flickered faintly.
The voice continued.
"Are you weak, watchmaker!? Are you aimless, watchmaker!?"
Morven gave a weary, bitter smile.
"I see no way out, oh mysterious voice from nowhere. Do you see one?"
The voice answered with unnatural calm, yet absolute authority.
"In a world where time gives meaning to past and future… it is watchmakers who prove what the present truly is."
Morven smiled tiredly, but the voice pressed on.
"Your death here would be meaningless. Would your family care? Would the nobility attend your funeral? To them you are nothing but the aristocratic watchmaker… and that is all."
Morven spoke softly.
"I don't know if you can hear me… but if it is my fate to die now, then I will die."
The voice grew distant again.
"Fate? Destiny? It is time that decides when those arrive!"
Morven fell silent, thinking.
The voice sharpened once more.
"Wake in reality, watchmaker. Here there is nothing for you but darkness!"
Morven gave a mocking smirk—but then he heard the deep tolling of a bell.
He looked around wildly yet saw nothing.
When he glanced downward, London appeared through the mist below.
The Thames, noble mansions, Parliament buildings, churches… his own house was insignificant among them.
The voice returned.
"Look well. You are merely one among thousands here. Would your death—or your life—disrupt the daily lives of these people?"
Morven studied the city longer, then whispered,
"No… truly, no."
The voice grew stronger.
"The choice is yours. But return to reality. Wake up. The past is a chain—and purpose is the key to those cursed links!"
Morven dove toward the Thames, skimming the water with his hand as he flew along it.
When he rose back into the sky, the voice echoed once more.
"This is neither the real world nor mere fantasy. Hurry… escape the prison of the past. If you do…"
Morven interrupted.
"If I do, I'll be free—rid of the past for good. Right?"
The voice fell silent.
The misty London below began to crack and crumble. In seconds the entire city shattered into fragments.
The golden clock that had first appeared now hung far away in the void.
The bell tolled louder; the hands spun frantically.
The voice spoke clearly one final time.
"Correct."
Morven's body began to crack like porcelain.
He whispered,
"I hope we meet again someday… voice."
His body shattered completely—and suddenly Morven jolted awake on a bed in one of the rooms at The White Hart Inn.
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Toward Hertfordshire:
Morven's eyes darted around the unfamiliar room.
Marcus was slumped asleep in a chair beside the bed, one arm draped over the mattress—clearly he had kept vigil out of worry.
Morven exhaled for no reason and slapped the back of Marcus's head—hard.
Marcus woke with a start, rubbing his eyes and grumbling,
"Who hits that hard…?"
But when he lowered his hands and saw Morven awake, he lunged forward and hugged him tightly.
"I thought you were going to die!"
Morven gave an awkward, nervous smile.
"How long was I out?"
Marcus pulled back, sat on the edge of the bed, and answered quietly,
"Almost a full day… plus a few hours."
Morven's eyes widened briefly, but he covered it with two fake coughs and asked calmly,
"Has the rain stopped?"
Marcus's face broke into a relieved grin.
"Yes, Master. It ended a few hours after you collapsed. Some spots are still muddy, but most of the road is dry again…"
Morven nodded in satisfaction. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood slowly, ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, and said,
"Hand me my waistcoat and coat… and my hat."
Marcus stared, stunned.
"You've only just recovered… and we're leaving again!?"
Morven glanced at the wall clock.
"In thirty minutes—forty-five at the latest—we'll reach the town of Hertfordshire. Better to leave now and arrive at sunrise."
Marcus let out a long, weary groan.
"More travelling… no… I hate this!"
Morven snapped his fingers sharply.
"Hurry, or this time I really will dock your pay."
Marcus's eyes went wide.
"Sorry—but your coat and cane are right beside you…"
Morven glanced sideways. His coat hung on the wardrobe handle; the sword cane leaned against the wall. He gave a small cough.
"I knew that. I was only testing you."
Marcus shook his head vigorously, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Of course, of course… I'm fully aware!"
Morven, at a loss for a reply, coughed twice more and asked,
"Well then… where is my waistcoat?"
Marcus looked around quickly.
"Ummm…"
Morven narrowed his eyes instantly.
"You didn't lose it, did you!?"
Marcus scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting left and right to avoid Morven's gaze.
Morven advanced with heavy steps.
"You lost it!?"
Marcus swallowed hard, backing away.
"No—just… there's a small problem…"
Morven closed the distance, clenched his right fist, raised it with a grinding of teeth.
"What problem!?"
Marcus gave a nervous cough.
"I didn't think you'd wake this morning… so I gave it to the laundress to wash!"
Morven raised his fist as if to strike—then exhaled heavily and lowered it.
"Fine… just go fetch that damned waistcoat quickly. We need to leave!"
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5:30 a.m., 24 November 1797 | South Mimms – toward Hertfordshire:
Morven descended the inn's staircase with his usual measured dignity, now fully dressed.
He glanced around the quiet ground floor and muttered,
"Run-down place… though perhaps it's only me who feels that way."
He stepped outside.
Marcus waited with the horses. At Morven's appearance he gave a small wave and mounted.
Morven secured the sword cane beneath the saddle as before, then swung up into his own seat.
He glanced at Marcus.
Marcus met his gaze.
"Something wrong?"
Morven sighed in mild exasperation.
"I discovered today that your mathematics are abysmal."
Marcus blinked.
"On what basis!?"
Morven looked down the freshly dried road.
"The last thing I remember is entering the inn on 22 November…"
Marcus listened carefully.
"Today is 24 November… meaning I was unconscious for two full days, not one."
Marcus waved a dismissive hand.
"So what—one day more or less!"
Morven shook his head almost imperceptibly.
"Place and time matter greatly… Anyway, let's move."
He urged his horse forward gently at first.
A soft breeze stirred; the sun had not yet risen.
Tree leaves rustled quietly; distant mist lingered on the horizon, while white clouds promised—no rain for a while, at least.
It was exactly what Morven had hoped for.