"Who will be for us ?
"Who will weild the forbidden Rekra
"Show me ...oh Rigril
Arel Glyndove hummed a tuneless melody as he polished a brass doorknob, the soft cloth swirling in rhythmic circles. The morning sun streamed through the window of his small workshop, casting a warm glow over the scattered tools and half-finished locks. He loved mornings like this, the quiet hum of his work, the scent of oiled metal and wood.
Outside, Elderberry Lane was just beginning to stir. The baker's cart rattled past, the aroma of fresh bread wafting in through the open window. A couple of children, their faces alight with mischief, chased a stray cat down the cobbled street.
"Just another peaceful day," Arel murmured to himself, a contented smile playing on his lips.
He paused, holding the doorknob up to the light, admiring its gleaming surface. "Perfect."
He placed the doorknob on a shelf, alongside a collection of other polished pieces. He was a locksmith, a simple trade, but one he took pride in. He liked the precision of his work, the way a well-crafted lock could bring a sense of security.
A gentle knock sounded at the door. "Open for business, Arel?"
Arel turned, his smile widening. "Good morning, Mrs. Gable. Come in, come in."
Mrs. Gable, a plump woman with rosy cheeks and a perpetual air of worry, stepped inside. "Morning, Arel. Just wanted to see if you had that little latch fixed yet."
"Right here," Arel said, reaching under the counter. He pulled out a small, ornate latch, its brass surface gleaming. "Good as new."
Mrs. Gable beamed. "Oh, thank you, Arel! You're a lifesaver."
As Mrs. Gable chatted about her garden and her prize-winning petunias, Arel couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. He liked his life, his quiet routine, his simple pleasures.
Suddenly, Mrs. Gable paused, her brow furrowing. "You know, Arel, something odd happened this morning."
"Oh?" Arel asked, his curiosity piqued.
"The clock on Silver Street," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It's gone."
Arel blinked. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"
"Just… vanished," Mrs. Gable said, her eyes wide. "One minute it was there, the next, poof! Just an empty space."
Arel chuckled. "Mrs. Gable, are you sure you didn't just forget it was being repaired?"
"Repaired? No, Arel! It's always there. Everyone knows the Silver Street clock." She shivered. "It's just… gone."
Arel paused, and looked out the window. The sounds of the morning seemed to have quieted. "That is odd." He thought for a moment. "Well, I'm sure there's a simple explanation. Maybe someone took it down for cleaning."
Mrs. Gable didn't look convinced. "Maybe," she said, but her voice was filled with doubt.
Arel smiled, trying to reassure her. "Don't you worry, Mrs. Gable. I'm sure it will be back before you know it."
He handed her the latch. "That'll be two small pieces of Aetherium, or two Aeth."
As Mrs. Gable paid and left, Arel looked out the window again. He couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right. He shrugged. Maybe it was just a silly rumor. But still, he decided, he might take a stroll down Silver Street later, just to see for himself.
The bell above the workshop door jingled as Mrs. Gable departed, leaving Arel alone with his thoughts and the lingering scent of her rosewater perfume. He glanced at the polished doorknob, then at the tools scattered across his workbench. The familiar comfort of his routine felt slightly… off.
He couldn't shake the image of Mrs. Gable's worried face, her eyes wide with genuine confusion. The Silver Street clock was a landmark, a fixture of the town. It was impossible to imagine it simply vanishing.
"Just a rumor," he told himself, but the words lacked conviction.
He decided to take a short break. He grabbed his worn leather jacket and locked the workshop door behind him. The air outside was crisp and cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of his workshop. He strolled down Elderberry Lane, nodding to the familiar faces of his neighbors.
As he approached Silver Street, he noticed a small crowd gathered near the building where the clock had always stood. He pushed his way through, his heart quickening slightly.
The sight before him was even more bizarre than he'd imagined. The wall, once adorned with the massive clock, was now a smooth, blank surface. There were no marks, no scratches, no signs of forced removal. It was as if the clock had been erased from existence.
Arel ran his hand along the wall, feeling the cool, smooth stone. He noticed the faint, shimmering residue Mrs. Gable had mentioned. It was almost invisible, like a heat haze, but it pulsed with a subtle energy.
He reached out, his fingers brushing the shimmering air. A jolt of energy shot through him, not painful, but startling. He saw quick flashes of images: the clock's gears spinning wildly, a dark figure with glowing, almost violet eyes, a city with impossible, twisting architecture. Then, the visions vanished, leaving him breathless and disoriented.
"What…" he whispered, his voice hoarse.
He stumbled back, his eyes wide. He didn't understand what he'd just seen, but he knew it wasn't normal. This wasn't just a missing clock. This was something… strange.
A gruff voice interrupted his thoughts. "Anything to see, young Glyndove?"
Arel turned to see Constable Thorne, the town's burly, no-nonsense lawman, standing behind him, his brow furrowed.
"Constable," Arel said, trying to regain his composure. "Just… looking."
"Looking at what? The empty wall?" Thorne asked, his voice laced with suspicion. "Everyone's seen it. Now, move along. Nothing to be done here."
"But… it's gone," Arel said, gesturing to the blank wall. "Don't you think that's odd?"
Thorne scoffed. "Odd? It's downright inconvenient. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a town to keep in order." He turned to address the crowd. "There's nothing to see here, folks. Back to your business."
The crowd began to disperse, muttering amongst themselves. Arel watched them go, his mind racing. He knew Thorne wouldn't investigate further. He was a man of simple solutions, and this was anything but simple.
He looked back at the wall, at the faint, shimmering residue. He knew he couldn't ignore this. Something was happening, something strange and unsettling. And he had a feeling it was just the beginning.
He looked around, as if the very air itself was holding secrets. "I need to know what happened to that clock." He said to himself.
Arel returned to his workshop, the brass gear still tucked securely in his pocket. He laid it on his workbench, examining it closely. It was a simple gear, but it was a piece of the puzzle, a tangible piece of the impossible.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He needed to clear his head. The mystery of the missing clock was swirling in his mind, making it hard to focus on his work.
He decided to put it aside for a while. He had a backlog of repairs to catch up on, and the familiar rhythm of his work might help him regain some clarity.
He spent the next few hours working diligently, repairing broken locks, sharpening tools, and polishing hinges. The sun climbed higher in the sky, casting long shadows across his workbench. The sounds of Elderberry Lane filled the air: the chatter of neighbors, the clanging of the blacksmith's hammer, the distant cries of street vendors.
As the afternoon wore on, Arel found himself getting lost in the rhythm of his work, the mystery of the clock fading into the background. He was just finishing a particularly stubborn lock when a familiar voice called out from the doorway.
"Arel Glyndove, you old dog! Still tinkering away in this dusty old place?"
Arel turned, his face lighting up. "Jorin! What brings you to Elderberry Lane?"
Jorin, his childhood friend, stood in the doorway, a wide grin on his face. He was a traveling merchant, his clothes always a bit rumpled, his eyes always sparkling with adventure.
"Just passing through, old friend," Jorin said, stepping inside. "Thought I'd see if you were still alive and kicking."
"Alive and kicking, but always covered in dust," Arel said, laughing.
"Well, come on," Jorin said, clapping Arel on the shoulder. "Let's leave the dust bunnies to their business and grab a drink. I've got tales to tell, and I'm sure you've got… well, you've probably got more dust."
Arel hesitated for a moment, glancing at the brass gear on his workbench. But Jorin's infectious enthusiasm was hard to resist. "Alright, alright," he said, grabbing his jacket. "A drink sounds good."
They walked down Elderberry Lane, the setting sun casting long shadows. Jorin regaled Arel with stories of his travels: of bustling marketplaces in distant cities, of strange and exotic goods, of daring escapes from grumpy customs officials.
Arel listened, captivated by Jorin's tales. He felt a sense of longing for adventure, a yearning to escape the quiet routine of his life.
They reached the Crooked Tankard, the local tavern, its warm light spilling out onto the street. They found a quiet corner booth, ordered two tankards of ale, and settled in for a long evening of laughter and stories.
Jorin's tales were so engaging, and the ale so smooth, that Arel found himself completely forgetting about the missing clock, the shimmering residue, and the brass gear in his pocket. He was lost in the joy of reconnecting with his old friend, the familiar comfort of shared laughter, the simple pleasure of a good story.
The evening passed quickly, filled with laughter, memories, and the clinking of tankards. By the time Arel walked Jorin back to his inn, the moon was high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the town.
"It was great seeing you, Jorin," Arel said, shaking his friend's hand.
"You too, Arel," Jorin said, his grin wide. "Don't be a stranger, alright?"
"I won't," Arel said, smiling.
He watched Jorin disappear into the inn, then turned and began the walk back to his workshop. The air was cool and crisp, the town quiet and peaceful.
As he walked, the memory of the missing clock flickered in his mind. He shrugged it off. It was probably nothing, he told himself. Just a strange occurrence, a temporary mystery.
He reached his workshop, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The familiar scent of oiled metal and wood greeted him. He walked over to his workbench, ready to put away his jacket.
Then, he stopped.
The brass gear was gone.
Arel's heart pounded as he scanned his workbench, then the floor beneath it. He rummaged through the clutter of tools and half-finished projects, his fingers flying, his breath quickening. The brass gear, the only tangible clue he had to the missing clock, was gone.
He checked his pockets, his jacket, even the small drawer where he kept his most prized tools. Nothing.
"Where did it go?" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.
He searched every corner of his workshop, his frustration growing with each passing minute. He retraced his steps, trying to remember if he had touched the gear at any point during his conversation with Jorin. But his mind was a blur of laughter and ale, the details lost in the haze of the evening.
Finally, he gave up, his shoulders slumping in defeat. The gear was gone, and he had no idea how.
He sat down heavily on his workbench, the silence of the workshop pressing in on him. He felt a sense of unease, a feeling that he was being watched, that something was lurking just beyond his perception.
He tried to dismiss the feeling, to tell himself it was just his imagination, but he couldn't shake the sense of dread that had settled over him.
He decided to call it a night. He locked up the workshop, the street outside bathed in the pale glow of the moon. As he walked towards his small apartment above the workshop, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
He entered his apartment, lit a single candle, and sank into his worn armchair. He tried to read, to distract himself, but his mind kept returning to the missing gear, the vanished clock, the strange shimmer in the air.
Suddenly, a soft tapping sound echoed from the window.
Arel froze, his heart pounding. He cautiously approached the window, pulling back the curtain.
Outside, perched on the windowsill, was a small, intricately carved wooden bird. It wasn't a real bird, but a mechanical one, its wings and beak crafted from polished wood and brass.
Arel stared at the bird, his brow furrowed. He had never seen anything like it.
Then, the bird opened its beak, and a small, rolled-up piece of paper fell onto the windowsill.
Arel's breath caught in his throat. He cautiously opened the window and picked up the paper.
He unrolled it, his eyes widening as he read the message written in neat, elegant script:
"The gears turn, the echoes whisper. Seek the Silent Weaver, before time unwinds."
Arel stared at the message, his mind reeling. The Silent Weaver? What did it mean? And who had sent this strange message?
He looked back at the mechanical bird, but it was gone, vanished into the night.
He closed the window, his hands trembling slightly. He felt a sense of urgency, a feeling that he was being drawn into something much larger than himself.
He knew he couldn't ignore this message. The missing gear, the vanished clock, the strange shimmer, and now this… it was all connected.
He had to find the Silent Weaver. He had to unravel the mystery of the missing clock, before it was too late.
Arel stared at the cryptic message, the candlelight flickering and casting dancing shadows across the room. "The Silent Weaver," he murmured, the words echoing in the stillness. "What does it mean?"
He reread the message, searching for any clue, any hint of its meaning. "Before time unwinds..." That phrase sent a chill down his spine. It sounded ominous, like a warning.
He paced the small room, his mind racing. He had no idea who the Silent Weaver was, or where to find them. But he knew he couldn't ignore the message. The missing clock, the strange shimmer, the vanished gear… it was all connected, and he was being drawn into something he didn't understand.
He decided to start by asking around. He knew a few people in town who were interested in oddities and forgotten lore. Maybe they would know something about the Silent Weaver.
He blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. He needed to get some sleep, to clear his head. But as he lay in bed, his mind wouldn't stop racing. He kept replaying the images he'd seen when he touched the shimmering air: the spinning gears, the violet eyes, the twisting city.
He finally drifted off to sleep, but his dreams were filled with strange symbols and whispering voices. He woke up with a start, his heart pounding, the image of the mechanical bird still vivid in his mind.
The morning sun streamed through the window, casting a warm glow over the room. He got out of bed, his movements stiff and tired. He needed to find answers.
He decided to visit Old Man Hemlock, the town's antiquarian. Hemlock was a collector of oddities, a keeper of forgotten tales. If anyone knew about the Silent Weaver, it would be him.
He quickly dressed and headed out, the streets of Elderberry Lane bustling with the morning activity. He reached Hemlock's shop, a small, cluttered building filled with dusty shelves and strange artifacts.
The bell above the door jingled as he entered. "Good morning, Arel," Hemlock said, his voice raspy. "What brings you to my humble abode?"
"Good morning, Mr. Hemlock," Arel said. "I was hoping you could help me with something."
"Of course, of course," Hemlock said, peering at him through his thick spectacles. "What can I do for you?"
Arel pulled the rolled-up message from his pocket and handed it to Hemlock. Hemlock unrolled the paper and read the message, his brow furrowing.
"The Silent Weaver," he murmured, his eyes widening slightly. "That's… unusual."
"Do you know who they are?" Arel asked.
Hemlock shook his head. "I've heard whispers, rumors… but nothing concrete. They say the Silent Weaver is a master of time, a manipulator of echoes. They say they can weave time itself, altering the past, present, and future."
Arel's heart pounded. "Is that even possible?"
Hemlock shrugged. "In this world, anything is possible. But the Silent Weaver is said to be dangerous, unpredictable. They say they can unravel time as easily as they weave it."
"And the message says 'before time unwinds'," Arel said, his voice hushed.
Hemlock nodded. "It sounds like a warning. A warning that something terrible is about to happen."
"But who sent the message?" Arel asked. "And why?"
Hemlock shook his head. "I don't know. But I suggest you take it seriously, Arel. The Silent Weaver is not to be trifled with."
Arel thanked Hemlock and left the shop, his mind reeling. He was no closer to understanding the mystery, but he was more convinced than ever that something was terribly wrong. He needed to find the Silent Weaver, but how? And what would he do when he found them?
As he walked back towards his woorkshop, he noticed a small, shimmering object lying on the cobblestones. He picked it up, his heart quickening. It was another brass gear, identical to the one that had vanished from his workbench. But this one was different. It was warm to the touch, and it pulsed with a faint, rhythmic ticking.
Arel held the warm, ticking gear in his palm, his mind racing. "Another gear," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "But why? And why is it ticking?"
He looked around Elderberry Lane, the familiar shops and houses now seeming to hold an unsettling air of mystery. He tucked the gear into his pocket, the rhythmic ticking a constant, unsettling reminder of the strange events unfolding.
He returned to his workshop, the image of the mechanical bird and Hemlock's warnings echoing in his mind. He needed to focus, to find a way to make sense of it all.
He decided to examine the gear more closely. He set it on his workbench, alongside the tarnished gear he had found near the vanished clock. He noticed subtle differences between the two. The tarnished gear was cold and inert, while the new gear pulsed with a faint energy, its ticking growing louder as he focused on it.
He picked up the ticking gear, turning it over in his hand. He noticed a small inscription on the side, a series of intricate symbols that resembled the carvings on the wooden box from the attic. He didn't recognize the symbols, but they felt… familiar, like a forgotten language whispering in his mind.
He remembered Hemlock's words: "They say the Silent Weaver is a master of time, a manipulator of echoes." Could these gears be echoes of the missing clock, fragments of its vanished existence?
He decided to try and replicate the symbols, hoping to find a clue to their meaning. He grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, carefully copying the intricate symbols. As he drew, he felt a strange sense of connection to the symbols, a feeling that they were more than just markings on metal.
He spent the next few hours working on the symbols, his mind focused on the task. He barely noticed the passing of time, the sounds of Elderberry Lane fading into the background.
_________________________
As the afternoon wore on, he noticed a faint glow emanating from the parchment. The symbols seemed to pulse with a soft, ethereal light, their edges shimmering. He felt a sense of awe, a feeling that he was witnessing something truly extraordinary.
Suddenly, the symbols on the parchment began to move, shifting and rearranging themselves. They formed a series of interconnected glyphs, a complex pattern that seemed to hum with energy.
Arel's heart pounded. He doesn't recognize the glyphs nor does he know what it means.He decided to meet Old Man Hemlock again, hopefully he knows how to decipher them.
"Symbolist wards" said Hemlock
"First Silent Weaver, now Symbolist wards ?" …"Is this a joke or ?" Arel said with disappointment.
"No actually, this will be easy to read or know what it's about if you find a Symbolist Rekra weaver"
"Of course, a new word just to mess up my remaining sanity …Rakra now ?" Arel cuts in
Hemlock chuckled "Young Arel you're very interesting, I made the same mistake calling Rekra as Rakra during my early years, you'll understand all these very soon. I will refer you to Elvira, she might know what these glyphs are about."
He told him about Elvira, someone who understood Symbolist wards, someone who could help him decipher the meaning of the glyphs, a woman who lived on the outskirts of town, known for her reclusive nature and her deep understanding of Rekra.
He grabbed his jacket and headed out, the ticking gear and the glowing parchment tucked safely into his pockets. He headed towards Elvira's secluded cottage following Hemlock's instructions, a small, stone building nestled at the edge of Elderberry's Lane.
The path to Elvira's cottage was winding and overgrown, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine needles. As he walked, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, that unseen eyes were following his every move.
He reached Elvira's cottage, its stone walls covered in moss and ivy. He knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the stillness of the woods.
The door creaked open, revealing Elvira, her eyes wide and wary. She was a slender woman with long, silver-streaked dark hair and a face etched with the wisdom of years.
"Arel Glyndove," she said, her voice soft but firm. "What brings you to my door?"
She knows my name ? Arel's in pure shock.
"What are those in your pockets, I guess that's why you are here" She said.
"How did you know my name ?" Arel still in shock as to how this old woman knows his full name when they just met.
"I can see it, it was boldly written over your head when you came in, now don't waste my time will you ?. Tell me why and who sent you here, I have things to do"
"Old Man Hemlock sent me here" Arel said, his voice now urgent. "I found these symbols, and I think they're Symbolist wards."
He pulled the parchment from his pocket and showed it to Elvira. Her eyes widened as she examined the glyphs.
"These are… ancient wards," she said, her voice hushed. "I haven't seen anything like them in years."
"Do you know what they mean?" Arel asked.
Elvira shook her head. "I need to study them further. But I can tell you this: they are powerful, and they are dangerous."
She invited him inside, her cottage a small space filled with strange artifacts and glowing crystals. The smell of herbs filled the air, and the soft glow of candles illuminated the room.
"Tell me everything," Elvira said, her eyes fixed on Arel. "Tell me about the missing clock, the shimmering residue, the ticking gear."
__________________
Arel finished his tale, his voice trailing off, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him. Elvira remained silent for a moment, her brow furrowed in deep thought, her gaze fixed on the glowing parchment.
"This is more than just a missing clock," she finally said, her voice grave. "This is a manipulation of time, a disruption of Rekra itself. And the Silent Weaver… they are at the center of it all."
Arel frowned, the word "Rekra" sounding strange and unfamiliar. "Rekra? What's Rekra?"
Elvira looked at him, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "You don't know about Rekra?"
Arel shook his head. "No. I've never heard that word before."
Elvira sighed, her gaze softening slightly. "It's… it's a fundamental force, Arel. It's the energy that flows through the world, the power that shapes reality. It's what allows Symbolists to create their wards, what allows Echo Weavers to sense the past. It's the lifeblood of magic."
She paused, her gaze drifting towards a glowing crystal on her shelf. "Long ago, before recorded history, a celestial event known as the Great Conjunction occurred. It was a rare alignment of celestial bodies that caused a ripple in reality, unleashing Rekra. Some believe it was a natural occurrence, others believe it was the work of beings known as the Architects, celestial entities who were present during the Great Conjunction. They vanished after the Conjunction, leaving behind only signs and fragmented texts."
Arel listened intently, his mind struggling to grasp the concept. It sounded… incredible, almost unbelievable.
"So, this Rakra… it's like magic?" he asked.
Arel frowned, the word "Rekra" still sounding strange and unfamiliar. "Rekra? You keep saying that. Is it… is it something you do? Like, you weave it?"
Elvira looked at him, a patient expression on her face. "Yes, I am a Symbolist. I can manipulate Rekra, weave it into wards and glyphs. But it's not something anyone can do. And please it's called REKRA not RAKRA."
"Why not?" Arel asked, his doubt evident in his voice. "If it's just energy, why can't I use it?"
Elvira sighed. "It's not just energy, Arel. It's a connection, a resonance. Some people are born with an affinity for Rekra, a sensitivity that allows them to manipulate it. Others are not."
"Like… a talent?" Arel asked, trying to understand.
"More than a talent," Elvira said. "It's a part of your essence, your connection to the world around you. It's not something you can learn or acquire. It's something you either have, or you don't."
"And where is it?" Arel asked, his curiosity piqued. "This Rekra, where does it come from?"
Elvira gestured towards the glowing crystal on her shelf. "It's everywhere, Arel. It's in the air we breathe, the ground we walk on, the very fabric of reality. It's the energy that binds the world together."
She paused, her gaze drifting towards the window, where the last rays of sunlight were fading. "But it's not evenly distributed. There are places where Rekra is stronger, where the veil between worlds is thinner. Places like the Farrow Woods, where we are now."
"So, you're saying I can't use it because I'm… not connected?" Arel asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice.
Elvira nodded. "That's right. But that doesn't mean you can't help. You have a keen eye, a sharp mind. You've already found clues that others would have missed. And you have the gears."
She looked back at the glowing parchment, her brow furrowed. "The Silent Weaver… they are said to be masters of Rekra, capable of manipulating time itself. If they are disrupting Rekra, as it seems, then the consequences could be catastrophic."
"What kind of consequences?" Arel asked, his voice filled with concern.
Elvira's gaze darkened. "Time could unravel, Arel. The past, present, and future could become intertwined, distorted. Reality itself could begin to break down."
Arel's heart pounded. He didn't understand how any of this was possible, but he trusted Elvira. He could feel the urgency in her voice, the fear in her eyes.
"So, what do we do?" he asked, his voice firm.
Elvira looked at him, her gaze searching. "We need to find the Silent Weaver. We need to stop them before it's too late."
"But how?" Arel asked. "We don't know who they are, or where to find them."
Elvira looked at the ticking gear in Arel's pocket. "These gears… they are the key. They are connected to the missing clock, and they are pulsing with Rekra. They will lead us to the Silent Weaver."
She paused, her gaze softening. "But this journey… it will be dangerous. The Silent Weaver is powerful, unpredictable. I cannot ask you to face them alone."
Arel looked at the ticking gear, then at the glowing parchment. He thought of the vanished clock, the strange shimmer, the mechanical bird, the cryptic message. He thought of the town he had grown up in, the people he cared about. He couldn't stand by and do nothing.
"I'll go," he said, his voice firm.
Elvira's eyes widened slightly. "Arel, are you sure? This is not a task for a locksmith."
"I'm sure," Arel said. "I found the gears, I saw the shimmer, I received the message. This is my responsibility."
He looked at Elvira, his gaze determined. "Besides, I'm not entirely helpless. I can pick locks, fix things, and I'm not afraid of a good puzzle."
Elvira sighed, a mixture of concern and admiration in her eyes. "You are a brave man, Arel Glyndove. But this is not a game. The Silent Weaver is a master of Rekra, capable of manipulating time itself."
"I understand," Arel said. "But I have to try. I can't let them unravel time."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ticking gear. "These gears will lead me, right?"
Elvira nodded. "Yes. They are connected to the missing clock, and they pulse with the Rekra that the Silent Weaver is manipulating. Follow their resonance, and they will guide you."
"Then I'll follow them," Arel said, his voice resolute.
He stood up, his movements purposeful. "Thank you, Elvira. For everything."
Elvira nodded, her gaze filled with concern. "Be careful, Arel. And if you find yourself in danger, seek help. There are others who can aid you, even if they are far away."
Arel nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "I will."
He turned and walked towards the door, the ticking gear warm in his hand. He stepped out into the twilight, the farrow woods stretching before him. He took a deep breath, the scent of pine needles and damp earth filling his lungs.
He was alone, venturing into the unknown. But he was determined to find the Silent Weaver, to unravel the mystery of the missing clock, and to protect his world from the unraveling of time. He started walking, the ticking gears resonance guiding his path.