Antem stood atop the hill, gazing into the distance. There, beyond the horizon, rose an ancient clock mechanism—a tower that pierced the sky with its spires. Its bells were heard by all, and each toll reminded everyone of the order and discipline that held this world in iron grips.
The clock tower stood like a silent judge, its shadow stretching across the entire valley, as if trying to encompass the whole world. It was not just a mechanism—the tower breathed, lived, whispered its secrets to the wind. Its cogwheels turned with flawless precision, and the pendulum rhythmically marked beats that seemed like the heartbeat not just of the tower but of reality itself.
People believed the clock tower was the center of everything. It did not merely measure time; it held the very fabric of existence together. Old legends said that whoever could stop the pendulum would have the power to change the world. But these tales always sounded like fairy stories told to soothe children’s fear of the unknown.
Antem crouched in the shadow of an old oak on the hill, watching the tower intently. He clutched an old sphere to his chest—a mysterious artifact found among the ruins of an abandoned mine. The sphere’s surface was covered in symbols that seemed to shift and change under the moonlight.
The dream had come to him again that night. In it, time fractured and crumbled like sand slipping through fingers. The tower collapsed, and its pendulum hung suspended in the air, shattering into thousands of mirrored fragments. The silence that followed was so absolute that Antem woke up gasping for breath.
“You’re here again, Antem,” a voice, echoing like a distant memory, pulled him from his thoughts.
Antem turned sharply. Nazar stood nearby, leaning on a sword that glinted in the light of the setting sun. His gaze was sharp, but there was no hostility in it, only restrained curiosity.
“What are you seeking in that tower?” Nazar asked, stepping closer. “We all live by its rhythm, as we should. You’re not the first to ask questions, but it changes nothing.”
Antem slipped the sphere into the pocket of his cloak, feeling its weight pull him down as if it were trying to anchor him to the earth.
“What if it’s not just a mechanism?” he asked softly. “What if we’re all just parts of it?”
Nazar was silent for a moment, as though weighing his friend’s words.
“The mechanism works, Antem,” he said. “And we work with it. That’s life.”
Antem stepped aside, watching the pendulum of the tower mark its endless rhythm. But something in its movement struck him as odd—the pendulum seemed to be moving faster than usual, and the sound of its beats had taken on a hollow, unsettling tone.
“What if the mechanism breaks?” he whispered.
Nazar smiled.
“The tower won’t break. It’s eternal.”
But Nazar’s words couldn’t calm the storm raging within Antem. He had seen in his dreams how the eternal could crumble, how body and spirit could shatter when truth broke through the cracks.
As they descended the hill, the sky turned blood-red. The forest behind the tower trembled as if in anticipation. The winds seemed to whisper words neither of them could discern.
“We can’t change this world,” Nazar said. “But we can live in it.”
Antem said nothing. A conviction had already taken root in his mind: a world built on lies was not worth preserving.
And in the tower, at its highest level, something began to change. The mechanisms groaned, the cogwheels slowed, and the pendulum hesitated for a moment before resuming its swing. But now, its beats resonated across distant worlds, stirring something ancient and dangerous.