The Clock Master's Curse

Rain splattered across the cobblestones, filling the silent streets of Eldergate with an unsteady rhythm. But tonight, Eldergate was not as silent as it should have been. Heavy footfalls echoed, erratic, slipping, and sliding, as though whoever was running didn't have much farther to go.

In the alleyway, just outside Alaric Winters' clock shop, the footsteps stopped. A figure staggered against the wall, clutching something hidden beneath a dark cloak. The figure's breathing, ragged and wet, mingled with the rain until it gave way to a series of desperate whispers.

"You have to… you have to…" She broke off, shivering, her hands fluttering toward her chest as if searching for something lost.

Alaric heard it all. He'd been drawn to the window by that shuffling, the uneasy feeling prickling his senses—a skill, or rather a curse, he'd honed during his years as a Chronomancer. Those instincts never left him, and tonight they were louder than ever. Someone was out there. Someone who shouldn't be.

With a low exhale, he took his lantern from the counter and cracked open the door, the brass bell jingling as he stepped into the downpour. The light found her immediately, illuminating the young woman's face. She stared up at him, eyes wide and dark, a fractured plea caught in her gaze.

"Help me…" Her voice was barely there, ghostly, as though it would be snatched away by the rain at any second.

Alaric stepped closer, kneeling beside her. Beneath the hood of her cloak, he could see pale skin marked with an intricate symbol—a faintly glowing mark. He froze. Recognition hit him hard, sending a cold, sick feeling through his veins. He knew that symbol well, knew it with a bone-deep certainty because he had designed it himself.

Years ago.

The Eternal Regression curse.

"Where did you get that mark?" His voice came out sharper than he intended, but he couldn't help it. The sight of his own cursed symbol on her skin brought memories crashing back. Days spent hunched over arcane texts, nights experimenting with spells to reverse injuries, to turn back wounds… to save lives. But it had all gone wrong.

"Who… are you?" she managed, the words splintered by her weak breaths.

"I could ask you the same." He took a step back, assessing her. This woman, barely conscious, carried the unmistakable weight of time magic on her, but something far darker had tainted it. She was marked with the curse that should have died with his past.

"Please," she whispered, her hand trembling as she reached for him, her fingertips brushing his coat sleeve before she faltered, her body sagging against the cold stone wall.

"Listen to me." Alaric's voice cut through the haze in her eyes. "Where did you get this mark?"

But her gaze had drifted past him, as if seeing something he couldn't. Her breathing slowed, and she managed a small, choked laugh, her lips curving in a delirious smile as though amused by something only she understood. "He… he's coming for you too. The one… the one who never stops."

He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the rain.

"What do you mean?" His words were quick, urgent, but her eyes had already glazed over, her face slipping into that haunting stillness that he recognized. Death had wrapped its cold hand around her, draining her remaining life in slow, agonizing seconds. Her head fell forward, and Alaric caught her just before it hit the cobblestone.

With a frustrated sigh, he checked her pulse, though he already knew the outcome. She was gone. But she'd left him a message, a warning.

The one who never stops.

He felt the old, restless spark of Chronomancy stir within him, tugging at the edges of his mind. A warning like this couldn't be ignored, not if he wanted to keep his cursed past buried.

With careful hands, he shifted her cloak aside to see if she carried any clues, something that might explain how she'd come to bear his mark. His fingers brushed over a worn piece of parchment tucked in her pocket.

He pulled it free and held it up to the lantern's light, the rain beating around him as he tried to make sense of the smeared ink and faint symbols. But even through the smudges, he recognized one name, scrawled in her own jagged handwriting.

Alaric Winters.

His heart pounded hard against his ribs. She'd known his name.

The bell above the door of his shop jangled again, and he whirled around to find two men approaching, their silhouettes sharp and menacing in the low light.

They moved with purpose, their boots cutting through puddles as they made their way toward him. Alaric set his jaw, stuffing the parchment into his coat pocket as they drew closer.

"What business do you have here?" he called, his voice steady, though every nerve in his body was screaming for him to be ready.

One of the men stepped forward, his eyes flicking to the dead woman slumped at Alaric's feet. "Seems you've made yourself busy tonight, Winters."

The other man grunted, crossing his arms as he studied Alaric. "Our orders were to bring her back alive. That was, before you got to her."

Alaric frowned, feeling the weight of accusation in their tone. "I don't know who you think I am, but I didn't touch her. She was nearly gone when I found her."

"Convenient story," the first man replied, drawing closer. "A little too convenient, if you ask me. It seems to me you have a habit of leaving people dead."

Alaric's hands clenched, but he kept his voice steady. "I suggest you rethink your accusations."

One of the men leaned down, reaching out to touch the glowing mark on the woman's wrist, studying it for a long, tense moment. When he finally looked back up, his face twisted into a knowing sneer. "Funny how a curse like this one keeps coming back to haunt you. It's almost as if you wanted it to."

Alaric's chest tightened, memories of the past clawing their way up, dark and unwanted. He hadn't cast the Eternal Regression spell in years. He'd hidden it, destroyed it. There was no way anyone else could have access to it.

Unless…

He looked back down at the woman, the silent warning still burning in her dead eyes. The one who never stops.

"I didn't do this." His voice was low, almost to himself. "But I think I know who did."

The men exchanged a glance, one of them folding his arms and cocking his head in disbelief. "Is that so, Winters? Then maybe you'd care to come down to the Arcane Order and share a few more details."

Alaric's stomach knotted. Facing the Order again would mean dredging up every secret he'd spent years burying. But if he didn't go with them, they'd force him. And whoever was responsible for this curse would keep killing, leaving more marks, dragging him back to a life he'd long abandoned.

His gaze drifted back to the dead woman, her warning echoing in his mind.

With a resigned breath, he straightened, nodding once. "Fine. Lead the way."

As they guided him away from his shop, Alaric cast one last look over his shoulder at the woman's body, the mark on her wrist glowing faintly in the rain. The words she'd spoken before her death lingered, chilling him to the core.

The one who never stops.

Whoever this killer was, they had bound time itself into a deadly weapon. And from the look in those men's eyes, it seemed they already had a suspect in mind.

Him.