The repaired clocktower hummed with latent temporal energy, its great gears turning in perfect synchrony once more.
The Clockwork Prophet stood before his newest and smallest apprentice, his brass eye buzzing as it adjusted its focus.
Evangeline sat cross-legged on the worn oak floor, surrounded by an ever-growing collection of temporal artifacts she'd somehow summoned from thin air.
"Lesson one," the prophet said, his voice a mix of grinding gears and weary patience. "Time is not a river. It is not a thread. It is a soup, thick, unpredictable, and best stirred with caution."
Evangeline blinked up at him, her golden mark throbbing softly.
Then, with a giggle, she put her tiny hands into the air before her and pulled.
A silver spoon from next Tuesday appeared in her grip, still warm from some future cup of tea.
The prophet sighed, oil dripping from his joints in resignation.
"...Close enough."
Behind them, the great central clock chimed, except instead of tolling the hour, it rang out in a melody none recognized yet.
….
The Duke of Evernight slumped in his seat, rubbing his temples as he stared down at the latest letter from the Royal Barber's Guild.
"To His Grace, the Duke of Evernight,
Re: Sir Bristlesworth the mustache
We formally protest its demands for voting rights, parliamentary seating, and its insistence on being addressed as 'Your Excellency.' Furthermore, it has begun issuing edicts regarding facial hair policy without consulting the Guild. This is invalid."
The Duke groaned, letting the paper drop onto the growing pile of similar complaints.
"Why does everything in this castle gain consciousness?"
Across the room, the Duchess didn't look up from her embroidery, a new project, stitching possible futures into the fabric of reality itself.
"Darling," she said dryly, "you once cried because a soufflé looked lonely. This is your fault."
A crash echoed from the hallway, followed by the distinct sound of Sir Bristlesworth screaming.
"Unhand me, you scoundrels! I am a knight of the realm!"
The Duke poured himself a drink. The bottle unpoured halfway through.
"I hate temporal mechanics."
…..
The Leviathan's Grin cut through the strange fog that had settled over the bay, its sails stiff with an ill wind.
At the bow, Lyssa lowered her spyglass, her face pale.
"Captain," she called, voice tight. "You need to see this."
Selphina strode forward, her boots leaving faint ticking sounds in their wake, a side effect of Evangeline's last "hug."
Before them, floating serenely in the dead-calm waters, was a massive hourglass upside-down, its sand streaming upward in defiance of all natural laws.
Carved into its base in jagged, childlike script.
"Property of the Laughing Empress"
Selphina's grin was all teeth.
"Well. That's new."
Behind her, the therapy seagull now the ship's unofficial first mate let out a low, uneasy squawk.
…..
The castle courtyard had been transformed into a makeshift political arena, banners fluttering in a wind that blew in from next Thursday.
Dante's hair had taken its newfound temporal braiding to new heights, forming itself into an impressive, if slightly unstable, crown of combined anomalies.
Across from it, Sir Bristlesworth stood above a soapbox made of bean soup, its stringy strands quivering with indignation.
"YOUR POLICIES LACK STRUCTURE," Dante's hair spelled out in the air, each letter flowing for just a second too long.
"And yours lack honor!" Sir Bristlesworth shot back. "A true leader does not braid their way to power!"
Lucien, acting as moderator and currently existing in three time zones at once, sighed.
"Perhaps we could focus on policy? Infrastructure? The temporal stability of the realm?"
"FREE CONDITIONER FOR ALL," the hair declared.
"TAX THE BEARDED!" the mustache shouted.
Somewhere in the crowd, Theo's ghostly brigade facepalmed in unison.
…..
Deep in the archives, the Clockwork Prophet knelt before an ancient book, his remaining hand tracing the lines of a faded illustration a figure in a cloak of stitched-together moments, holding an hourglass just like the one in the bay.
The text beneath it was scratched out, unwritten by time itself.
But the prophet remembered.
"Oh no," he whispered.
Because the keeper of the hourglass wasn't just someone from his past.
It was him.
The other him.
The one he'd forgotten.