The Witch of the Hour Wall

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The candles flickered as the flame in the cauldron cast its green light onto the walls. Where once only shadows danced, the gigantic clock face of the Hour Wall now glowed. Few in the villages suspected that deep in the heart of Duskridge's library lived a witch whose power was rooted not in the spellbook, but in time itself. Her name was Seralya. Seralya wasn't a witch from children's fairy tales meant to frighten children. She was a keeper, one who mended the cracks between the hours. Her hair flowed black and heavy over her shoulders, and her skin shimmered green like the leaves in the deepest forest. On her shoulder sat a frog, familiar to her like a brother—Tirk, once an alchemist who gained more than he lost in a failed experiment: the gift of seeing things hidden from others. That evening, an unease hung in the air. Seralya felt it in the beating of the hour-wall behind her. Each movement of the hands sent a barely audible crack through the walls, as if time itself were fractured. "It's coming closer," murmured Tirk, his small, frog-like eyes turning to the cauldron. The green fire swirled within, not hot, but cold, a mirror of the seconds missing somewhere. Seralya raised her hand, her fingers tracing the smoke. Before her appeared the image of a city whose clock tower had fallen silent. People milled about, confused because the day had stopped moving. They lived in a single hour, trapped as if in a dream. "The hour has been stolen," she whispered. "By whom?" She went to the shelf and picked up a book, its cover made of scarred leather. It contained the names of those who had ever tried to steal time. It was a short list, but the last entry made Seralya shudder: Morwenna Triskel. A mechanical seer, her heart made of starlight, who read fates in golden spheres. Morwenna had disappeared centuries ago—and now she seemed to return. "When Morwenna awakens, she will devour the hours as others devour breath," croaked Tirk. Seralya closed the book. She knew she had to go out, out into a world she feared because she could not remain hidden there. But who, if not she, would reclaim the stolen hour? She reached for the chain with the heart pendant she always wore. Inside lay a shard of the original clock, binding her to her oath. With one last glance into the cauldron, she saw the faces of those trapped. A child who dropped the same marble over and over again. A mother who never got to finish her lullaby. An old man who didn't die because his hour was never completed. "We have no choice," said Seralya, pulling her hat low over her face. The flames died down, the library fell silent. But on the wall, the clock face began to turn, faster than usual, as if it had understood that a new game was beginning. Seralya stepped out into the night, Tirk on her shoulder, her gaze fixed firmly on the east, where Morwenna would spin her golden spheres. The moon stood still, and yet Seralya's steps marched into a future that was no longer certain.