Portivus, Guardian of the Thresholds

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The wind carried the scent of blossoms and damp earth as Portivus stood before the ancient tree. A gate opened in its trunk, its leaves as high as the towers of the Aetheric Library. Runes glowed in the wood, and from the depths of the gate emerged a shimmer like a distant morning. Portivus's metal fingers stroked the joints of the door, as if checking whether time itself was still in balance. Portivus was not one of those loud librarians. While others wandered the endless halls of knowledge, among floating tomes and crystal shelves, he mostly stayed outside, at the perimeter. His body was made of brass and gears, his heart a clockwork whose beats sounded both gentle and relentless. A clockface lay on his chest, and if you looked closely, you could see that it marked not just one time—but many. That day, he had pulled his green cap low over his face. A strange gift from a traveler he had once guided through the portal. He wore it when he reflected that he was not only a guardian, but also a companion. Lilies bloomed before the gate, orange and luminous like small flames. Between them stood gravestones, their inscriptions barely legible. Portivus didn't know the names, but he knew that each stone represented a traveler who had dared to step back and left time behind. He raised his hand, turned a small wheel on his shoulder, and the clockwork in his chest began to beat faster. From the gate issued a sound—not voice, not sound, more the echo of a memory. Portivus nodded, as if understanding. "Yes, yes, I know. A new guest," he murmured, stepping aside. Sure enough, a figure appeared on the sandy path. A young woman, her face etched with the dust of travel, but her eyes bright and unwavering. She carried a trunk—old, iron-bound, with a clockwork mechanism encased in its lid. Portivus recognized him immediately. "Ah, the traveling trunk. So he chose you." His voice sounded metallic, yet friendly, like the humming of a string. "Then you've come to the right place. This is the Gate of Thresholds. Once through, and your time will never be the same." The woman studied him, surprised, perhaps even amused. "And who are you to judge my time?" Portivus tapped the clock face on his chest. "I am Portivus, Librarian of Thresholds. I don't judge. I count. And numbers don't lie." He stepped closer, his gears clicking to the rhythm of the wind. "But I want to know one thing: Are you here to look for something, or to lose something?" The woman was silent, looked at the trunk in her hand. Then she raised her eyes, determined. "Both." Portivus's hands jumped an hour without him touching them. A sign. He smiled, as much as a clock face could. "Then go. But know this: The gate takes what it wants. But it only gives back to those who know why they came." Slowly, the gate's wings opened.