The Clock in the Sand

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The wind swept red veils across the endless plain, and the sand sang as if it wanted to swallow the traces of those who had ever strayed here. In the midst of this barren world rose a tower, built of stone, seeming alien in this landscape—a clock tower, ancient yet without any trace of decay. Its dials stood still, as if they had locked out time itself. Ysaline stood before the tower's archway. Her black suit crackled in the dry heat, and the leather of her gloves was scratched by dust. The goggles on her forehead had saved her life more than once, but she knew: no glass, no filter, no armor could protect her against what awaited her today. She raised her gaze to the sky. Where others saw only stars, a vortex grew. Not a storm, not a weather phenomenon—a maelstrom of light and shadow, of past and future. It was called the Gate of the Ages, and few dared to approach it. "It's still beating," murmured Ysaline, her eyes fixed on the large clock face. And indeed, for a heartbeat, the minute hand moved—slowly, hesitantly, like the sigh of an ancient giant. She wasn't here to test legends. She was here to find an answer. For Ysaline had heard a whisper, on a night when heaven itself gave her a dream. It said: Beyond the clock tower lies not the future. Beyond the clock tower lies the truth. The sands settled. Silence fell. Ysaline took a deep breath, then entered the shadow of the gate. Inside the tower, the air smelled of metal and ancient oil. Gears larger than mill wheels protruded from the walls, suspended free, without axles, turning in leisurely arcs. A rhythmic throb vibrated through the air, like a heartbeat that could not die. "You're late." The voice didn't come from above, not from below—it was simply there. Ysaline stopped, her heart racing. "Who is speaking?" she whispered. "The tower," the silence answered. "And what watches through it." Slowly, a figure rose from the shadows. Not quite human, not quite machine, shimmering as if cast in bronze, yet breathing. In its face, glowing hands instead of eyes, and its hands held an hourglass whose grains rose, not fell. "They call me the Chronarch," the figure said. "I ask you: Why do you seek the Gate?" Ysaline fought her voice. "Because our world is dying. The sand eats the cities, the rivers dry, and the sun burns us down. They say beyond the Gate lies a beginning. And I... I want to find it." The Chronarch studied her. The hourglass in his hand glowed, and for a moment, Ysaline saw images: forests she had never entered. Oceans that had long since dried up. Faces she didn't know, yet carried within her. "There is no beginning," said the guardian. "Only circles. If you truly wish to enter, you will not see the future, but the origin of your own time. And what you find there will cost you more than you can bear." Ysaline placed a hand on the wall of the tower, feeling the cold stone vibrate like a sleeping creature.