A tremor in the air, a peculiar resonance in the hum of the workshop, first stirred eight years past. Silas, then a boy of ten, had been attempting to re-tension a coil spring in a pocket watch, his small fingers fumbling with the intricate tool. Frustration knotted his brow. He wished the spring would simply obey, would settle into its housing without a fight. A whisper of thought, a spark of pure will, and the recalcitrant spiral of tempered steel ceased its trembling. It didn’t just still; it seemed to *know* its place, easing into position with an impossible, silent grace. Silas gasped, a breath catching in his throat. He tried again. A tiny cog, fallen from its shaft, levitated an inch above the worktable, spinning lazily. He could feel the minute kinetic forces at play, like fine clockwork mechanisms responding to his mental touch. This wasn’t merely magic, as the old folktales whispered. It was a language of motion, a perception of the underlying chronal currents that governed all things. “Mother, look!” That evening, Elara Finch returned to their hidden Chronarium Annex, the scent of aetheric exhaust clinging faintly to her worn coat. Silas, buzzing with a child’s boundless wonder, demonstrated his newfound abilities. He made a discarded gear hover, then sent a half-repaired chime ringing with an invisible tap. Her face, usually etched with a gentle weariness, tightened. No marvel, no joy. A resignation, cold as the winter air seeping through the cracked windowpane, settled over her features. Her hand, calloused from adjusting automatons in the Lower Sprawl, reached out, not to touch the floating cog, but to steady Silas’s trembling arm. ‘Silas, dearest, you must promise me,’ she began, her voice low, a fragile plea. ‘Promise you’ll never use this power carelessly. Never, ever, in front of others.’ ‘Why?’ Silas pouted, the thrill of discovery suddenly soured. Such a magnificent, enthralling gift, yet it brought only fear to his mother’s eyes. Elara heated a cup of herb-infused water, its steam misting the small room. She spoke of the world beyond their quiet workshop, of the soaring spires and deep chasms of Aethelburg. ‘High above, in the gilded districts, live the Chronos Legates,’ she explained. ‘Descendants of the Primus Gears, who once set the very temporal flow of our reality. They inherited powerful chronal attunements, ruling as both protectors and sovereigns.’ She went on. Those born of mingled Legate and human bloodlines were called Regulators, or Cog-Wardens. They, too, possessed chronal abilities, but their powers were weaker. They served as extensions of the Legates’ will. Elara believed Silas’s father, long absent, must have been a Regulator. His gifts, she warned, would mark him. If he were ever discovered, a Legate would surely seize him, forcing him into servitude. ‘Think of it, Silas,’ she murmured, her gaze distant, fixed on the flickering gaslamp. ‘If the Legates are the grand chronometers, setting the time for all of Aethelburg, then Regulators are but the smaller cogs. Sometimes, they are valued, oiled, meticulously maintained. Other times, they are merely replaced, or discarded, should the greater mechanism demand it.’ Legates, for all their power, squabbled over status and influence. In their elaborate temporal schemes and kinetic conflicts, Regulators were often sacrificed. Like a master mechanic sending a fine brass cog into the grindstone, while remaining safely behind the workshop door. Elara’s face, in that moment, bore a desolation Silas had never witnessed. Her voice trembled as she asked, ‘Silas, do you wish to live with your mother, for a long, long time?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘Then you must conceal this gift. Otherwise, a cruel Legate will find you. They will take you away. You will never see me again.’ ‘I promise! I won’t use it in front of anyone!’ Eight years had spiraled by since Silas, with the earnest conviction of a child, made that promise. Even after his mother succumbed to the Cog-Rot sickness, Silas remained in their Chronarium Annex, repairing mechanisms, living in the shadows of Aethelburg. He avoided the Legates who might one day seek him. He refused to become their cog. --- “Just senseless cogs.” Silas’s jaw clenched. He pushed the heavy, brass-bound door of his workshop shut. Early that morning, before the city’s lower districts truly stirred, a group of burly porters from the neighboring district had come knocking. They accused him, with furious shouts, of tampering with Master Glim’s aetheric generator. Master Glim, a cantankerous old tinkerer, had died a few days prior, his workshop exploding in a shower of sparks and steam. Though the evidence pointed clearly to a catastrophic pressure build-up, they insisted Silas, the quiet, odd mechanic, must have somehow sabotaged it, perhaps to steal his designs. Their true motive was transparent. Master Glim had a sizable debt to a guild in their district. With him gone, they sought to blame Silas, hoping to seize his workshop’s inventory as collateral. Silas had simply, precisely, disarmed them with a few well-placed shoves and a sharp, low warning. No chronal gifts were needed for such crude encounters. They scattered, grumbling threats. Silas knew they would likely try to inflate prices or short-change him on parts the next time he ventured out. When that happened, a few more firm, non-magical corrections usually sufficed. An annoying cycle, predictable as a poorly calibrated gear-train. His thoughts drifted, a distant bell chiming the fourth hour. A sudden, insistent rap echoed through the quiet workshop, jarring him from his reverie. *Thump-thump-thump* against the solid brass. Silas let out a deep, weary sigh. His hand instinctively gravitated toward a heavy wrench on his workbench. “Now who in the Aether-damned gears is it? Do you desire a broken spring?” Surely, their memories weren't so short? He’d only just sent them packing. Yet, the figure beyond the door was not one of the glowering porters. It was a man, seemingly in his mid-forties, though his eyes held a deeper wisdom. He wore a dust-streaked, practical coat, tailored from thick, sturdy fabric. A faint, almost awkward smile touched his lips. “Ah… my apologies, young master. I am but a traveler, seeking respite. It seems I’ve chosen a most inopportune moment.” A traveler? Silas had lived eighteen years in this hidden pocket of Aethelburg, a place rarely troubled by casual passersby. For a moment, his mind stalled, like a clockwork mechanism seizing. To think, someone with such leisure, venturing into the neglected outskirts. Silas, after a beat of startled silence, stepped aside, indicating entry with a slight bow of his head. “Not at all, sir. Please come in. Unpleasant company recently departed.” His voice, formal and carefully modulated, felt unfamiliar on his tongue. It was a manner learned from his mother, reserved for elders, for those outside the petty squabbles of the Lower Sprawl. When had he last used it? Long before he realized most adults, including Master Glim, were merely larger cogs in a flawed system. “My thanks.” To maintain his secrecy, Silas knew he should have politely dismissed the stranger. But a deep-seated ache for genuine conversation, for an interaction devoid of hostility, pulled at him. Besides, if this man harbored ill intent, Silas was confident in his ability to dismantle it. “Have you taken your morning meal?” “Not yet.” “Neither have I. Join me, if you please.” Silas motioned the man to a small, worn table. He set out steaming aether-porridge, cured mech-meat from his pantry, a block of preserved rations, and a mug of strong, bitter caf. Hospitality, even in hardship, was a principle Elara had drilled into him. Treat guests well, and they are less likely to conceive harm. “It is but a humble offering, in this secluded space.” “Humble? This is a bounty! My sincere gratitude for your generosity.” The traveler’s words rang true. He ate with an earnest hunger, as if he hadn't seen such a meal in days. His table manners, too, were refined, unlike anything Silas observed in the Lower Sprawl. He didn't speak with a full mouth. He turned his head discreetly when drinking. Perhaps the man noticed Silas’s own restrained manner, for after a sip of caf, a kind remark surfaced. “You possess a clear grasp of etiquette, young master. Your parents must have instilled it well.” “My mother taught me.” Silas’s gaze flickered to a framed schematic on the wall, a complex regulator design Elara had once perfected. Detecting the unspoken absence of a father, the traveler paused. “And… is your mother in the city? The scale of this workshop suggests you reside alone.” He must have noted the single cot in the corner. Silas nodded, his voice steady. “She passed from illness a few years past.” Trouble briefly clouded the traveler’s face. He bowed his head, making a precise, almost mechanical gesture with one hand—a solemn sweep, as if clearing dust from a revered mechanism. Silas had never seen its like. “My condolences, young master. Having raised such a capable individual, she surely rests among the Primus Gears, her spirit seamlessly integrated into the great chronometer.” “I hope so.” Once, merely thinking of Elara had brought a sharp ache, ruining his appetite and blurring his vision with tears. To speak of her now, with a faint, melancholic smile – had time truly dulled that vibrant presence? Or had he simply grown into the stoic adult she’d always encouraged him to be? A sudden wave of quiet gloom threatened to engulf him. Silas forced a change of subject. “Tell me, sir, what brings you to such a remote corner of Aethelburg?” “I recently passed through the city’s industrial district. An old foreman there spoke of a strange kinetic anomaly, a rogue chronovore, disrupting the temporal flow in the outer sectors. They sought a skilled hand to neutralize it. I decided to offer my services. Combat is… a familiar endeavor for me.” “Alone?” This man, seemingly past his prime, his shoulders showing the curve of years, tackling a dangerous temporal aberration without so much as an aether-rifle? Silas’s astonishment was clear on his face, drawing a slight, knowing smile from the traveler. “I was a Cog-Warden. I served the House of Veridia for sixty years. Most kinetic anomalies pose little challenge.” At the mention of ‘Cog-Warden,’ Silas’s eyes widened. His body stiffened, a silent alarm ringing. A being he had only heard of in Elara’s hushed warnings, the servant of the Legates. But his tension dissolved quickly. No hostility radiated from the man’s kind gaze. Silas relaxed, his shoulders easing down. “Is something amiss?” “No, sir. Just… my first time meeting a Cog-Warden. And… you do not appear to have served for sixty years.” “Chronos-attuned individuals age more slowly, live longer than ordinary folk. I am seventy-five cycles old this year. For a Cog-Warden, this is a respectable age. Powerful Legates, I’ve heard, can easily pass two or three hundred.” This information, entirely new, riveted Silas. He studied the man, this kindred spirit. Outwardly, he appeared no different than a robust, middle-aged laborer from the docks. A sturdy build, a healthy complexion. In short, a chronos-attuned individual couldn’t be discerned simply by sight. This was profoundly important. It meant Silas, as long as he refrained from overt displays of his gift, could walk unseen through the busiest thoroughfares of Aethelburg. A tight, constricting band around his chest seemed to loosen, allowing him a deeper, freer breath. “Truly, to be chronos-attuned is incredible.” “Incredible? Hardly! I find individuals such as yourself far more astonishing. To navigate this rough corner of Aethelburg, where kinetic aberrations appear, without leaning on latent chronal gifts? I couldn’t conceive of it.” Contrary to the man’s assumption, this was the first truly dangerous kinetic anomaly to threaten their sector in Silas’s lifetime. Otherwise, Elara, for all her resilience, could never have raised him alone in the Chronarium Annex. She, without any chronal abilities, was the truly remarkable one. “I neglected to properly introduce myself. My name is Elias. Elias of Veridia – or perhaps, I should no longer claim that affiliation. Simply, Elias the Unbound. And you, young master?” “I am Silas Finch. Master of this Annex, and mechanic of the Lower Sprawl.” “A fine, honest name.” “You mentioned earlier that you ‘served’ a Legate house. Does that mean you no longer do?” “My vassal contract officially concluded one cycle past. House Veridia offered to see me through my remaining years, should I wish. But… I desired to spend my twilight years traversing the world, unburdened. I have been tethered to a single house since I entered their service at fifteen.”

The Unwound Spark