Morning never truly came to London. The copper fog lingered, and the clocks in the main tower began to tick in off-key tones—like they were trying to recall a rhythm long forgotten. In the attic, Elias and Lysandra still sat before the Codex, Elias's finger wrapped in bandages from the burn caused by its pages.
Lysandra had fallen asleep in the corner, her breath shallow, her pen still clenched tightly. Elias couldn't sleep. He stared at his pocket watch—the single tick from the night before still echoed in his mind.
Just as the clock's hands stopped at 13:13, there was a knock at a door that had never been used.
A black envelope slid under the door's bottom crack, as if pushed by an invisible hand. Its paper was cold as ice, sealed with wax in the shape of a clock hand piercing the sun.
Elias opened the letter slowly:
"You are personally invited to the Regalia Kronos Banquet, precisely at 13:13. Location: The Palace of Reflected Time. Formal attire, memories must be left at the entrance. Your absence will be considered a refusal of destiny."
There was no signature, only the seal of a burning Ouroboros—similar to the scar on his left palm.
The Regalia Kronos Palace appeared on no map. But as Elias walked along old streets that didn't fully exist in this world, the path led him to a massive gate of metal surrounded by mist that shimmered like liquid glass.
He entered the palace as the clock struck 13:13. And everything… began to move in reverse.
Elegant guests walked backward, wine glasses refilled from lip to base, laughter echoed from end to beginning, music played in reverse—from climax to prelude—yet remained beautiful, like an endless symphony. The long table sparkled with candles melting upward.
Time rewound, yet felt fresh.
Elias stood in the doorway, dazed and nearly enchanted, until a gloved servant approached him and said, "Mr. Thorn, Lady Seraphine has been awaiting you since time was undefined."
He was led through hallways of glass clocks, where seconds hung like frozen dew. Guests wore attire from many eras: fedoras from the future, corsets from past centuries, and robes woven from light itself.
At the end of the grand hall sat a woman who made time feel like it was listening.
Lady Seraphine Voss.
Tall, graceful as a shadow on water. Her hair was silver, straight down to her waist, with heterochromatic eyes—left gold, right deep violet like a hidden wound. Her lips were glossy black, and she wore a black gown reinforced with a mechanical bone corset that hissed gently like fine steam. Hanging from her ears were tiny hourglass earrings, and her fingers were gloved in a mesh of thin wires—like she was touching time directly.
Elias stood frozen as Seraphine turned and smiled. A smile that knew more than it should.
"You're late… or far too early, depending on who's watching," she said.
"Who are you?" Elias asked, his tone controlled.
Seraphine stood with the grace of moonlight's shadow and stepped toward him. "I am the holder of the 7th Secret Protocol. Keeper of the Unspoken Second. And to you, Elias Thorn… I am someone who has known you even before this world was formed."
She raised her hand and, without touching, brushed memories from his mind. Elias staggered back, gasping.
"How do you know about Livia?" he hissed.
Seraphine bowed slightly, as if mourning something. "You're still too linear. This world is not built by order. You search for your sister like a man searching for morning—when time has already been broken."
She drew a circle in the air, forming the shape of an ouroboros in soft light.
"You, Elias Thorn, are something that shouldn't exist. But also… something that cannot be erased. A fracture, in human form."
"This... is not the true world," Seraphine whispered, her voice almost lost in the hum of fractured time. "This world is what remains… from a miswritten script."
She stared at Elias, her eyes piercing into the cracks within him.
"There are hours hidden from history—seconds that should never have ticked. Livia... she witnessed one of those forbidden seconds."
She stepped closer, her fingers hovering near the wound in Elias's palm.
"And you... perhaps you're not the true Elias. Perhaps you're merely one of his shards."
"If you open too many pages, Elias," she said as the wine filled back into her glass, "you'll find writings that were never written—and that is where ruin begins."
Before he could ask more, the entire party froze. The music stopped. Guests were caught mid-motion—laughter unfinished, wine suspended.
Seraphine stared deep into Elias. "You must choose."
"Choose what?"
"To remain like this—on the edge of time. Or begin to remember who you truly are… and accept the cost of truth."
Elias didn't answer.
The clock struck once—from 13:13 to 13:12, backward.
And the banquet resumed its reverse rhythm, as if the conversation had never occurred.
Yet in Elias's coat pocket now lay a small key he had never taken. Its shape resembled a sun with a hole at its center.
And the second that should never have existed… began to live again.