I was born not of flesh, but of iron, brass, and patience. Forged by a nameless craftsman whose hands shook with both genius and fear. My pendulum swings with the silence of inevitability, my gears grind with the cruelty of permanence. I was placed in the grand throne hall, high above the golden dais, a silent witness.
I do not live, yet I endure.
I do not speak, yet I remember.
I am the keeper of truth, the witness of time.
And I have seen kings.
Five generations of them. Each believing themselves immortal, each swallowed by my endless ticking.
---
The First King – The Flame of Ambition
He was a man of iron fists and burning eyes. His voice commanded armies, his steps echoed louder than the drums of war. He built this kingdom brick by brick, blood by blood. I ticked through his conquests, through the screams of men trampled beneath his ambition.
He loved me, you know. He often looked up at me from his throne, chest swelling with pride. "Time," he would mutter, "is on my side."
But ambition sharpens into paranoia.
I ticked while he slaughtered friends who smiled too brightly, advisors who spoke too wisely, sons who grew too boldly.
On his last night, he sat alone in the throne hall, crown slipping from his trembling head, eyes darting to me as though I were his accuser.
His last words were whispered into my eternal ticking:
"Not enough… not enough time…"
His hand fell limp. His crown rolled across the floor.
I kept ticking.
---
The Second King – The Cruel Inheritor
The second bore his father's crown with none of his father's fire. Cruelty, not ambition, defined him.
He sat beneath me, not as a builder, but as a destroyer. He wielded the throne like a weapon.
I ticked as he ordered peasants beaten for amusement. I ticked as he laughed while mothers wept in the court.
His reign was painted in red, not glory, but rot.
He hated me.
Once, he even ordered his guards to smash me. But the court advisors begged him not to. "The clock is the kingdom's heart," they said. "If it stops, so will we."
And so I lived. He did not.
One night, he trusted too deeply a poisoned chalice. His last sound was not my ticking, but his own choking breath.
I kept ticking.
---
The Third King – The Gentle Dreamer
Ah, the third. Soft-spoken, almost tender. His hands trembled not with blood, but with kindness. He planted gardens where his father had planted graves. He listened to poets, fed the poor, embraced the weak.
He often stared at me with dreamy eyes. "Time is not an enemy," he whispered. "It is a companion."
Perhaps he was right. But kingdoms are not fed by dreams.
While he wept for beggars, generals betrayed him. While he dreamed of peace, enemies sharpened their blades.
I ticked as the gates fell, as soldiers stormed the hall, as his crown was stripped and his name cursed. He fled with tears instead of steel, and he died not in the throne room, but in exile, muttering, "I only wanted to be kind."
And even then, I kept ticking.
---
The Fourth King – The Tyrant of Time
He was not kind. He was not cruel for pleasure. He was something else — obsessed.
He feared me. Every day he stared at me, eyes hollow, lips dry.
He counted my ticks, one by one, like they were death sentences.
His reign was cold, joyless. He spent more gold building vaults for himself than he did feeding the starving. His servants whispered that he locked mirrors away, for he could not stand to see his own aging face.
Once, in a drunken rage, he climbed the throne dais and screamed at me:
"STOP! Stop, damn you! I am the king! Not you!"
He tried to tear me from the wall. His hands bled against my iron frame. But I did not yield. No man ever has.
He died hunched in his chambers, surrounded by stopped clocks he had broken, all but me.
And I ticked on.
---
The Fifth King – The Lonely Question
The last I have seen. The fifth.
He was unlike the others. A man who had inherited ashes more than an empire. His halls were empty, his court hollow. He ruled shadows, not men. He came to me often, not with anger, not with ambition, but with despair.
"What is a king," he asked me once, "when no one remains to be ruled?"
I gave no answer. I only ticked.
He sat beneath me for hours, staring into nothing, muttering philosophy no courtier cared to hear.
"Perhaps I am not king at all. Perhaps I am but a servant of your ticking, a guest in your eternity."
He was not cruel. Not kind. Not ambitious. Not fearful. He was… tired.
When he died, there was no crown to fall, no war to end, no family to mourn. Only silence, broken by my endless pendulum.
---
And now I remain, the only voice left in this hollow hall.
I have watched kings rise from dust and return to dust. I have been cursed, worshipped, feared, and ignored.
I do not change.
I do not forgive.
I do not forget.
I am the clock.
I outlive kings.
I outlive empires.
And I whisper now into the silence, for the next who dares sit the throne:
You are not master of time.
You are but its prey.
And still, I tick.