Darkness followed me last night, trickling into every corner of my nightmare like spilled ink seeping through parchment. The faceless shadow had appeared in my epoch of demonic ascension, its presence lingering even now in the pale morning light that filtered through my chamber windows. I could still feel its words reverberating in my soul, the same phrase that seemed to repeat from the first night these visions occurred: Ahh. I sensed there was something unusual about you lad…
Unusual. Not chosen. Not cursed. Just… unusual were my thoughts as the morning drifted into an endless wait, each moment stretching like taffy in a confectioner's shop. The word echoed in my mind with maddening persistence, neither comfort nor condemnation, but something far more unsettling—uncertainty. What did it mean to be unusual in a world where the extraordinary was either revered or reviled?
Rumors of my involvement in the riot had reached the ears of my father and well, he was mad! His fury had been building like steam pressure in one of his factory boilers, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the explosion came.
How quickly word travels in this restless city, I thought bitterly as I paced my chamber like a caged wolf. The evidence wasn't written on my coat or boots, but in the eyes of the servants who bowed too deeply, their gazes darting away as if I carried some sickness or—dare I say—curse. Every butler who entered with my meals, every maid who changed my linens, they all wore the same expression of nervous deference mixed with barely concealed fear. They see it too—whatever mark the Mortal Instruments left on me.
Whispers swept through the halls of House Kuznetsov like autumn leaves before a storm—my father's anger bubbling with every murmur, every jest, every insult to his legacy muttered under the breath of servants who thought themselves unheard. The very air seemed to crackle with tension, servants scurrying through corridors with hushed voices and hurried steps. Each word another lump of coal to fuel his internal infernal.
Mother found it best that I stay sequestered in my chamber until his rage subsided each morning, before he stormed away to his workshop to lose himself in brass fittings and steam calculations. No academy classes, no wandering about through the soot-choked streets, and no chance to see Ayla once more—a thought that stung more than I cared to admit. Here I remained, confined to my room with its rose window that cast fractured light across the Persian rugs, feeling bleak and narrow even though the chamber itself was vast and richly appointed.
The whole day stretched before me like an eternity—walking turned into pacing, pacing into a frustrated stall, and when I dared close my eyes, those horrid shadows would materialize behind my lids, dancing with malevolent purpose. Sleep had become my enemy, yet exhaustion my constant companion.
"Lord Gregor has summoned you, my lord," a servant called lightly from outside my door, his voice barely above a whisper. The words pierced through my brooding like a knife through silk. I knew this confrontation was inevitable, but I had been hoping a couple more days would have passed, perhaps enough time for Father's initial fury to cool into something more manageable.
The grand parlor awaited me like a tribunal when I stepped inside, my footsteps muffled by the thick Axminster carpet. Gas lamps sibilated with unusual intensity, their flames blazing fierce and bright, as if Lord Gregor had commanded them raised to burn every shadow from the room's edges. The very air seemed to shimmer with heat and light, creating an almost oppressive atmosphere that made my skin prickle with nervous perspiration.
He occupied the center of the room like a general surveying a battlefield, settled in his bespoke leather throne—a treasured possession bearing our family crest stamped in gold upon the headrest, the hide itself renowned for coming from some exotic beast Father had hunted in his younger days. His presence filled the space with an authority that made the very walls seem to lean inward, as if the room itself deferred to his will.
"Explain yourself," Father said, each word falling like the strike of a blacksmith's hammer against anvil. His voice was a gavel, final and unforgiving.
My tongue felt welded against my teeth, copper-tasting and useless; the moment I had dreaded for days had finally arrived—Father had tapped into that cold, analytical mind he was infamous for, ready to dissect the incident under the harsh light of reason like a physician examining a diseased organ. What chance do I stand against his intellect? The man who had built an industrial empire from raw ambition and calculating precision now turned that same methodical attention toward his wayward son. Remaining silent might be the only card I had left to play, though even that felt like a losing gambit.
"The heir of this house," he continued, rising from his chair with the deliberate movements of a predator circling wounded prey, "does not fling himself into mobs like some common street urchin. He does not parade beside charlatans and fortune-tellers. He does not—" His hand sliced through the air with military precision, cutting invisible chains that seemed to bind his frustration. "—invite Mortal Instruments fanatics to mark him as cursed."
The word rang through the room like a bell tolling midnight, his rage a mixture of his own implications and fears, but the word still felt fitting nonetheless. Cursed. It hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning and consequence.
Across from him, Mother sat with an air of stillness that radiated a quiet kind of regal authority, her hands neatly folded in her lap like delicate wings at rest. Her posture remained perfectly composed despite the storm raging before her, a pillar of calm in Father's tempest. Her expression, a careful mixture of care and concern, reflected the soft light of the gas lamps, yet beneath that veneer of maternal warmth lingered a hint of scarlet below her porcelain skin—a fine flush that revealed how her husband's tirade affected her, even as she maintained her dignified facade.
"He saved a child," she said, her voice soft as a summer breeze but carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
Father wheeled toward her, unleashing his wrath like a cannon turned upon a new target. "A Gypsy, Elenya… a Gypsy child from those wandering parasites. To disgrace our lineage with such misguided heroism toward the very fanatics attempting to sabotage our industrial endeavors is nothing short of madness." His eyes blazed with the same intensity as the gas lamps, casting harsh shadows across his weathered features.
"I'm grateful he intervened to protect that unfortunate child, irrespective of their standing," she responded, her tone remaining gentle as morning rain, yet it resonated through the room with surprising force. Each word was chosen with deliberate care, a masterclass in diplomatic resistance. For an instant, even Father wavered, his righteous fury momentarily checked by her quiet strength.
"The Mortal Instruments Order is an extremist faction intent on subverting us, our lineage, even the very foundation of the House of Lords," he recovered quickly, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscles working beneath his skin. "Their poisonous rhetoric already permeates every corner of this city like a plague, and the parliament is demanding explanations from anyone with connections to recent disturbances." He shifted in his chair, leather creaking under his weight. "Following King Lance's untimely demise without heirs to continue the royal line, it is that fractured legislative assembly that enforces whatever semblance of order remains in the city, and the Mortal Instruments have been gaining seats with each election—a growing faction within their ranks that inches closer to majority control with every passing day."
Father then pointed squarely at me, his finger like the barrel of a pistol, his tone shifting to something calmer but infinitely more dangerous. "They're claiming our son is nothing more than a Gypsy puppet, dancing to their mystical tune. Do you grasp what that signifies, boy?"
My throat felt raw and constricted, as if I had been breathing smoke for hours. "If they obtain control of parliament... the Runners will come for me…"
"No." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, each word carved from ice and shadow. He leaned close enough that I could smell the brass polish on his fingers and see the network of fine lines around his eyes—evidence of long nights spent hunched over engineering drawings. "It means they will come for all of us. Every member of this house, every servant, every business associate. They'll tear down everything three generations of Kuznetsovs have built, piece by piece, until nothing remains but ash and memory."
The weight of his words settled over me like a burial shroud. Father straightened, his decision made with the finality of a judge passing sentence. "You'll be permitted to return to your academy studies—under escort—and are strictly forbidden to go anywhere near the Mortal Instruments, Gypsies, or anything else that might draw unwanted attention to yourself or this family. Do I make myself abundantly clear?"
"Yes, Father," I answered, the words feeling like stones in my mouth. With a curt nod, I was dismissed from the parlor like a subordinate officer receiving orders, my footsteps echoing hollowly as I retreated to my chamber.
That night, sleep eluded me entirely. I sat at my writing desk, surrounded by the familiar comforts of my chamber—leather-bound books, brass instruments, mechanical curiosities Father had given me over the years—yet feeling more isolated than ever. The pocket watch Mother had recently presented to me rested in my palm, its weight both comforting and mysterious. The brass surface felt cool against my skin, smooth and perfectly crafted, each tick audible in the twilight hour that stretched between day and night.
I turned it over and over in my hands, admiring the exquisite craftsmanship that spoke of master artisans and careful attention to detail, but as I examined it more closely, I discovered a faint engraved symbol I had not previously noticed—a stylized sun with radiating waves and a circle with a dot at its center. The symbol seemed almost alive in the lamplight, its lines flowing with an organic quality that made my eyes water if I stared too long.
When I brought the timepiece to my ear, I heard the familiar sound of gears turning and the steady ticking that any well-made watch produces, but something unusual began to happen that made my skin prickle with inexplicable dread. The mechanical sounds grew faint and unnatural, impossible in their very wrongness. As I slowly moved the trinket away from my ear, my vision seemed to blur and shift, the brass watch appearing to transform before my very eyes into an hourglass filled with golden sand that caught the lamplight like captured sunbeams.
The transformation was so real, so tangible, that I could see individual grains tumbling through the narrow waist, each one glinting as it fell. Just like all the other sand pieces I had been seeing in my visions, and I dropped the watch onto the desk with a sharp intake of breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. But when the timepiece struck the polished wood surface with a solid thunk, it was once again the elegant pocket watch, unchanged and innocent of any supernatural properties.
"It's nothing," I whispered to the empty room, my voice barely audible even to myself. "Just overtired from all these cursed dreams and Father's interrogation." But even as I spoke the words, I could feel their inadequacy, their failure to explain what I had witnessed with my own eyes.
I abandoned my desk and climbed into bed, the ancient floorboards creaking beneath my weight in the manor's profound silence. Father's harsh words weighed heavily on my chest like a millstone, but exhaustion seeped into my bones nonetheless, making my limbs feel leaden and my thoughts increasingly sluggish. I pulled back the quilted coverlet and sank onto the mattress, finding little comfort in its familiar embrace amidst the turmoil that churned within my mind.
My gaze fell inevitably on the pocket watch gleaming on the desk in the silvery moonlight that streamed through my chamber window, its steady rhythm—tick, tick, tick—sharp and precise in the surrounding stillness. Each sound seemed to echo in the quiet room, marking the passage of seconds with mechanical precision.
As sleep finally began to grasp me with its inevitable pull, that rhythmic ticking seemed to morph and change, each sound stretching longer than the last, the intervals between them thickening like honey in winter, weighing down my eyelids with an exhaustion deeper than mere physical fatigue. It was as if time itself was being stretched and manipulated, bent to the will of some unseen force that existed beyond the boundaries of the waking world.
And as I drifted deeper into the approaching embrace of sleep, that elongated ticking followed me down into the welcoming darkness, almost as if time itself was bending around me—just like the pocket watch transforming into an hourglass—slowing to match the rhythm of my descending consciousness, carrying me away from the harsh realities of the waking world and into that strange realm of dreams where perhaps these impossible visions would finally reveal their true nature, uncorrupted by the nightmares that had plagued me for so long.