The lead swinging weight reached the apex of its western swing.
Six hundred pounds of solid metal. It shook with forty-four million iterations of unvented moving gaining speed, paused for a fraction of a split second at the top of its thirty-degree arc. Below it, the nine-foot Paradox Spindle wailed like a dying turbine, its black gold-silver metal gimbals screaming. The clock hands outside ticked to 10:59 AM and fifty-eight seconds.
Two seconds before the noon reset.
Chrono-Scribe Ren stepped forward, his slate-grey coat snapping in the belfry wind. He didn’t blink. He didn’t hesitate.
With his right hand, he drove the point of his brass tweezers straight against the rim of his cracked lead-crystal hourglass.
TICK.
The sound didn’t propagate through the air. It hammered into the causal fabric of the belfry like an iron spike driven through an oak beam.
The world stopped.
