Prologue Thistlecroft, Years Ago The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the air was thick with something waiting. In the back of the clock shop, Eleanor worked with meticulous care. Her fingers moved over the aged brass and obsidian gears of the Eclipsed Heart like a pianist returning to a long-forbidden song. Every piece she aligned sent a faint vibration through the bench. It was subtle nothing most would notice. But Benedict Thorne wasn’t most. “You said you wouldn’t touch it again.” His voice came from the doorway, flat but heavy with something far sharper than anger: fear. Eleanor didn’t look up. “I said I wouldn’t rush it.” “It shouldn’t be touched at all.” He stepped closer. “You know what it did the last time. You know what he is.” Her jaw tightened. “He’s not what they made him out to be.” “He’s exactly what they used him for,” Benedict snapped. “And the Heart Eleanor, the Heart isn’t some puzzle box. It’s a gate. A beacon. If you bring it back together” “I’m not trying to open it,” she said, finally looking at him. Her eyes were tired. Determined. “I’m trying to understand it.” “And what happens when it understands you?” His voice cracked. “What happens when it remembers what it’s meant to do?” “It’s already remembering,” she said quietly. “And pretending it doesn’t exist won’t change that.” Benedict ran a hand over his face, streaked with clock oil and worry. “We buried those designs for a reason. We swore—” “We swore to protect people,” Eleanor interrupted. “That includes Lila. And if I’m right—” “You don’t know that,” he hissed. A bell chimed from the front of the shop. They both froze. A small voice floated in from the showroom: “Grandma? Grandpa?” Eleanor stood quickly, smoothing her apron. “They’re early.” “Then we lock it away,” Benedict said, already reaching for the cloth. He swept the partially restored Heart into a lacquered case, fastened the latch, and slipped it into the false drawer behind the tool cabinet. Eleanor said nothing, but her fingers lingered on the table a moment too long.