The staccato rhythm of the clock was all William could focus on.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
Each sound cut cleanly through the chaos around him. His eyes never left the clock—its hands, its pendulum, its relentless march forward.
Time heals all...
But time was too slow.
He stared upward, letting himself drown in its mechanical certainty, its quiet cruelty. The laughter and shouting of the other children faded into little more than static. Even when they whispered behind his back, even when a few of the rowdier ones shoved or prodded at him, he didn't flinch.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
The gears turned, the pendulum swung, and the rhythm soothed him.
Cirino stood by the doorway, one shoulder pressed against the frame. The boy didn't cry—hadn't, from the looks of it. His face was empty, hollow in that way only loss could carve. The kind of stillness that wasn't peace, just absence.
Leila's voice broke the silence. The old woman peered through the crack in the door, her kind eyes dim with worry.
"He's been like this ever since he came here," she murmured. "He stares at that clock more than he plays. More than he eats."
Cirino turned his head slightly toward her, his gaze sharpening with quiet intent.
"Is he healthy? Does he get enough food? Sleep?"
Leila nodded, though the gesture carried hesitation.
"We provide what we can, but the boy only eats just enough. Sleeps when he feels like it. He wakes before dawn, long after the others have fallen asleep—just to stare at that clock. It's... worrying."
Cirino exhaled through his nose, a faint sigh. His eyes softened as he turned toward Agnes, still holding tightly to his hand.
"I'm going to need my hand for a second, brat. If you don't mind." He gently said.
The girl blinked up at him, uncertain. Then, slowly, she nodded and released her grip. Her fingers fidgeted, clasping together awkwardly in front of her chest.
Cirino stepped forward, the wooden floorboards groaning softly beneath his boots. The sound made a few of the nearby children glance over, but William didn't stir. His eyes remained fixed on the clock—unblinking, unmoving, as though the rest of the world had long since stopped mattering.
Cirino stopped beside him. He didn't speak at first. Words rarely worked with kids like this—he knew that from experience. He just stood there, watching the clock too.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
After a long while, he said quietly, "It's loud, isn't it?"
William didn't answer, didn't even blink. Cirino took that as permission to keep talking.
"I used to hate that sound," he continued, his tone casual, almost conversational. "The old orphanage I grew up in had one just like it. Big, ugly thing that never kept the right time. Every night, it'd tick just a little faster—like it couldn't wait to remind us morning was coming."
Still nothing. The boy's shoulders didn't even move.
Cirino sighed softly and crouched down beside him. The light from the window hit William's face—pale, sleepless, and distant.
"You know," Cirino said, resting his elbows on his knees, "time doesn't heal everything. People just like to say that so it hurts less."
At that, the boy's eyes shifted slightly, the smallest flicker of attention breaking through the stillness. Cirino caught it. Didn't press.
"Sometimes it just… makes the pain quieter. Easier to carry."
He smiled faintly, tiredly. "That's not so bad, though. Quiet's better than nothing."
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was tentative, fragile, the kind that meant something might finally break through.
William bathed in the silence, his blue eyes fixed on the base of the clock. His lips thinned before he finally spoke.
"If you're sorry about what happened with the gem, don't be. You didn't know." His voice was unlike Agnes's—flat, drained, hollow. There was no spark of life in it, only the dull echo of exhaustion. "It's Walter's fault he's dead. Stupid brother never knew when to keep his hands off anything supernatural..."
His teeth clenched.
"Chthonis, right? They did this..." His tone dripped with barely contained venom. "I heard Walter talk about it—over and over—like an obsession. A virus lodged in his mind."
Cirino met his gaze. He'd be the first to call out the Empire for its propaganda, if push came to shove. He'd seen how they expanded, how they treated the conquered peoples of the world. They called it unity, destiny, compliance—but all he saw was subjugation, exploitation, and chains.
But Chthonis? Even he had to admit—the Empire was underselling it.
"It's not Walter's fault," Cirino began, leaning back as his gaze drifted up toward the clock. "Chthonis... it's—"
He hesitated.
He wasn't a scholar, and his understanding of Chthonis was fragmented at best.
Everything about it seemed contradictory, yet maddeningly parallel—an alternate reality tethered to this one by threads no mortal could ever hope to understand.
A realm unbound by time, by law, by logic. Where impossible shapes took form only to dissolve into madness. Where a single glimpse could unravel the mind, infecting it with Malethis—a sickness born not of flesh, but of knowing.
But how could he explain that to the boy?
How could he tell him there might still be hope—that others like Walter didn't have to fall prey to its pull? How could he promise William that one day, he'd have the chance to avenge the brother he lost?
I can't...
It felt impossible.
Cirino couldn't lie to him. Lies would never comfort the tinkerer whose eyes sought only what was real.
For William—whose gaze lingered on the ordered rhythm of the clock—Chthonis must have seemed revolting. This boy who had lost everything could only rationalize, never feel. It was a habit Cirino recognized all too well: the retreat into logic when the heart could no longer bear the truth.
"It's... nothing like the clock," he finally said. "Unpredictable. Disordered. You'll wreck your mind trying to make sense of it—break it, even, in ways that are often literal."
He didn't look at William. He didn't try to soften his words or reach for comfort that wasn't there. All he could offer was the truth, plain and imperfect.
"I wish I could tell you there wouldn't be another Walter—that we could stop it from taking more people from us." His eyes narrowed. "But you're too smart to believe empty promises, aren't you?"
William stirred, his blue eyes finally turning toward him.
"If you're trying to comfort me," he said flatly, "you're doing a terrible job."
Cirino laughed quietly. "Yeah. I'm awful at comforting people. Sorry. I'm not the model older brother who always knows what to say."
He leaned back, the ticking of the clock filling the silence between them.
"But I'll sit here," he added softly, "even if that's all I can do."
William stayed silent, and Cirino said nothing more.
Minutes stretched into hours—or perhaps it only felt that way. The ticking clock kept time for them both.
Then, at last, a quiet sigh escaped from Cirino's side.
"...Thank you," came the boyish whisper.
Cirino didn't say you're welcome. He just nodded, faintly. He wasn't sure how long they sat there after that, or how many times the clock's hands turned—but for once, the passing of time didn't matter.
[...]
"He seems a little happier," Leila's voice called softly from behind.
It was midday now. William had fallen asleep on the seat, and Cirino carried his small frame upstairs toward the dormitory. Agnes followed close, tugging at his sleeve and quietly handing him his coat.
"Yeah," Cirino murmured. "He just needs time to heal. But he's strong—he'll pick himself back up in no time."
"To that, I hope you're right." Leila nodded, leading him into a broad room lined with beds. Cirino stopped by one beneath the window, the soft light spilling across the sheets. He laid William down gently and drew the blanket over him.
His eyes drifted to a nearby desk, where a small mechanical toy rested—a crude soldier, pieced together from rusted iron and worn brass, its limbs jointed unevenly. A wind-up key stuck out from its back.
Leila noticed his attention and let out a soft chuckle. "The boy made that. Took apart one of the old clocks we were going to throw away—asked if he could keep it."
She smiled faintly. "The caretakers told him no, of course. But he snuck over and did it anyway."
Cirino smirked. "Rebellious kid."
"As all these brats are," Leila replied with a quiet laugh. "Still… it's nice to see he has some spark left. He's gifted, that one. If it were up to me, I'd send him to a proper school. His knack for engineering is remarkable—beyond his years."
Cirino pondered that, eyes settling on the boy's sleeping form. To send him off so soon after all he'd endured felt wrong… yet the idea filled him with a quiet hope. Beneath all that grief, William still had potential—something that could lead him far if nurtured.
"Perhaps in time," Leila said, as if reading his thoughts. "When funds allow, we might send him to a public academy. With luck, he'll catch the eye of someone influential—someone who'll help him reach where he's meant to be."
Cirino sighed softly and sat on the edge of a nearby bed. Agnes perched beside him, still clutching his sleeve. His gaze shifted between her and the sleeping boy. Both of them carried too much for their age—grief, duty, expectation. Neither had truly been allowed to just be children.
"Hey, Miss Leila," Cirino said after a moment. "I know she's here as my observer, but… do you think Agnes could visit here every now and then?"
The words startled Agnes, and she immediately let go of his sleeve, eyes widening in shock.
"What are you implying, Bystander!?" Agnes snapped, her voice cutting sharply through the quiet.
But when William stirred in his sleep, she immediately hushed herself, shrinking back. Even she knew better than to disturb someone at rest.
"Kid, I'll be honest," Cirino said, turning to face her fully. "I've only known you for a day at most, and I'm not exactly qualified to raise kids. But I can still tell when one isn't getting what they need."
Agnes crossed her arms, indignant. "Of course I get what I need! I have food, water, a roof over my head, and a bed more comfortable than most. What else is there?"
"Friends," Cirino answered simply.
She blinked, thrown off by the word. "I—have comrades."
"Who are all older than you," he countered, "and working in fields no child should be near. You need friends your own age. People you can laugh with, rely on, be yourself around."
Agnes opened her mouth, but no words came. Cirino pressed on, softer now.
"I'm sure your tutors and instructors drilled law, magic, and doctrine into your head. Probably even taught you what 'justice' means. But look at you—you're terrified to even talk to other kids."
He paused, his tone gentle but firm. "And that's not your fault."
Agnes looked away, unable to refute him.
In theory, she had more than any child in this orphanage — doting parents who praised her every success, tutors who filled her mind with knowledge few adults could grasp, and the respect of the Empire itself as a Scion-candidate.
And yet...
It all felt unbearably lonely.
"My instructors would never allow this," she murmured at last.
"Then your instructors haven't learned," Leila interjected gently. Her tone carried the quiet weight of experience. "I would not allow another Antigonus, young lady. Keep walking this path, and you may find yourself broken before you even understand why."
Agnes faltered, her hands clutching the hem of her coat. "I—They only want what's best for me."
"Just give this a chance," Cirino said. His voice wasn't demanding, only steady. "If you truly don't want to, I won't force you. But I can see it—the look in your eyes. It's not that you don't want to. It's that you're not allowed to want it."
The girl's training had molded her into something single-minded, her thoughts bound by rigid ideals of justice and duty. But for the first time, her violet eyes flicked between Cirino, Leila, and the sleeping boy on the bed—hesitant, uncertain.
"I'll tell you what," Cirino continued. "I can convince Lady Baudouin to let you do this. Say it's part of your duty—to watch over William, make sure he doesn't fall to corruption. They'll never question it."
He offered a faint smile. "You'd still be doing your duty. Just... maybe in a way that lets you breathe a little."
Leila said nothing, but the approving glint in her eyes said enough.
Agnes paused to ponder. Cirino wasn't wrong—and that made it all the more difficult. His words gave her an excuse, one she didn't know she needed until now. Yet diligence had been fed to her since birth, a virtue bound into every waking hour. To deviate, even slightly, felt like a betrayal of the perfect schedule carved out for her.
She wasn't even supposed to stay here. Not until Alyssa Baudouin had insisted.
"I—" Agnes began, but the words caught in her throat.
Her gaze drifted toward the courtyard outside.
Children ran through the open field, their laughter ringing through the air. They swung from rusted chains, tumbled across the dirt, and shouted each other's names with carefree abandon. The sound was foreign to her—like hearing a language she was never taught.
Something stirred within her. A faint, persistent tug.
What would it be like, she wondered, to simply be among them? To play, to laugh, to fall into the mud without consequence? Perhaps, just this once, she could try to live as a normal girl. After all, for all the talk of parents and duty, she sometimes felt like an orphan herself.
"I'll try," she said quietly.
Cirino smiled. "You don't have to come every day. But if you ever need time away, you're welcome here. I'll come with you."
His gaze followed the children outside. Their laughter mingled with the creak of the swings, the world moving on as if it had never known grief. The feeling that rose within him was faint but unmistakable—a pull toward something human, something fragile and real.
"I belong here, too," he murmured.
[...]
The midday sun came and went. Cirino stepped out of the orphanage with Agnes in tow, the warmth of the day fading into a soft, gold haze.
He looked around, but Sio was nowhere in sight. Just as he opened his mouth to ask, a voice cut through the quiet.
"What the hell took you so long?"
Cirino glanced up. On a nearby tree, Sio was perched on a thick branch, rifle balanced across his arms as if he'd been standing guard.
Cirino smirked. "Don't tell me you were planning to shoot me the moment I stepped out."
"Don't tempt me," Sio replied, dropping down from the tree with feline grace. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, brushing off his coat. "Just needed a decent spot to wait while you played house."
His sharp green eyes flicked toward Agnes. She stiffened, recalling their earlier exchange. But before she could retreat, Sio reached into his pocket and pulled out a small candy bar—and a tiny wooden gavel.
He held them out to her.
"Sorry about earlier," he said, struggling for the right words. "I was... mean."
Agnes blinked at the gesture, her violet eyes flicking between the candy bar and the gavel. "You're… apologizing?"
Sio scratched at the back of his neck, gaze averted.
"Yeah, well. Don't make a big deal out of it." He pressed the items into her hands a little too quickly. "Figured you'd appreciate both sugar and justice."
Agnes looked down at the gifts—one sweet, one symbolic. Her small fingers turned the wooden gavel over, its surface roughly carved but clearly handmade. The faintest smile tugged at her lips before she could stop it.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Sio gave a small shrug, pretending not to notice the gratitude. "Just don't hit me with that thing."
Cirino chuckled under his breath, arms crossed. "You know, for someone who threatens to shoot people as a greeting, you're surprisingly good with kids."
"Shut up," Sio replied instantly, though his ears twitched in mild embarrassment. "You done with your orphan therapy session, or do you plan to start adopting the whole damn lot?"
"Don't tempt me," Cirino shot back with a grin.
The elf rolled his eyes and started down the path. "Then move it. We've got a meeting with Lady Baudouin, remember? The sooner we report, the sooner I can get some sleep."
Right, I still have to report to her about my day. Cirino thought to himself.
Agnes fell into step beside Cirino, still holding the small gavel in both hands. She glanced up at him as they walked, her expression unreadable—but lighter, somehow.
Cirino noticed. "He's rough around the edges," he murmured, "but he means well."
"I know," she replied. "He reminds me of my instructors… if they were less scary."
Cirino laughed quietly. "Don't let him hear that."
As they left the orphanage behind, the faint sound of children's laughter still carried through the air. For the first time in what felt like a long while, it didn't sound so distant.
[...]
The first report session with Lady Baudouin went by smoothly. There wasn't much to tell—just that he'd visited the orphanage to check on William. Agnes stood nearby, her expression composed as ever, doing her little Truth-or-False routine while he spoke.
Cirino wasn't even sure she needed to use her gift. He was there, after all.
Still, that made his next request a little easier.
"You want Agnes to continue monitoring William?" Alyssa asked, brow arching. "Why? We've already tested the boy. He never touched the gem—barely even saw it. There's nothing to suggest corruption."
"Just to be sure," Cirino replied with a casual shrug. "Agnes proved herself capable, and with a soul as honest as hers, she's perfect for the job."
Alyssa leaned back in her chair, studying him with faint amusement. "Hmm… that might be difficult. Agnes isn't technically part of our organization. If the Justiciar Order recalls her, we'll have to comply."
Cirino tilted his head. "So why haven't they?"
"Exams aren't for a few more months," Alyssa explained. "The Order tends to loosen their grip on candidates during this period. But while that gives us leeway, her parents and guardians are another matter entirely." She sighed, the faintest smile curling her lips. "They're… ambitious people. I can barely justify her presence here as a 'lie-detector,' let alone as a permanent watch."
"Ambitious," Cirino echoed dryly. "You mean controlling."
Alyssa gave a small, knowing smile. "Let's just say they have plans for her. Still, if you're set on keeping her close, there's a way. We could frame this as field experience—practical exposure for a Justiciar in training. It's a thin excuse, but a believable one."
Cirino crossed his arms. "So long as it buys her time."
"For now," Alyssa said. Her tone softened slightly. "You're protective of her, aren't you?"
He hesitated, then smirked faintly. "Protective? No. I just don't like seeing kids treated like tools. Maybe there's a higher influence at play..."
He recalled her questions, how she asked if he had the desire to put Agnes through a rigorous study routine until she became an inanimate doll. He had no clue what the Fourth she mentioned was, but considering the context, that Fourth was likely of Chthonis.
Her golden eyes lingered on him for a moment, thoughtful. Then she smiled again, this time with that playful, disarming charm she wielded so easily.
"Oh please," she said lightly. "If her family were the Fourth we mentioned during your interrogation, the Justiciar Order would have noticed long ago."
Cirino raised a brow. "You sure about that?"
Alyssa laughed—a soft, melodic sound. "Quite. If they were, we'd all be dead by now. No, no, Cirino... they're human. And that's precisely what makes them dangerous."
"But it at least makes them manageable," Cirino added, earning a faint nod from Alyssa.
"I'll consider your request, Mr. Cirino. For now, get some rest. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow."
He blinked, pausing mid-turn. "What do you mean by that?"
Alyssa smiled, that poised, unreadable smile that always seemed to hold more than her words. "I've reviewed your military record," she said, stepping toward her desk and idly straightening a few papers. "I must say, I'm impressed. You have a knack for surviving things you shouldn't."
Cirino's brow furrowed. "Flattery from you usually comes with a catch."
"Not flattery," Alyssa corrected, glancing up at him. "Verification."
She clasped her hands behind her back, her tone calm—clinical. "While you're in our custody, I'd like to see your skills firsthand. Tomorrow, you'll be accompanying my unit on a mission."
Cirino straightened, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "A mission? You're testing me?"
"Partly," she admitted. "But more importantly, I want to observe how your proximity to Cultists interacts with the Malethis influence inside you."
The air grew heavy for a moment. Cirino said nothing, but his jaw tensed.
Alyssa's gaze softened—just slightly. "Consider it a trial, not a punishment. If you perform well… perhaps we can renegotiate the terms of your confinement."
Cirino gave a dry chuckle. "So either I pass, or I melt into a puddle of corruption. Great incentive."
Alyssa smirked. "Then do try not to melt, Mr. Cirino. I rather like having a reliable heretic on hand."
Heretic, she says...