Before the First Tick

The morning sun through his window woke him—it seemed particularly bright. Blue veins against the red of his vision made him wary of opening his eyes. He rolled out of bed, hand over his face, and shuffled until the light wasn’t hitting him directly. Realizing he’d slept too long, he felt a sudden jolt of energy—there was too much he wanted to do today.

He darted for the washroom, catching Welyvyne asleep in the corner of his eye. He ran the bath and, not for the first time, thanked whatever gods ruled this world for indoor plumbing. The human settlement felt thirteenth-century by comparison; the elves, eighteenth or nineteenth by his Earth math. When the tub was ready he stripped and eased into the heat, then tugged the curtain closed in case Welyvyne woke and needed in. The little room had a Victorian bent—short claw-foot tub, everything economy-sized—and that odd toilet that always made him think of a birdbath, closer to the old 1854 rim-flush design than anything modern.

Welyvyne did get up and pad in; the sight of Eric in the tub sent her right back out with a muffled yelp. He chuckled, quietly grateful for the foresight of the closed curtain—crisis averted, awkwardness dodged.

“It’s okay,” Eric called through the steam. “I closed the curtain—use the washroom if you need.”

“Are you sure?” she whispered. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“All good. Curtain’s up. Also, I have two kids—privacy died years ago.”

She eased back in—careful steps, a soft clink of porcelain. Eric sank deeper into the heat. He tried to relax, but rest wouldn’t stick; the day kept tugging. He wanted time on the watch, and the looking-glass idea needed a sanity check at the Arcane Anomaly Authority. If he could get his “octave” from them—whatever form that took—he’d at least have the data for when the real attempt came.

As soon as Welyvyne finished, he pulled the stopper and climbed out. He grabbed a towel from the rail by the sink, dried off, then summoned his last undamaged shirt and pants, stowing his pajamas. Boots on, he shrugged into his long coat and put a finger through the slice in the sleeve. Right—repairs today, too. He checked inventory: 9 Skyls to his name. Not much to work with.

He found Welyvyne at the desk with the artificing text open, his watch plans spread beneath it. She glanced up as he stepped out of the washroom.

“Hey, Eric.” She turned the page and tapped a section of his sketch where the timing runes nested. “I don’t think this will work. These lines are too close—you’ll get interference and maybe a detonation.”

“Hm.” Eric leaned over the sketch. “You’re right. How do you think we solve it?”

Welyvyne didn’t hesitate. “Two good paths. Fastest: stagger the pulses and lay a thin vancium inlay between these close runs—keeps the mana from bleeding across. Cleanest: go vertical. Carve the timing rune on a second plate with a vancium shim between, then link the layers with a matched pair of absorption sigils—one on each face, back-to-back. They’ll ferry the effect across without letting raw flow leak, so the sides don’t interfere.”

Eric tapped the margin, thinking. “The problem is letting one line touch another without their power bleeding together. What if we carve the work on a vancium disk, lay a thin sylvarium skin over it, then scrape away the parts we don’t want? The vancium will push mana away wherever it shows through. That gives us skinny paths that stay stable, without having to lay hair-thin metal.”

Welyvyne’s eyes flicked over the sketch. “So the base refuses mana, and the skin carries it. Where the base shows, the flow can’t wander. That I understand.”

She tapped two points. “When we need the working to pass from one side to the other, we paint a paired absorption here and here—twins, back-to-back. They’ll carry the intention across without letting loose power spill.”

Eric nodded. “Actually, I was thinking we don’t need a second absorption rune. Put one here”—he tapped the sketch—“then run a strip of sylvarium between these points so we’ve got plenty of mana for the watch while keeping the top pattern uniform.” He flipped the page and pointed again. “We’ll place the driver here to move the inverse escapement and drive the gears.”

Eric sighed. “None of this happens if we don’t have the tools to do it here. Can we get what we need in the market?”

Welyvyne rubbed her chin over the sketches. “Some of the etching gear, maybe. I’ve got a bit already.” She crossed to the trunk at the foot of the bed, flipped the lid, and pulled out a handheld etcher—the same kind they used in class, minus the stabilizing arm. She handed it over. “Not pretty, but you can work with it.”

“Perfect. I’ll hit the market for the rest, then we’ll get to work when I’m back.”

“I’ll stay here,” Welyvyne said, eyes back on the sketches. “I’ll keep looking for issues and start a mockup.”

Eric nodded, shrugged into his coat, and headed out. First stop: the Arcane Anomaly Authority. Getting what he needed there was, surprisingly, not hard.

“Excuse me,” he said to the receptionist. “I’d like a copy of my ‘octave’ from when I was summoned.”

The elf glanced up, one brow lifting. “Good morning, Eric Elwyn, is it?” His tone shifted to concern. “I can provide your octave, but you are aware that returning to your world would mean certain death.”

“I understand,” Eric said, smiling. “Going back—or summoning my family—isn’t the plan. I just want it on hand in case I ever need it.”

The receptionist studied him for a few heartbeats, then nodded. “All right. I’ll fetch the paperwork. Please be responsible—I would truly hate to hear of your death.”

From the Authority he cut straight to the market—it was packed today. He angled for Kyllian’s stall to check in. Business was booming: extra tables and chairs, a second helper moving plates. Eric smiled at the growth and stepped up.

“How are things?” he asked.

“Good—excellent, actually.” Kyllian drew a pouch and counted out coins. “Here—forty-two Skyls for you. You said you had more food ideas?”

“I do,” Eric said, “but not today. How about this: I’ll come back and teach you a secret my world covets. Spreading it there is basically a crime.” He winked, dropped his voice. “We call it pizza.”

Kyllian’s eyes went wide. “And you will share this pitza with me?”

Eric’s grin turned conspiratorial. “Yes. We’re not on my world—no trouble here.”

He headed for the blacksmith. The dwarf from before stood behind the counter and looked up as Eric walked in.

“I said four days. It isn’t ready yet.”

Eric chuckled. “Not here for the chestplate. I need a small job—could you make me four or five vancium discs with a thin sylvarium layer fused on both faces?”

The dwarf’s beard twitched into a grin. “Ah—got some artificing ideas, do ye?”

“Yeah,” Eric said. “This lets me work small without… you know—” he mimed an explosion—“without the boom.”

The dwarf laughed. “Aye, I get it. I can do it. Give me about two bells.”

“Perfect,” Eric said. “Wish I could hear them. I’ll swing back after I get my coat fixed and hunt some more artificing gear.”

“If ye want cheap kit, there’s a used items shop down the road,” the dwarf said. “Worth a look—you’ll likely find what ye’re after.”

“Thanks. How much for the disks?”

The dwarf thought a moment. “Tell ye what—10 Skyls if ye show me what ye build with ’em.”

“Deal.” Eric passed the coins across. “Happy to.”

He dropped his long coat and the torn clothes at the tailor, then hunted for the used-goods dealer. He didn’t have to look long: an outdoor table, everything strewn across it and under it, boxes stacked behind an elderly elf woman.

“Hi,” Eric said. “I’m looking for artificing tools.”

She cut him a sharp look. “A human looking for artificing tools?” Her gaze flicked around, then back. “Why would you need those, young man? You don’t expect me to believe you’re an artificer.”

Eric felt his ears heat, forced himself to breathe. “I’m not here to convince you. I just need them.”

The old woman’s mouth twitched. “Very well. Understand—artificing borrows from other crafts. Most of what you’ll want looks like jeweler’s tools.” She tapped a small kit on a cloth bag: a tiny saw, a palm anvil, tapered rods, and a set of delicate, mirror-bright hammers. “Start with these.”

Eric studied the kit, and it clicked: the saw and hammers would be perfect for hand-cutting gears; the stakes for forming teeth true. He spotted a wearable magnifier set beside it.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take the kit—and your advice under advisement.”

The old woman smiled. “Good, good. If you’re set on artificing, know it’s the hard road. I once meant to take it myself, but I became an enchanter—I couldn’t afford the cost of inventing. The kit and the magnifier are twenty-five Skyls. One lens has a chip, but they work fine.”

Eric weighed the magnifier, turned it to find the flaw, and nodded. “Fair price.” He summoned the coins and slid them across. “Thank you—for the warning and the tools.”

The old woman’s eyes widened when he slipped the kit and magnifier into storage with a thought. Eric realized he hadn’t eaten all day, summoned a strip of jerky, and chewed as he headed back to the smith.

His vancium/sylvarium discs were already on the counter. The dwarf was smiling. “These didn’t take long at all. Pressed together clean.”

“That’s great. Can I order these again? I have a feeling this will be my go-to for artificing.”

“Gladly,” the dwarf said with a laugh. “If ye make a market for ’em, I’ll pull a tidy sum. I see the use.”

Eric grinned. “It’s actually a trick from my world, so it’s not new to me. If it works here, feel free to sell the idea.”

The dwarf frowned, surprised. “Ye’re just givin’ it? No strings? That’s mighty generous, boy. Elves aren’t like that—very transactional.”

Eric shrugged. “I like building tools that make better things. If you profit and I get reliable plates, we both win.”

The dwarf smiled. “You know what—if you ever find yourself in the dwarven undercity, you’re welcome to use my name. Grendar Brightforge. They’ll know me.”

Eric dipped his head. “I’ll remember it. Thanks, Grendar.”

Eric swung back by the tailor. The long coat was already mended, the stitch nearly invisible.

“Could’ve at least cleaned your blood off them,” the tailor groused.

Eric winced. “Sorry—I didn’t think about it. I’ll clean them next time.”

The tailor rolled his eyes. “Adventurers.”

Eric managed a sheepish smile and headed back to the dorm.

Welyvyne was etching runes into a wood blank when he came in. She looked up and smiled. “Hey. Just finishing the first concept.” She angled the piece toward him. “This is your whole timing pattern—I tweaked it here, but it should behave the same.”

Eric studied her layout. “Yeah, I see why—you shaved the run shorter.” He grinned and summoned the discs from storage. “Also, I had these made.” He handed them over.

She turned one in her fingers, impressed. “These are excellent. I wonder if they’ll work the way you expect.”

“I hope so,” Eric said. “I picked up a locket yesterday to house the whole thing, and I scored some tools for us too.”

He set the rest on the desk, and they fell into a quiet rhythm of work. Eric hand-cut gears with the tiny saw, then shaped the inverse escapement, building a small pile as he went. For pins, he drew vancium wire and peened it with the little hammer; for the three-layer hand gears he rolled thin stock and stacked it. One by one he formed the hands—rough at first—then filed and polished them smooth.

A soft chime. A message flickered:

Skill gained: Jeweler — Rank 1.

He kept at it, the skill ticking up as each piece came out cleaner than the last. When he started layering vancium and sylvarium for the mana paths, he tested with a pulse of his own— the arm snapped back and forth exactly as planned. He glanced over: Welyvyne was nearly done with the disc. She’d trimmed it to fit the locket and laid the runes in place, already flipped into the new mindset—cutting away to make the pattern instead of etching it in.

Eric smiled, pride warming his voice. “This is really good work.”

Welyvyne shrugged. “It’s the best I can do right now. Here—take this one; I’ll make another.” She handed him the disc, and he turned to the bench. He set the pieces, seating the movement into the locket. He added a small setting arm so the gears could be turned to set the time, then stopped—no empowering until Professor Valien signed off. He closed the lid and set it down, excitement buzzing through his fingers.

It was dark outside. “Uh… what time is it?”

Welyvyne glanced at the window. “Late. We should sleep soon—though knowing how close we are, that’s going to be difficult.”

They set everything down in unison and started readying for bed. By the time Eric finished, Jeweler sat at Rank 22. Pride hummed in his chest as he glanced at Welyvyne—with the day’s work behind them, he saw it plain: she was going to be a great partner in artificing.

They dragged themselves to bed.