Zygor leaned back, lighting a victory cigarette with trembling hands. He stared at the open case.
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The voice was not a voice at all, but a resonance—an echo from the very core of the Clock. Intrigued and unnerved, Lyra slipped away from her master’s workshop, clutching a small brass key that had been left on the workbench for reasons she could not explain. Zygor leaned back, lighting a victory cigarette with
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He pushed the mirror construct against the spinning sphere.
Mira chanted an incantation, weaving a protective barrier of pure chronal energy around Lyra. Sable slipped behind the Chronomancer’s manifestation, planting a series of —devices they had crafted from the very gears of the Clock that could dampen his power.