Chapter 3 Timekeeper’s Haven

Aurel glares at the floating creature in disgust. "What in the five realms is that ugly pest? Don't tell me you're talking to it."

The sprite folds its tiny arms, raising its chin. "Tell the oversized lizard that my cloak is spun from the finest golden threads of antiquity, while his coat currently smells like a swamp frog's backside."

Thalassa bursts into a snorting laugh.

Aurel’s brow twitches as he looks from the sprite to her. "What is it saying?"

"It said you have great taste in coats. And for your information, we aren't in my village anymore. According to this little guy, we're fifty years into the past."

Aurel pauses. Then, he throws his head back and lets out a laugh.

"Fifty years into the past," he repeats, shaking his head as if she has suggested the moon is made of goat cheese. "You are insane, mage. I blame myself for actually believing a peasant like you could talk to... whatever that thing is."

When he steps closer, his broad frame towers over her, making her throat bob.

"You used some back-alley witch magic to teleport us into the woods. When my guards track us down—which will be within the hour—I am revoking my offer of marriage. You won't be my eighth wife, little artisan. I’ll make you my lowest concubine."

"I am not a witch!" Thalassa snaps before she can catch herself.

Aurel’s eyes sharpen instantly, catching the slip. "Oh? Then what are you?"

Thalassa’s heart jumps into her mouth.

Dragons are the reason the elves were hunted down and massacred until her lineage faded into dust.

It is the sole reason she hides her pointed ears under a linen wrap every single day. Revealing her identity to a Dragon Lord in the middle of nowhere is a death sentence.

She shifts her foot, pivoting fast. "What I am doesn't matter right now! What matters is figuring out where the hell we are and what just happened to us!"

Aurel scoffs, rolling his shoulders as if adjusting to a light cloak rather than a jump through time. "It is a forest. A common, damp forest. My guards will be here within the hour, and then–"

Clack-clack. Clack-clack.

A rickety wooden cart pulled by a shaggy donkey comes trundling down the dirt road. Sitting on the driver's bench is an older man with pointed ears poking through his gray hair… an elf.

A real, unhidden, living Elf. Thalassa can't believe her eyes.

The cart creaks to a halt right in front of them. The elven driver takes one look at Aurel's mud-stained silks, silver hair, and posture, then throws his head back and guffaws.

“Ho there, grand prince! Did you lose your theater troupe? Or do you think you are dressing like an imperial Prince just to take a stroll in the mud?”

Aurel’s spine snaps straight as a spear. "Mind your tongue, peasant! You address Lord Aurel of the House of Ignis! Show proper deference before I–"

The driver stares at him for two seconds, and then bursts into even louder laughter, slapping his knee. "And I'm the High Queen of the Celestial Court! Lord Aurel, is it? Did you bump your head on a branch on the way out of the tavern, lad?"

Aurel stands frozen, his mouth open. He looks around, clearly expecting his guards to leap from the bushes and execute the man for treason.

No one moves. No one cowers. The driver just sits there, chuckling to himself.

Thalassa hides a giddy smile behind her hand. Oh, seeing this unbearable tyrant stripped of his frightening presence and mocked by a humble cart driver is better than warm honey on fresh bread.

She gives the driver a warm smile. "Excuse my dramatic companion, sir. He hit his head on a low branch. Could you tell us where we are? What is the name of this territory?"

"You're two miles outside Oakhaven, miss," the driver says kindly, shaking his head. "Best get your husband some water before he tries to claim he owns the sun next."

“She's not… we are not… married… yet.” Aurel flashes Thalassa a wicked look.

He turns to the driver. "Oakhaven, you say? That region has been a barren wasteland for decades!"

"Barren?" The cart driver snorts. "Lad, Oakhaven is the liveliest trade hub in the western bounds! Unless you've been sleeping under a boulder for fifty years, you're standing right in its front yard."

The driver shakes his head, clicking his tongue at the donkey. "Get your foolish hubby some water, lass! He looks like he's seen a ghost!"

With a wave, the old Elf drives his cart slowly down the road, leaving behind the smell of pipe tobacco and the sound of creaking wheels.

Silence falls over the forest road.

Aurel stands rooted to the spot. His eyes are wide as he stares into the distance, trying and failing to command the world to make sense again.

Thalassa, however, stares down at the silver pocket watch resting in her apron pocket. Her mind is racing back to her ancient family lore.

It isn't unbelievable to her. She knows the history. She knows what was lost.

But the true mystery twists inside her chest like a tight spring:

What kind of magic was forged into this watch? Why did fixing its gears break the fabric of time?

And most unnerving of all... Why did it sweep her, the last hidden Timekeeper, and an arrogant Dragon Lord fifty years into the past together?

Thalassa sighs, stepping beside Aurel and nudging his shoulder with her own. "Well, 'Lord Aurel’… it seems your eighth wedding is going to have to wait."

“Enough of this nonsense! You fixed the watch. Unfix it! Right now! Send us back!" He glares at her.

"I can't just 'unfix' it! It's an ancient magic, you arrogant lizard, not a squeaky door hinge!"

The sprite floats right up between their shouting faces.

"Oh, zip it, both of you," it rolls its tiny eyes. "You're giving me a headache, and we have an inheritance to initialize."

Before Thalassa can even gasp, it snaps its tiny paper fingers.

The muddy road and Aurel's furious face instantly dissolve.

Thalassa falls… or rather, lands on warm oak floorboards. The autumn woodland air gives way to the sweet smell of dried lavender, freshly baked bread, and honeysuckle.

She blinks, looking around in wonder.

She is standing inside a sunlit, cozy cottage workshop. A crackling stone hearth warms the room, and hanging from the exposed wooden ceiling beams are bundles of drying herbs, and clock gears.

Outside the windows, rolling green hills and a thriving vegetable garden stretch out under a golden afternoon sun.

Sitting on a table in the center of the room is a worn leather-bound ledger. Its pages are glowing with golden Elven runes.

"Where... where am I?"

The sprite swoops down, settling comfortably on the edge of a porcelain teacup resting on the table.

"Welcome home, Last Heir. Welcome to the Timekeeper’s Haven. It's time to learn how to farm time itself."