In The Arms of Time

Is It Truly Thievery If You're Saving A Child..?

The Forged Cathedral stood crowned against the red sky of the Heights, its spires jagged as broken blades and gilded with molten light. The air rang with distant bells and the low thunder of wings—gods drifting between sermons and idle cruelty, errands and indulgence. Sunlight bled through stained glass, painting the marble floors in hues of ember and rust. Time itself felt bent here, stretched thin beneath the weight of divinity.

At the highest balcony, Telamon preened beneath that burning sky.

"Hold still," Lué hissed, brush poised midair.

Telamon did not.

He shifted again, feathers flexing, wings spreading wide and then snapping shut with deliberate slowness. Gold bands clinked against his wrists as he turned his head, eyes darting toward the open sky as if something there had personally offended him. Lué's eye twitched. Their halo feathers ruffled, betraying a patience worn threadbare.

"By the Foundry," Lué muttered, jaw tightening. "If you move one more time, I swear I will paint you as you are—fidgeting and half-witted."

Telamon laughed, low and pleased with himself. "Careful," he said, voice smooth and cruel. "That mouth of yours might forget who commissions your work."

Lué dragged the brush across the canvas with a sharp, irritated stroke. "I haven't forgotten," they snapped. "But even gods can sit still for an hour. Children manage it."

"Oh?" Telamon rolled his shoulders, wings flaring again, deliberately blocking the light. "Are you comparing me to my children now?"

"You don't raise them," Lué shot back before they could stop themselves. Their feathers bristled immediately after, breath hitching. "—I meant—"

Telamon grinned, sharp and humorless. "You meant what you meant." He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Paint faster, sparrow. Or I'll give you something truly ugly to capture."

Lué's hand shook. Paint dripped, staining the marble like spilled blood. "Hold. Still."

Telamon obliged—briefly—striking an exaggerated pose, chin high, wings arched in false majesty. "There. Happy?"

"No," Lué said through clenched teeth. "But continue breathing and I might finish before the century turns."
Above them, clouds twisted. Somewhere far beneath the Cathedral's highest spires, gears ticked.

Clockwork walked the inner halls alone.

The corridors here were older than sermons, stone etched with runes that hummed softly under their boots. Each step echoed too loudly in the quiet, and Clockwork found themselves counting them despite knowing better. One. Two. Three. Don't think about it. Don't hesitate.

They stopped.

The door to Telamon's hatchery stood ajar.

Clockwork's breath caught. That door was never open—not without guards, not without ceremony. The warmth inside spilled into the hall, thick with the scent of ash and iron and something faintly alive. Eggs, they knew. A brood born of stolen power and sharpened intent.

This is a mistake, a voice whispered in their mind—steady, careful, afraid. You are not a thief.

Clockwork swallowed. No, they agreed. I'm not.

But they stepped closer anyway.

Inside, the hatchery glowed with internal heat, walls lined with sigils meant to bind and shape what lay within. Eggs rested in cradles of molten stone—dozens of them, each pulsing faintly, humming with borrowed divinity. Clockwork's hands trembled at their sides.

You cannot bear fruit, the curse echoed, old and bitter. You will never know this warmth.

Their gaze drifted to the smallest cradle at the edge of the chamber. A dark crimson egg, quieter than the rest. No flaring runes. No violent pulse. It simply existed—warm, steady, patient.

He won't notice, Clockwork told themselves. He has so many. What is one more absence in a god who hoards children like weapons?

They hesitated, heart hammering loud enough to drown out the ticking in their ears. Telamon was all-knowing, they said. All-seeing. If he turned his gaze now—

Clockwork reached out.

The egg was lighter than expected, heat seeping into their palms. A soft vibration thrummed beneath the shell, not aggressive, not demanding. Alive, but unafraid.

"I'm sorry," Clockwork whispered—to the Cathedral, to fate, to the god they were defying. "I won't let him shape you."

They wrapped the egg in their robes, layers of old cloth and fabric, cradling it close to their chest. The warmth was comforting in a way that hurt. The door creaked behind them, and panic surged—but no alarm sounded.

They moved.

Out the same way they came, silent and swift, wings unfolding only once they cleared the balcony. The red sky swallowed them whole as they flew, heart racing, spire after spire blurring past until at last they landed in their own chamber. Clockwork shut the door with shaking hands.

Only then did they breathe.

They set the egg down gently, building a nest of robes and cloths, murmuring half-forgotten lullabies meant for no one and everyone. The ticking of the gears softened, syncing with the quiet pulse beneath the shell.

Clockwork knelt beside it, fingers hovering just above the surface. "You're safe," they whispered, though they didn't know if it was true. "I swear it."

Far away, beneath the red sky, Telamon shifted again.