Chapter 1: The Stilled Hour in the Palace Hall
Roman always felt the world tilted sideways whenever he stepped near a clock. The hands would tremble, the gears would almost slip, and hidden in the depths of every tick was a whisper—the memory of a choice never quite made, the echo of an almost. He’d grown used to doubting the shape of time. Yet as he approached Swan Palace on the evening the river flowed backwards, Roman’s doubts pressed at him more than ever.
From the outside, the Palace shimmered with temptation and enigma, its marble spires seeming to ripple with every curving eddy below. Balconies arched like wings, and the great front doors—twice as tall as any Roman had ever seen—gleamed with the silver-and-gold figures of dancers, eternally mid-twirl. Each window flashed a different scene: a waltz suspended in moonlit glory; a masquerade where laughter froze on lips; a banquet starting and ending in one frozen motion. And at the Palace’s heart, above columns wound tight with roses of midnight blue, hung a grand clock. Its face was curious—it bore not twelve, but thirteen hours, and the hands shivered, forever stuck between what had been and what refused to come.
Roman pressed his palm to the gate, feeling a pulse of energy—icy and electric—rush through him. For a moment, he saw overlapping visions, as if the Palace had lived a hundred lifetimes and couldn’t choose which to wear tonight. He hesitated, but his feet moved of their own accord. Compassion always outweighed self-doubt in Roman’s heart, even when his mind wondered if anything he did could ever truly matter.
Inside, velvet silence swallowed him whole. The floors—polished so bright that he glimpsed himself, and not himself—reflected rows upon rows of masked guests:
There was a pageboy caught mid-laughter, open-mouthed for eternity. A pair of violinists whose bows hovered just above silent strings. A chef, balancing a tray with impossible poise, never spilling a single sugared plum. Not one had moved in what might have been minutes or centuries. Even the dust motes dangled, frozen in forgotten sunlight. Roman’s footsteps echoed too loudly, like drumbeats at the end of the world.
Something flickered in the distance—the briefest sliver of motion.
He followed it, drawn as if by fate. In the midst of the vast ballroom, beneath a chandelier of blazing, half-ignited candles, spun a figure in rose-tipped slippers. She leapt and pirouetted, every step deliberate yet wild, a challenge hurled against the hush. When she landed with the gentlest tap, the air swelled around her and—just for a second—several of the frozen guests shuddered, nearly alive.
Roman watched in awe before clearing his throat softly. The dancer’s mask—silver and feathered, like the wings of a dream—tilted toward him. Beneath, bright eyes sparkled with mischief and a thrum of desperation.
"Don’t tell me you're stuck too," the dancer whispered, her words skating the edge of laughter and panic.
"I—uh, not yet," Roman replied, sliding out a bashful smile. "I can still move. So can you?"
"Only if I follow the rhythm between ticks," she whispered. "I’m Ballerina—well, almost. No one’s called me by my true name in hours, or maybe years." Her hands fluttered nervously along the folds of her skirt. "Did you see the clock?"
Roman nodded gravely. "Thirteen. Can you—?"
"No one should make a clock with thirteen hours. It invites trouble." She grimaced, eyes flicking toward the unlit corners. "Something’s wound us all into a loop. I found a pulse between seconds and started moving before my heart could stop."
"A gift," Roman said, the word sounding both hopeful and tentative.
Ballerina snorted. "Or a curse, if there’s no way out."
Just then, a soft scraping—a barely-there ripple in silence—echoed from the marble balustrade. Both Roman and Ballerina whirled around. Emerging from the shadows, gliding with a dignity bordering on annoyance, was a Swan, feathers opaline and eyes keen as frost. On its head, a tiny circlet shimmered, glinting with colors that didn’t exist in this era—hints of futures unspooled or abandoned.
"Visitors," Swan said, its voice clear, aristocratic, and edged with boredom. "And not statues yet. I thought the Palace would freeze even the last of the hopeful by now."
Ballerina raised an eyebrow. "I suppose you’re the one who keeps stealing time from under the King’s nose, Swan?"
If a bird could roll its eyes, Swan did so perfectly. "Shows what you know. I was the Palace’s guardian, once—before destiny became currency and King wove his Chrono Labyrinth below the Grand Hall."
Roman’s head tilted. "Chrono Labyrinth? That’s more than just a grand name, I’m guessing?"
Swan ruffled its wings; transparent feathers scattered rainbow sparks across the flagstones. "The King became obsessed with controlling time. Afraid of losing his crown, he used old magic to trap every possible future right here—so no paths stray. The Labyrinth runs like roots through the lowest chambers. It loops moments, snatches choices, and turns hope brittle. It's why you see what never was in every mirror, why no one here can move but us."
Ballerina frowned. "But why us? I danced free. Roman... you didn’t freeze. And you clearly remember before."
Roman hesitated, fingers unconsciously toying with a small, delicate timepiece at his belt. "I’ve always... sensed things. The almosts. When history could have turned a step left, or a word different."
Swan eyed him, then nodded, as if seeing something invisible. "A subtle gift. But the Palace is unraveling. Once the thirteenth stroke strikes midnight—when the river outside begins to run forward again—no second chances remain. We’ll all freeze for good. Dreams, regrets, routines: all turned to stone, or to echoes."
A cold thrill ran up Roman’s spine. Even Ballerina wavered, her normally light step weighted down with dread.
Suddenly, tiny, silvery clocks appeared in their footsteps—fragile pocket watches, grandfather clocks, unwinding with every backward tick. A sense of time slipping away, irretrievable and precious, settled upon them all.
Ballerina spun, clutching Roman’s arm. "I don't want to be a statue, or worse—trapped in the same dance forever. There must be a way!"
Swan tapped a webbed foot. "Well, there’s always a riddle. The King is obsessed. He would have left some test."
Roman scanned the ballroom, then led the trio to a quiet alcove, where an ancient marble fountain—its water caught mid-cascade—stood dusty and motionless. Etched into its basin, submerged beneath sapphire mosaics, were words twisted in time:
TO MOVE THE PRESENT, DANCE THE PATTERN LOST AT YESTERDAY’S EDGE.
For a moment, none spoke. Ballerina read and reread, her lips moving, searching for a music that no longer sounded.
"A pattern lost at yesterday’s edge... Is it a real dance, or something we have to invent?" she murmured, half to Roman, half to herself.
Roman’s brow furrowed with thought, but his eyes found hope in the impossible puzzle. "Maybe both. Maybe it’s what happens if we imagine it together—bring something new into the moment, instead of just repeating what’s already happened."
Swan nodded, a flicker of their old pride tempered by mounting awe. "Imagination, then. The one thing the King could never quite capture."
Together, the trio knelt by the unmoving fountain, their faces reflected in waters that remembered every possible ripple. With a shiver of anticipation—and a dash of nervous excitement—Roman, Ballerina, and Swan made a silent oath: to defy the Labyrinth, outwit the King, and dance a new pattern. For only by joining their unlikely talents and trusting in each other’s courage could they hope to repair the thirteenth hour and restore all the futures poised on the Palace’s frozen edge.
Outside, on the river that remembered tomorrow, the breeze curled backward, carrying the faintest echo of laughter not yet lived.