Beneath the glass

The Glass Tower loomed over them, its shimmering surface refracting the pale moonlight into strange, prismatic shapes. It was as if the very air around it warped, bending with an unnatural energy that made Clea's skin crawl. The closer she got, the more she could feel it—the hum, deep and ancient, vibrating beneath her feet and in her bones.

The Keeper had led her to the tower’s entrance, a set of double doors made of the same translucent, glowing material as the rest of the structure. The doors stood ajar, as if waiting for them to enter, but Clea hesitated. The weight of the Keeper’s warning lingered in the air, pressing on her chest like a heavy stone.

“Are you coming?” The Keeper’s voice was like gravel grinding underfoot. He was already stepping through the doors, his silhouette a dark figure against the ethereal light spilling from within.

Clea swallowed hard and followed.

Inside, the air was thick with a strange energy, heavy and still. The floor beneath her feet was smooth and glass-like, and the walls pulsed with a soft, internal glow. The tower seemed alive, breathing in sync with the strange rhythm that now seemed to beat in Clea’s chest.

The Keeper didn’t wait for her to speak. He led her down a long, winding staircase that spiraled down into the depths of the tower. As they descended, the temperature dropped, the air growing colder and sharper, like they were descending into the heart of something ancient and forgotten.

“This is the heart of the tower,” the Keeper said, his voice echoing in the hollow space around them. “And the heart of what is trapped inside.”

Clea glanced around, the silence suffocating. She wanted to ask more questions, but every time she opened her mouth, the words seemed to freeze in her throat. The air in this place wasn’t just cold; it felt alive, and it felt as though something was watching them from the shadows, waiting for them to make a move.

They reached the base of the tower, and the staircase opened up into a vast chamber. In the center of the room, there was a large, circular pedestal made of the same glass-like material. Atop it rested a dark, swirling mass—a shadowy presence that flickered and pulsed, as if it were struggling to break free from its prison.

Clea’s breath caught in her throat.

The creature.

It was no longer just a dream, no longer just a whisper. She could feel its presence, a pull that was both terrifying and intoxicating. The air crackled with an energy so powerful that it made Clea’s skin tingle, like static before a storm.

“That is what you’ve released,” the Keeper said, his voice strangely soft now, almost mournful. “The creature that was trapped here long ago. The one who can bend time and twist fate itself.”

The creature writhed on the pedestal, its form shifting and flickering between shadow and light. It was neither completely solid nor entirely formless—more like an idea given shape, an entity too vast to truly comprehend. Its presence twisted the air around it, distorting everything within the chamber.

Clea took a step forward, despite the fear gnawing at her insides. She couldn’t help it; the pull of the creature’s energy was too strong, like it was calling to her from within her very soul.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“It has no name,” the Keeper replied. “But those who have sought to control it have called it many things: the Weaver of Time, the Keeper of Futures, the Unmaker. It was once a god of sorts, capable of unraveling the fabric of reality. It has seen all possible futures, and it has influenced them. All the choices, all the outcomes, were shaped by its will. Until it was bound here, in the Glass Tower, to prevent it from rewriting the world.”

Clea’s heart raced. “And now it’s awake.”

The Keeper nodded grimly. “Yes. And you are the one who has brought it back. You are the one who broke the seal.”

Clea closed her eyes, trying to steady her breathing. She hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. She hadn’t known what the glass would do—hadn’t known that the dreams she’d seen were more than just visions, that they were real. The fire, the scream, the hand—her hand—reaching into the flames.

The creature’s form flickered again, its shadowy tendrils stretching toward her like a lover’s embrace. Clea shuddered. It felt wrong. And yet, at the same time, she couldn’t pull away. It wasn’t just a sense of dread—it was the sense of something calling her, something familiar. Something that, deep down, she realized she had always known.

“Why are you showing me this?” Clea asked, her voice shaky. “What do you want from me?”

The Keeper didn’t respond immediately. He stepped closer to the pedestal, his face drawn in pain as he looked at the creature. His voice was barely above a whisper. “What it wants… is to be free. To rewrite everything. To unmake the world and remake it in its own image. The question is, will you let it?”

Clea felt her stomach twist. She had always prided herself on being able to take what she wanted, to steal and escape without consequence. But this… this was different. This wasn’t a treasure to be stolen. This wasn’t a simple heist.

The creature wasn’t something to be controlled. It was something that could control her.

The Keeper turned, his eyes searching hers, as if weighing something in her soul. “It is up to you now. The shard you took, the one that brought you here… you are connected to it. If you destroy the creature, you will destroy the tower. And with it, you will destroy the very fabric of time itself. There will be no way to undo it.”

Clea’s mind raced. The weight of the decision pressed down on her, a suffocating sense of doom surrounding her. If she destroyed the tower, she would undo everything—everything she had ever known, everything she had ever dreamed of.

But if she didn’t, the world might unravel.

The creature stirred again, its dark tendrils reaching toward her, pulling her in.

And then, with a cold certainty, Clea made her choice.