The Clockmaker’s Dragon

In the quaint village of Windlewharf, nestled between mossy hills and eternally ticking windmills, lived a peculiar old man named Thaddeus Pinch. He was a clockmaker of no small repute, known not only for mending broken timepieces but for crafting intricate mechanical wonders that seemed almost alive. Birds made of brass sang lullabies at dusk, spiders of silver spun delicate webs in lantern glass, and mice of copper chased crumbs across countertops.

But there was one invention hidden from the public eye—kept beneath his workshop floor, behind a hatch sealed with seven tiny gears. That secret, he called “Ember.”

Ember was a dragon. Not the fire-breathing kind from the tales of knights and towers, but a marvel of metal and magic. She was made of gold-plated cogs, sapphire eyes, and wings of beaten bronze that shimmered like leaves in autumn sun. And unlike anything else Thaddeus had built, Ember could think. She dreamed in clockwork, spoke in chiming clicks, and once—only once—had shed a tear of molten silver.

Thaddeus had not created Ember from blueprints or books. She had come to him in a storm, years ago, when the village clocktower shattered and time itself stalled for three long seconds. A lightning bolt struck the weathervane, and from the scorched wreckage, he found a single, glowing gear unlike any metal he'd ever seen. Guided by instinct—or fate—he forged Ember piece by piece, night after sleepless night.

The villagers never knew. They believed Thaddeus a harmless, eccentric old man. But children whispered that the ticking in his home never stopped—not even when the world was silent. And sometimes, if you passed his shop at midnight, you’d hear the unmistakable whoosh of wings and a soft, mechanical purr.

One chilly autumn, when fog crept like a thief and clocks across Windlewharf began to stutter and stop, trouble came in the form of a stranger. A tall woman with mirrored goggles, dressed in a long coat sewn with timepieces and runes. She called herself Madam Nocturna, and she had but one question for the townsfolk:

"Where is the heart of time?"

No one knew what she meant. But Thaddeus did.

She came to his door that night, boots echoing against cobblestone, her gloved hand already on the knob when he opened it.

"You’ve built her, haven’t you?" she said. "The dragon of the Evergear. I can feel her pulse from here."

Thaddeus shook his head. "Whatever you’re seeking, it isn’t here."

But she wasn’t fooled. She pushed past him, her fingers trailing across shelves of ticking inventions. “They told me it couldn’t be done. That the Evergear was a myth. But I see now—it chose you.”

Down below, Ember stirred. Her core glowed faintly, sensing danger. She could feel the magic in the woman’s voice, the hunger in her presence. And she knew what Thaddeus feared: that someone would come not to marvel at her, but to use her.

Madam Nocturna descended the workshop steps with a motion of her hand. The hatch burst open. Gears whirred and hissed as Ember rose, wings expanding, eyes bright as twin moons.

“She’s beautiful,” Nocturna whispered. “And she doesn’t belong to you.”

“She’s not a possession,” Thaddeus said, stepping protectively in front of the dragon. “She’s alive.”

Nocturna lifted a small, glass vial. Inside, a swirling silver mist shimmered—stolen time, harvested from a fallen star. “Then let’s see if she survives without you.”

With a flick, she shattered the vial. Time rippled. Clocks froze mid-tick. Outside, the moon halted mid-rise. The village held its breath.

But Ember did not stop. The Evergear at her heart spun faster. She absorbed the wave, wings crackling with magic and memory. Her voice, soft and strange, echoed through the workshop:

“Father, may I protect you?”

Thaddeus nodded, a tear rolling into his beard.

Ember roared—not with fire, but with a wind of pure time. Her breath reversed the freeze. Nocturna stumbled backward, her goggles cracking. Ember lunged, but stopped just short. Her eyes dimmed slightly.

“No killing,” she said. “Only correction.”

She coiled around Nocturna and, with a single puff, sent her drifting into unconsciousness. When the villagers awoke the next morning, time flowed again—and Madam Nocturna was gone, her coat turned to dust.

Years passed.

Thaddeus grew older, slower. But Ember remained, ever ticking, ever watchful. When Thaddeus finally closed his eyes for the last time, she carried him to the highest hill, where the wind played through gears and grass alike.

Now, they say a dragon flies above Windlewharf only when time threatens to break again. A dragon of clockwork and kindness, guarding the flow of seconds and stories alike.

And if you ever hear a tick-tick in your dreams followed by a metallic purr, know this: you’ve caught the attention of Ember, the clockmaker’s dragon—and time is on your side.